Hidden Truths (Boots Book 1)

by Erickson, Megan

  And then my mind was back to last night, his face between my legs, his mouth on my nipples, the way he pulled my hair…

  I took my last gulp of coffee, and it burned the whole way down. I slammed the mug on the table. When our eyes met, I felt like he could see what I was thinking. And maybe it was written all over my face, in the flush of my cheeks. He stood up from his chair, moved his tools to the work bench, and then washed his hands. He returned to my side and took a sip of his coffee, still watching me.

  “You done your coffee?” he asked.

  Oh, right. That was my cue to get up, to get dressed, to get the hell out of here and go home. Away from Lance and his tattoos and his furniture and his handfuls of ashes. I had no idea how he got here, why he had an old mug that read CHAMP that made his breath catch. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Loss followed this man like a gray cloud, and I’d done enough running from my own.

  But yet I didn’t get up, caught in the snare of his gaze and the heat of his body. The denim of his jeans brushed my bare calf.

  “Yes,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I’m finished. Thank you.”

  He put down his mug and wrapped his fingers around my leg above his boot. He didn’t take his eyes off me, and I couldn’t look away, like an invisible magnet was keeping me in place. His hand rose up my leg, and when he reached the back of my knee, he yanked me forward. I yelped as my body slid until my ass was at the edge of the table.

  I still held the sheet at my chest in a white-knuckled grip, even as his hand moved higher, higher. By the slight curve of his lips, I could tell he knew what he’d find there. Maybe it was my breathing, or my dilated pupils, but we both knew I was wet already, just like we both knew he was hard in his jeans.

  “I like you in my boots.” His voice was a growl. He laid his palm against my hot, wet flesh, and I sucked in a breath. His gaze dropped and so did mine, to where his hand disappeared beneath the sheet between my legs, where he was now running a blunt finger through my folds. I couldn’t hold back the small whimper in my throat, and he pressed against me closer, the bulge in his pants brushing my thigh.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “This was what you wanted, wasn’t it baby?”

  “Fuck, yes,” I said. When his thumb brushed my clit, I moaned, and he plunged two fingers inside of me. I gasped and reached down, gripping his wrist with both of my hands while he finger-fucked me. The sheet fell to my waist, and I didn’t bother trying to keep it up. Not while I sat on his table with his fingers plunging in an out of me, owning me, while we were surrounded by sawdust and the bitter scent of coffee.

  He laid his forehead against my temple and worked me, molded me, cut me and sanded me like I was one of his masterpieces.

  His other hand cupped the side of my neck, and his thumb pressed against the corner of my mouth. I was out of my mind now, chasing the orgasm that was surging inside of me like a tidal wave.

  “Open,” he whispered.

  I didn’t know what. My legs? My mouth? I spread my legs wider and parted my lips. He slotted his hips between my legs just as his thumb dipped into my mouth. I moaned around his finger, sucking and tonguing it, while his hot breath misted over my face. He didn’t take his gaze off my mouth, his eyes like black pools surrounded by white. “You’re so close, and I want to see it.” His voice was like another hand caressing my skin. “Want to hear how good I make you feel.”

  I moaned as I sucked on his thumb harder, and his fingers didn’t let up. My inner thighs were coated with my wetness, soaking the sheet beneath me. His fingers curled, and my eyes fell shut as the orgasm crashed into me. I was bowled over, knocked under, my body at his mercy as I shuddered and shook, speared on his fingers.

  When I blinked my eyes open, his hand was on my neck, the other caressing the wetness on my thighs gently. I was panting, tits heaving, hair a mess, not caring that I was sitting there uncovered on his table. He’d utterly reshaped me.

  His gaze fell to my lips, wet with saliva and swollen from his thumb. In my post-orgasmic bliss, a thought rattled around in my head. Other than that quick kiss at the bar, he hadn’t kissed me again since he brought me home. Not a real one, mouth-to-mouth. I barely knew what his lips felt like on mine.

  I thought he’d do it then. He was so close, inches away. Maybe centimeters. He could close the distance and kiss me. Did I want it? Did he want it? His heated gaze seared me, and I watched as his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick at the corner of his lips. His weight shifted, and his erection nudged my thigh. I reached for the fly of his jeans, but in the next second, the heat of his body and his stare was gone.

  I stared at him, blinking hard as I tried to understand what was going on. He was backing away from me, his gaze shuttered, his head shaking slightly so that his hair fell in his eyes. I let my hands drop into my lap. “Let me—”

  “I’m good,” he said curtly, which was ridiculous because it looked like his dick was going to bust through the seams.

  “But—”

  Those eyes that had been so amused then aroused only moments ago were now hard. Blank. His jaw clenched before his words tumbled out of his mouth like glass shards. “You got coffee and you got off. That’s why you were still sticking around this morning, right? So now you can leave.”

  For a few stunned seconds, my brain didn’t know how to react. Then on the heels of that awesome orgasm, anger rushed through me. Last night, he’d been honest and straightforward, so I’d let my guard drop. Now he was throwing me into a game I hadn’t volunteered to play. “I’m sorry was that… a fuck to get me to leave?” I didn’t even bother to cover up as I hopped off the table, leaving the sheet behind. Fuck it. “Did you really just finger me to get me to walk out your door? You know that a simple request would have been perfectly sufficient. It’s called communication. It’s called ‘Hey Tara, got shit to do today, mind leaving?’ I would have said, ‘oh of course, Lance. I’ll be going then.’”

  He didn’t react. Just stood there with his hands on his hips. Those hands that had previously been inside me.

  I kicked off his boots, flinging them at him, but missing, because boot kicking wasn’t something I practiced. He didn’t move to pick them up, and I stomped over to where my clothes were, pulling on my skirt, tank top and boots in record time, not bothering with the thong that he’d stretched to hell.

  When I turned around to yell at him, he was throwing up the garage door. I walked toward him, and he lit up a cigarette, not bothering to look at me. Well, that was it, then. He didn’t care, he just wanted me to leave. I swallowed the hurt, angry at myself I cared enough to be hurt. I wouldn’t have to see him again after this. Just leave, Tara. Just get gone.

  But because I had a big mouth, I had one last parting shot. “Your coffee wasn’t even that good, by the way. And I hope your balls hurt all goddamn day.”

  That was my dramatic exit before I proceeded with my walk of shame back home to my apartment as the sun rose.

  Four

  Lance

  I told myself she’d be fine on the walk home. This was a Saturday morning. Barely even eight am. No one would be around to bug her.

  Except I didn’t trust people. Not anyone. And certainly not a single person in this fucking town.

  I hated this feeling, this bubbling in my blood, urging me to move. I wanted to stay put, finishing this cigarette and not chasing after that ass I was sure I’d see in my dreams for years to come.

  My brother always told me I gave too many fucks. I’d been born with a lot of them, enough for both of us. But I’d lost the only one I had left when Trent took his last breath. Maybe if he had possessed one goddamn fuck, he’d still be alive.

  This bubbling in my veins turned into a rolling boil, a pull toward the woman who’d just walked out on me, because I’d made sure of that, hadn’t I? I let the smoke curl out of the corners of my mouth. It’d been a long time since I’d had this feeling—what was it?—oh a fuck. Yeah, I gave a flying fuck for the first time in years. I h
ad to face the fact that I didn’t like the idea of her walking home alone.

  I flicked my cigarette into a puddle of rainwater and walked inside. My blood wasn’t letting me stay put. If I did, I was bound to claw my fucking skin off. I tugged on my boots, the fabric inside still warm from her. I pulled on a shirt as I strode outside, shutting the garage behind me and locking it.

  She was turning the corner, her dark hair streaming behind her, chin up, full of so much pissed-offness that I got hard again.

  She was supposed to be a one off. Too bad I’d never been good at those. So bad, in fact, that I had no pickup lines, no flirting skills. I knew I wanted her and took a chance because I couldn’t stand at that bar any longer without taking a shot at a taste of her. Then I’d heard her voice—low and husky. One word, and I craved her.

  I wasn’t sure I’d ever get that image out of my head—her wearing my boots, bare legs sticking out from under the sheet as she clutched it to her chest. Hot as fuck, and full of attitude. Just how I liked my women. Back when I actually tried.

  I’d known as soon as I kissed her at the bar that this was a mistake. Hell I shouldn’t have approached her in the first place, but she was a goddamn beacon in the dark in that bar. I regretted not taking her to the motel. I could have left right away, avoided waking up and see her asleep next to me, then seeing her wearing nothing but my boots. I wanted her to stay. So badly. The whole day in bed, with that sheet and my boots as the only thing she’d put on until the next sunrise.

  I reached the corner and snuck a peek. There she was, still moving at a fast clip by the old motel. Her shoulders were hunched now, like she let her true feelings show when she thought she was safe from my sight. Fuck, I’d done that, made her feel like that. She could throw fire too, mouthing off to me after I’d shut her down and told her to leave. I’d wanted to throw her back onto the bed right there.

  That morning had been far from a pity fuck. It’d been because I couldn’t resist touching her one last time, even though I knew it was best to get her the hell out. I didn’t want the complications. I didn’t want this, the protective urge to make sure she arrived safely.

  She continued past Bailey’s, and I wondered if she was heading to the apartments out by the old mill. What were they called? Reston or something. That landlord was a piece of shit.

  I had no idea what job Tara had. I hadn’t asked her, had I? No, of course I didn’t, because I was trying not to care. And it hadn’t worked. Fuck. I wanted her—I’d known as soon as I saw her at the bar, that determined tilt of her chin, the fullness of her tits and curve of her ass. And those hazel eyes that changed color with her mood. Then I’d found out she had a mouth on her and gave as good as she got. To be honest, I pitied anyone who fucked with her. That still didn’t make me turn around and go back home. I wouldn’t until I saw she was safe.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at my screen to see a text from Hal. I’d text him back later. If it was urgent, he would call.

  I watched as Tara arrived at the Reston apartments, walking under the cracked maroon sign to the stairs. I ducked down an alley and stood in the shadows where I still had a glimpse of her. She jogged up the steps to the third floor, and then drew out her keys at door 255. She bent her head and her shoulders heaved with a deep breath that I felt like a pain in my chest.

  The door opened, she walked inside, and the door closed behind her.

  I ducked out of sight. See? She was safe. I no longer felt like I needed to claw my skin off. I could go home now, wash my sheets, and forget about her waking up in my bed and drinking out of my brother’s mug.

  I’d forget it all. After my balls stopped hurting.

  As I walked out of the alley, a voice drew my attention. “She’s home now…Just got in.”

  I froze. The voice was coming from closer to the apartments than I was, so I crept along the edge of the wall toward it. I should mind my own business, go back the way I came. But no one was outside. I hadn’t seen any other woman around. There was nothing to prove that the man wasn’t talking about Tara.

  I took another step and came across a man huddled in the darkened stoop of a closed thrift store. He wore a pair of tight jeans and a flannel, and his back was to me. “Yep, will check in later.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and turned. When he saw me, he stilled. I didn’t miss the way his gaze darted to the apartments, and then back to me. Fuck. I curled my hands into fists. Who was this guy? And who was he on the phone with? This was the kind of town people ran to when they were running from something.

  The man’s shoulders heaved, and then he took off at a dead sprint away from the apartments. And of course, like a dumbass, I took off after him. The man turned a corner, heading down the narrow alley where I’d been hiding a moment ago. My boots splashed through puddles of dirty water and crunched on broken glass. The man was shorter than me, and quick as fuck. But I was pissed off, hungry, and fueled by the thought of anyone harming Tara. I couldn’t run as well as I used to—damn cigarettes—but I was stubborn as fuck and persistent. I ignored the burning in my lungs and pressed on.

  The man tried to turn down another alley, but I made a grab for him, and my fist closed around his shirt. I yanked back, and he stumbled back into me, the momentum taking us both down to the ground. Loose gravel scraped my skin through the thin T-shirt, and I grunted at the pain.

  This guy was wily as fuck, because before I could get my breath, the guy rolled in my grip to face me and cocked back a fist. I turned my head just in time so that the punch glanced off my ear rather than my eye socket.

  Pain flashed across the side of my head, but I lifted my legs and shoved the guy off before he could get another hit in. We tussled, rolling around on the ground, and something sharp dug into my shoulder.

  I managed to get on top, a firm grip on the man’s chin while my assailant flailed weakly in my grip. I leaned down and gritted out, “Why are you watching her?”

  The man bared his teeth and arched his back, but I held on. At least, until the man’s hand came up and I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  I froze and leaned back, hands up in the air, because I wasn’t about to keep up this fight barehanded, and especially when this man’s hand shook as he clasped the grip with both hands. I had no defense against a bullet. That guy could pull the trigger now and it would be all over. Out on the street, I would have been spotted, but here in this alley? I would be just another dead body no one cared about. Maybe they’d interview Tara and she’d pretend not to know me. Probably would be a wise choice.

  “Get off me,” the man spat, and I slid back, rising to my feet, hands still in the air, palms out. I didn’t beg, didn’t say a word, just stared at the gun. This shit was why I kept to myself. Right here. Of course I’d brought home a woman who had someone like this watching her. Fuck my life.

  The man stood, the gun trembling slightly in his hands. “Look, man. I don’t know who you are. But don’t try to be the hero. Stay away from her.” And then the man took off.

  I didn’t follow. Other than to drop my hands back to my sides limply, I didn’t move. My heart raced and I needed a minute to be sure I wasn’t going to have a heart attack.

  Don’t try to be the hero.

  I’d tried to be a hero once. And it’d cost me four years of my life behind bars.

  Once I had my pulse under control, I walked out of the alley, my ear throbbing. My back ached from a punch and from whatever had scraped my skin. I was bleeding somewhere too. There was blood on my shirt. Unless it wasn’t my blood.

  My boots didn’t take me back to my small warehouse apartment, instead they turned and took a walk behind Reston, back to where I could get a glimpse of the balcony of apartment 255. Because I was an idiot. And I didn’t know how to mind my own business.

  Tara was there, sitting on an old green lawn chair with some torn slats along the back. She wore a towel on her head and a robe, and her heel was propped up on the seat of the chair while she p
ainted her toenails.

  She was singing, and I strained to hear the faint sounds of classic rock. “Why Don’t You Stay” by Bob Seger. Good choice. I mouthed the words along with her, and when the song was over, she placed the nail polish on the ground and leaned back, her eyes closed.

  God this was fucking creepy of me to watch her like this, even if she was outside on her balcony for anyone to see. I just wanted to make sure she was in her apartment safe. That some goon hadn’t broken in. But no, there she was, freshly showered and singing and painting her toenails. She wasn’t crying into ice cream over me. Good. I wasn’t worth it. I ran my hands through my hair, and winced when the strands caught on ragged skin on my palms. Go home, Lance. Go home. Don’t be a hero. Mind your own goddamn business.

  So I did. I went home. I wasn’t a hero. That ship had sailed, and I told myself to forget about Tara. I wasn’t so sure my commitment to that would hold. Because something told me that wasn’t the last I’d seen of Tara.

  Five

  Tara

  I was fine all day. I painted my nails. I sang classic rock. I made brownies. Well, it was a box mix, but it had chocolate chips in the batter, which made me feel fancy. And I cooked myself a pretty excellent burger if I did say so myself.

  Then the sun dropped and it all went to hell.

  I paced my apartment, debating on what to do. I could clean. I could take another shower. I could watch a movie, or put on some porn and rub one out. Nothing sounded appealing, because… I didn’t want to be alone. That realization hit me so hard, I halted my pacing and had to brace a hand on my wall so my knees didn’t buckle.

  I’d spent so much time alone since I left home in Jersey that I had thought I was okay with it. It should have told me something that I still didn’t refer to this place as home after being here for a year. After one night sleeping beside another human breathing, moving, living, I was losing my shit.