Dirty Work

by Regina Kyle

  I have definitely underestimated the power of the pooch. I start thinking of other errands that might be more enjoyable with Roscoe along. Going to the farmer’s market in Union Square for Mrs. Black. Dropping off Mr. D’Ambrosio’s library books. Depositing Mrs. Matos’s Social security check. (No matter how many times I try to convince her, she refuses to sign up for direct deposit. Says she doesn’t trust computers. I don’t have the heart to tell her I usually go to the instant teller machine.) Maybe it won’t be so bad having a dog in our care after all.

  When I’m ten people from the head of the line, I text one of the Ackerman twins, and she rushes over from Restaurant Row, where she works as a hostess, to take my place. I say goodbye to Hannah and her mom, check my phone and see I’ve got about forty-five minutes before I’m due to meet my mother. Rather than risk another cab ride, I decide to walk the High Line. Yet another one of Manhattan’s many pleasures I hadn’t had the time to experience when I was chained to my desk at DK&G. The elevated park on an abandoned freight railway, with its lush greenery, historic buildings and quaint overlooks, never fails to calm my nerves and soothe my senses.

  The feeling doesn’t last long. At least not for me. I can’t speak for Roscoe, who doesn’t seem to be phased by much of anything.

  “You’re late.” My mother purses her perfectly painted lips—Casablanca by Tom Ford, her day shade—and crosses her legs, not bothering to do anything so drastic as to, say, get up and give her own flesh and blood a hug.

  “I’m right on time.” I pull out the chair opposite her and sit, not needing to check my phone since I’ve kept meticulous track of the time throughout our walk, doing my level best not to upset Mommy Dearest. Like I stood a chance of that happening. I think my mere existence pisses her off. She swears I wasn’t an “oops” baby, but it sure seems that way sometimes.

  “On time is late.” She takes of sip of her sidecar—all she ever drinks, and only after noon—and gestures to Roscoe, who’s made himself comfortable at my feet under the table. “What is this monstrosity? And why are you so sweaty?”

  I flag a waiter. I don’t usually drink on the job, but one beer won’t hurt. There’s no way I’m getting through this meal without a little liquid courage, especially with my mother already well into her first drink. “It’s good to see you, too, Mom.”

  She doesn’t say anything, just gives me a judgmental stare over the rim of her glass. Eventually, I give in. Like I always do.

  Well, almost always. I’m not going back to my old way of life, no matter how much she and my father guilt trip me.

  “This is Roscoe.” I reach down to scratch the top of his big ole head. “He’s a who, not a what. I’m helping take care of him for the next few months. Or Odds & Errands is. And if I’m sweaty, it’s because we walked here from Midtown on the High Line.”

  “Ah, yes. Your father and I donated to that project when it was first getting started.” Guaranteed that was the closest she’d ever get to it. My mother and the great outdoors did not mix well. Her idea of roughing it was staying in a hotel with fewer than five stars. “You couldn’t have left him at home?”

  Yeah, I could have. I had time to get him back to Tribeca. But a little, rebellious part of me wanted to bring him to our lunch date, knowing it would get under my mother’s skin. Not that I’m admitting any of this to the woman sitting across the table from me, her judgey stare still intact. “You know how it is. Busy morning. I had a to multitask.”

  The waiter finally makes his way over to us. I order a craft beer I’ve never tried—I like to experiment—and we both order our meals, kale and quinoa salad for Mom, naturally, and a thick, juicy burger with a side of fries for me. Her lips form an all-too familiar pout, making her disapproval evident. I ignore it and take a slice of warm, crusty bread from the basket in the middle of the table, dipping it liberally in their signature basil-infused olive oil. If I’m feeling really rebellious, maybe I’ll even order dessert. The crème brûlée cheesecake here is fantastic.

  “Your little gopher business is going well, then?” my mother asks.

  It’s the same conversation we’ve had hundreds of times. I tell her—for the hundredth time—that Odds & Errands is doing just swell, thank you, fend off the rest of her questions with the most banal, general answers I can give and make the expected polite inquiries about my father, aunts, uncles and cousins—all doing heaps better than me, of course—until our meals arrive and we eat in silence.

  “So,” I say, sneaking the last bite of my burger to Roscoe, who thumps his tail in appreciation. “Was there a reason you summoned me here?”

  “I did not summon you.” My mother sets her fork down, leaving half her salad uneaten, and dabs her mouth with her napkin. “I merely thought it would be nice if we spent some time together.”

  Right. My mother never does anything without some sort of ulterior motive.

  “It’s just that Martin Fletcher—you know Martin, he’s the president of our co-op board—well, he thought you might want to come to one of our tenant meetings,” she continues. “Talk up your services. I know you say you’re doing fine, but some new business couldn’t hurt, right?”

  And there it is. My mother the white knight, swooping in to save what she perceives as my pathetic failure of an ass.

  “Thanks for lunch. I’ve got to go. Roscoe should have been back home by now.” I push my chair back and stand, unraveling the dog’s leash from the table leg, where I’d tied it to keep him secure.

  My mother lowers her napkin. “What about Mr. Fletcher’s offer? I can text you his number so you can set something up.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I toss over my shoulder, already halfway down 13th Street.

  Spoiler alert: I won’t. Not one little bit.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jake

  FOR THE SECOND time this week, I’m standing in the doorway of my apartment, shitting bricks. Only this time I’m inside, not in the hall. And I’m not freaking out because I’m afraid the monster my parents call a dog has wreaked havoc on my apartment. I’m freaking out because, as far as I can tell, he’s not there. He’s nowhere to be seen, and the place is as quiet as Grant’s Tomb. No whining. No tail thumping. No obnoxious, window-rattling canine snores.

  Roscoe and I may not be best buddies. On good days, we tolerate each other. But the parental units are inordinately attached to him—a fact I find especially ironic seeing as they refused to get a dog when Brie and I were kids, no matter how much we begged. The thought of telling them their pride and joy has been dognapped or is lost in the big, bad city gives me the willies.

  I drop my gym bag on the floor next to the couch and walk through the loft, calling his name. The silence is deafening. Where the hell is he? Sexy pet sitter—and yeah, that’s what I put Ainsley in my phone as—texted hours ago to let me know she was taking him for his morning constitutional. She should have had him back by now.

  I pull my cell from my pocket to make sure I haven’t missed another text from her. Nothing. I’m about to call her when the door opens and Roscoe bursts through, dragging Ainsley behind him. She kneels down next to him to take off his leash, obviously unaware of my presence, and I take the opportunity to study her unobserved.

  She’s beautifully bedraggled in one of those short, strappy denim one-piece things women seem to love and classic white Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops, her hair half-escaped from its ponytail and her cheeks flushed and shiny with a thin sheen of sweat. My cock surprises me by standing at attention. I adjust the waistband in my thankfully roomy gym shorts, wishing I still had my bag in hand to use as a shield, and fight the sudden, overwhelming, irrational urge to cross the room and kiss the ever-loving shit out of her until we’re both desperate, panting and ready to fuck like oversexed monkeys.

  My reaction is like a virtual smack upside the head. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a damn saint. I like women, a
nd they sure as hell seem to like me. But this instant, visceral, almost primal attraction? This burning need to be inside Ainsley, who I’ve known all of fourteen days, to hear her scream my name as I make her come again and again? That’s something entirely new—and more than a little bit unsettling—for me. So I shove it way, way down deep and adjust my shorts again, thanking my lucky stars that the object of my fantasies is preoccupied with the damn dog.

  It takes her only a few seconds to free Roscoe. She gives him a pat on the head and shoos him into the living room area, toward the hideous corduroy doggie bed he seems determined not to sleep in, preferring to sprawl his gigantic body across my California king. Then she stands, our eyes meet, and she lets out a cock-teasing little gasp that has me wondering why I’m not following through with my initial instinct and kissing the shit out of her.

  “Is this going to be a regular occurrence, you sneaking up on me?” she asks, breathless. One hand flutters to her chest, drawing my attention to the dark shadow of her cleavage. “Because if it is, maybe you could put a bell around your neck or something. Give a girl a little advance warning.”

  “Are you saying you want to collar me?” I quirk a brow at her, unable to pass up the opening she’s unwittingly given me. “I never would have guessed you’re into that kind of stuff, but I’m game if you are.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Why am I not surprised you went there?”

  She spins on her heel to go hang Roscoe’s leash on the hook by the door where, until he showed up, I kept my keys. Her hair swirls around her face as she turns, and I catch a whiff of her. Even hot and slightly sweaty from being dragged around midsummer Manhattan by the quadruped from hell, she smells fucking fantastic, like sunshine and strawberries, with a dash of vanilla. The urge to lean in and inhale—or devour—her is strong, but I marshal all my powers of resistance and retreat behind the kitchen island, hoping a three-hundred-pound slab of marble between us will be enough to keep my hands to myself and my dick in my pants.

  “Um, because I’m a guy?” I yank open the stainless steel sub-zero fridge and pull out a Gatorade. Cool Blue, my favorite. I crack it open, take a long swig, then catch Ainsley’s eye. My mouth engages before my brain, making me instantly regret what comes out of it next.

  “Want one?”

  It’s official. I’m a fucking moron. I’m supposed to be hustling this girl out of my apartment, not inviting her to stay for goddamn tea and crumpets. Or electrolytes. I mentally cross my fingers, hoping she’s got some superimportant engagement to run off to. Like getting her nails done. Or watching paint dry.

  She pauses, then shrugs, pulls out a stool and takes a seat at the island, resting her forearms on the Calacatta marble my designer had flown in from Italy at a cost of I-don’t-want-to-know. “Why not?”

  Fucking A.

  I grab another Gatorade out of the fridge and slide it across the counter to her. “I hope blue’s okay. It’s all I’ve got.”

  Another shrug as she twists the cap off. “I’m not picky.”

  “Where were you?” I ask, finally getting around to the question that’s been nagging me since I opened my door and found my apartment dogless. “I thought you took Roscoe out hours ago.”

  I sneak a glance toward the living room and see the dog in question occupying most of my designer leather sofa. Not the doggie bed, but at least it’s better than my California king. He’s out cold, his head lolled back and his eyes closed. Wherever Ainsley took him, she sure ran him ragged. I should probably be thanking her for wearing him out, not giving her the third degree.

  “I did.” She tips her head back to take a sip, and I’m riveted by the curve of her lips and the long line of her throat as she drinks. Fuck, I’m turning into some sort of pervert, getting off on the simple but suddenly strangely seductive act of a woman swallowing. Fortunately for me, the sip is a quick one. Unfortunately, her next action—licking her lips—is no less sexually arousing. “My schedule was jam-packed this morning, so I took him along with me on a few errands. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “You took him along with you?” I repeat like a robot. My brain seems to have short-circuited, stuck on the image of her downing that Gatorade.

  “Yeah. He was a big hit with the crowd at TKTS. My mother was less enthusiastic, but that was fun, too.”

  I don’t want to dig into what’s obviously a less than perfect relationship with her mom, so I opt for the next worst thing—guilt tripping her. “Next time shoot me a text and let me know if you’re going to have him out that long. I was about to call 9-1-1.”

  Her face falls. “Seriously?”

  “Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little.” I lean against the counter and swig my Gatorade. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned. My parents would kill me if anything happened to Roscoe. I’m convinced they like him better than me.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sets her drink down. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Brie says you work pretty much 24/7.”

  So she’s been talking to Brie about me. Interesting. I throw caution to the wind and take the stool next to her, sitting so close we’re practically touching from shoulder to thigh, her strawberry vanilla scent threatening to pull me in and drag me under. “Really? What other lies has my beloved big-mouthed little sister been spreading about me?”

  Her breath hitches ever so slightly and her nipples look like they could poke holes through her romper, living proof that I’m not the only one feeling this crazy chemistry between us. When she speaks, her voice is a notch lower, huskier than before, confirming my not-so-scientific hypothesis. “You’re saying you don’t work all the time?”

  “I work hard.” I lean in suggestively. “But I like to play hard, too. Did Brie tell you that?”

  “Not exactly.” Ainsley wraps her fingers around the neck of her Gatorade bottle, which, naturally, has me picturing them fisting my semi-erect cock. “Just that on the rare occasions when you’re not working, you like to play the field. I think she was trying to warn me away from you.”

  I’ll have to remember to kill my sister when she gets back from the left coast. But right now I’ve got more pressing concerns. Like my dick pressing against my boxer briefs.

  “Did it work?”

  She lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a deliberate, slow sip, almost as if she’s stalling for time, not sure whether she wants to continue our verbal foreplay. Because make no mistake, that’s what this is. And both of us know it.

  “Did what work?” she asks finally, setting the bottle down.

  “Her warning.”

  With only inches between us, I find myself noticing new, intriguing details about her. The spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The gold flecks in her blue-gray eyes. The silvery glint of a stud in her tongue. And here I thought she couldn’t be sexier. Just the thought of her giving me head, that little silver ball flicking against my shaft... Damn. It’s almost enough to make me shoot my load.

  She lifts her chin defiantly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Completely tossing what little good sense I have left into the goddamn trash can, I reach out and trace her lower lip with my thumb. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her lips part, giving me another glimpse of that sexy stud. The need to kiss her, to suck her tongue into my greedy mouth and play with that naughty piercing, is overpowering. I don’t even try to fight it this time, lowering my head to hers.

  “What are you doing?” Her words come out on a whisper, her warm breath dancing across my thumb.

  “Kissing you.” I slide my hand to the back of her head, anchoring it in place. “Unless you tell me to stop.”

  “I should.”

  Her ponytail is a distant memory now, and my fingers mesh into the silky strands of her free-flowing hair. “Give me one good reason.”

  “Roscoe.”

>   “Sound asleep.”

  “Your sister.”

  “Thousands of miles away.” My gaze drops to her parted lips, plump and pink and practically begging for me to make good on my promise. That fucking stud provokes and entices me, making my already stiff cock impossibly harder. If she walks away from me now, I’m going to have to take the world’s longest, coldest shower just to be able to walk straight. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

  A deep blush colors her cheeks and her eyes darken to a midnight blue. She puts a manicured hand to my chest, freezing my breath in my lungs. “You haven’t begun to see my best.”

  “Show me,” I demand when I’m able to breathe again.

  She hesitates, then leans in, brushing her mouth over mine in a move that’s more tease than kiss. But I’m not letting her get away that easy. Now that I’ve got her where I want her, I want more than a taste. I want that pierced tongue tangling with mine. I want her teeth nipping at my lips. I want her arms around me, her chest smashed against mine, her fingernails digging into my back.

  Like that pain in the ass chick in Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory, I want it all. And I want it now.

  I bury my fingers deeper in her hair and stand, moving so fast I kick my stool over. It lands with a thud on the hand-scraped hardwood floor. Roscoe stirs but thank fuck doesn’t wake from his sleep of the dead. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m not getting cockblocked by a damn dog.

  “You call that a kiss?” I ask, wedging my leg between hers. “This is a kiss.”

  I lower my head and slant my lips over hers. The kiss starts as a slow burn. I tease her with soft nips and light licks, stoking the fire, building up to the inferno I know is only moments away because there’s no way I’m going to last longer than that without losing control.

  She moans into my mouth and wraps her arms around me, grinding against my thigh. Fuck that’s hot, the way she takes what she wants without asking, without apology. That’s all the license I need to take my foot off the brakes and go all in, kissing her harder, deeper. She tastes icy cool and raspberry sweet from the Gatorade, and her soft curves fit perfectly to my harder edges. I let my free hand roam up those curves to her breast, and she moans again as I find her nipple through the thin fabric of her romper and roll it between my thumb and forefinger.