“You are not sticking me with any fucking needle.”
“If you don’t want this to get infected, then I am.”
“I guess it’s just going to get infected then.” I try to stand, but she’s right there, pressing her hand on my shoulder, lowering me back to the stool. Stepping in front of me, she’s right at eye level with me sitting on the low stool—a beautiful scowl scrunching up her cute nose.
“That is unacceptable, Phoenix Colton.” She stares me down, hands on hips. Her sleep shirt bunching up at her waist where they grip. The most unusual urge comes over me to slip my arm around her waist and pull her close. Close enough to bury my face in her neck and hair, taking in her sweet scent.
Taking my silence as lack of any further argument, she returns behind me, and the impulse passes. But the twist in my gut remains. It’s nothing, Nix. You’re just rolling from the oxy, that’s all.
A soft damp towel begins to wipe at my back, and her hands search my skin and the wound.
“Be gentle with me, sweet cheeks.”
“I’ll do my best,” She speaks softly as she continues to work on my shoulder.
“I expect nothing less.” For a quiet beat, we say nothing. A comfortable silence filling the bathroom. Just the sound of the running water in the sink — until Clover’s soft voice breaks it.
“Honestly, this is only the third time I’ve done this.”
The fact that she has to do this twice before stirs something deep down inside of me. That means she was in a bad situation with bad people. Possibly putting her at risk—that doesn’t sit right in my stomach.
“How did it go the first two times?”
“Eeeehh.”
“Eh? You’re sticking a needle and thread through my skin with the experience of, eh?”
“Yeah, well, you won’t go to the hospital, so this is what you get.” Her words are sharp, but her touch is gentle. She’s still preparing the necessary instruments and cleaning the area.
“Okay, you ready?” She asks on a large inhale.
“As I’ll ever be.” I try to relax my body so that it doesn’t tense up, making it more difficult for her. I try to focus on a spot on the floor. I’m no pansy, but she is inexperienced, and she might make it worse.
The first pinch of the needle in my skin is sudden but not horrible. Pulling the thread through, she lets out a long breath. After that, she’s a little more confident and relaxed. Holding the pliers in one hand that holds the needle, she feeds the curved end again through my skin. I don’t feel it as much this time. She’s actually not half bad.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened for you to end up with a stab wound in your shoulder?”
“Delivery went wrong.” She stares at my reflection in the mirror expectantly.
“And?”
She wants to know more. It doesn’t matter how it happened. It has nothing to do with her. But she continues to stare at me—hand frozen midair, thread dangling down to wear it feeds through my skin. She’s not going to continue until I tell her. Fine.
“It was a delivery to a new dealer, so Zander, Arrow, and I went to the agreed-upon drop-off location. Everything was fine until the dealer flipped out over cost, and his coked-up bodyguards came at us. We took care of them easily. I was distracted, and one got a lucky stab in. He wasn’t very lucky when my bullet met its mark in the middle of his head.”
Clover is quiet for a moment. My blunt candor of killing that fuck twat Chef sinking in. Like a secret badass, she takes it in stride with a soft breath before shaking it off.
“What about the others? Arrow and..?”
“Zander. They’re fine, a little worse for wear. They’ll live.” Another pinch from the needle in my shoulder.
“Did they get stabbed? Do they need stitched? Would they go to the hospital?” Her tone is serious but tinged with concern. She doesn’t even know my cousins. Why would she be concerned for them? This girl makes me ask more questions about her than I ever have about anyone. She is confusing as hell.
“Why? Are you going to stitch them up to?”
“If I have to.”
“They don’t need you.”
“And you do?” Her words are soft and wistful. Hopeful even. She wants me to need her. In this moment, I admit to myself I do. I turn my gaze to watch her in the mirror. She’s not looking at me. Then I admit it to her.
“Apparently.” A small smile curls the edges of her lips. It’s beautiful—she’s beautiful. When no one’s looking, I get glimpses of her uncensored and unguarded—the mask of sarcasm gone and the raw emotions beneath visible. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I try to get one of these glimpses of her every time I see her.
She does things to me, and I don’t know what to make of it all. I like it, and I fucking hate it. I’ve never needed anyone, let alone a damn woman. But the sensations, both sexual and non, are fucking exhilarating. My body responds to her, and on more than one occasion, I almost gave in to the urges. Then I mentally bitchslap myself, reminding me that she’s my roommate, my pop’s employee, and stop.
Averting my eyes back to the floor in front of me, behind me, Clover finishes sewing up my wound and places a large square of gauze over it. Securing it in place with tape.
“Thanks,” I mumble. Keeping my eyes averted.
“Anytime.” She washes off the tools and places them back in the med kit.
Standing, I turn to face her. She’s close, so close I can smell her. Just the scent of her sets every nerve ending in my body on fire at once. I’m immobilized by her easy beauty, like petrified wood. Stuck like this forever. Until she turns to look at me, and once again, I’m alive. Letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Her eyes capture me, and I am so screwed. This is not going to be innocent fun and games like I thought it would be. She is going to test my self-control with every sway of her hips and lick of her lips.
Those big blue eyes return my indecisiveness. She looks as tortured as I feel. We can’t stay like this; if she moves any closer, I might not be able to stop my hand from reaching out and brushing along her neck. She doesn’t move, thank fuck. However, her delicious tongue darts out and licks her lips. She rolls her lip in her mouth, biting down on the bottom before it pops out. Moist and soft and ready to be tasted.
She breaks eye contact, roaming down my bare chest and even lower, towards my dick. It’s the disconnect I need to slap the stupid out of me and speak.
“I’m sorry I woke you. You should head back to bed. It’s late.” I try to control my voice, but I can’t help the shaky low rasp.
“Yeah, you’re right. It is. You should get some rest, too.” I can feel her hot breath as she speaks into my chest, but her eyes are upturned and watching me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Don’t get a boner Nix, that’s not cool right now. Don’t be the douchebag she thinks you are. But does she think I am? Would she have helped me and been so nice if she thought I was? No matter what I tell myself, my dick still hardens. I just hope she doesn’t notice. I am still wearing jeans, so thank fuck for that.
When I don’t speak, she nods and turns to leave my bathroom. I feel like an ass. Say something, Nix.
“Thanks again for—you know.” Real smooth, idiot. She turns to look over her shoulder when she hears me muttering idiotically.
“Yeah, you’re welcome.” That soft, sweet, shy smile crosses her lips, and I swear I see a faint blush creep up her neck as she turns back around and leaves me alone.
For the first time since I met her, I don’t watch her ass as she walks away. I watch her hair swaying softly back and forth until she walks out my bedroom door and turns down the hall to her room.
Chapter 11
Clover
“S
o, Arrow told me you stitched up Nix’s stab wound.”
Rosie and I are standing at the end of the bar, her on the outside, me on the inside. It’s Wednesday, and the bar is quiet. So we chat. It’s what girls do.
“Who’s
Arrow? And how did he find out?”
“He’s my cousin who works at the tattoo shop for Nix. He’s apprenticing to be a tattoo artist. Nix told him, he told me. Arrow is more of a gossip than any girl I know.” She laughs at her cousin’s expense. One that I haven’t met yet. As a matter of fact, I’ve only met a couple so far. Rosie’s sister Lily came in one night to drop off Rosie’s phone, and there was that night Griffon, Nix’s brother, came in. He didn’t stay long, just one drink with his dad at the corner table, then left. He seems like the really serious type to me—nothing like Nix, from what I can tell. The others are still a mystery.
“Yeah, I did stitch up Nix. He came home at three in the morning, banging around all bloody and grumbling to himself, with an open stab wound on his shoulder. He wanted to just pour peroxide over it and be done with it. Can you believe that?”
“Yeah, actually. Sounds just like him. He’s always gotta be the man, you know. Can’t be weak.” She lowers her voice and mimics a male’s tone when she says the man.
“Oh, yeah. He’s definitely a stubborn ass hat most of the time.”
“You’re not wrong. I’m surprised he let you help him at all.”
“He wouldn’t at first. I had to force him.”
“You forced him?” she asks, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Is that such a strange thing? He must really not let anyone help him if it’s that hard to believe.
“Well, I forced him with my words. We both know I couldn’t physically force him to do anything. He’s the size of a mountain compared to me.” Laughing at Nix’s mountainous size, I try not to think about how he looked at me that night. It was a few days ago, but the electric buzz it created still lingers throughout my body.
He was gentle and nice, sorta. Things I didn’t know he could be. He seemed to be opening up to me. Maybe he isn’t a completely arrogant douche nozzle, as I initially believed. Just mostly. He has his moments. A few of those moments were in his bathroom that night. Quiet and unassuming. We weren’t trying to provoke one another or get some sort of response. We just were. It was nice.
Not to mention, I got an up-close and personal appraisal of his more than defined upper body. Touching his tanned skin was torture. Not being able to run my fingers along the lines of his tattoos. Which, although I’d gotten a glimpse of them during our morning ritual, I’d never gotten that close. His left arm and shoulder are covered in forested trees with wolves and dears—a full moon behind a tree on his outer bicep. One in particular that stood out was the head of a wolf just above the area I was stitching. It was large, and it was looking directly at me with the most intense eyes. Most of it was in black and grey, but the eyes were vibrant green and yellow. I could see other minimal uses of natural colors in the trees and other animals as well.
His right arm, however, was the exact opposite. Covered in Biomech, it looked like the skin was ripped open—the muscle and bones replaced with metal and wires. Bright colors streaming throughout. The contrast of natural and man-made striking. Both tattoos reached over his shoulders and up to his neck, meeting in the middle. Where a flower grew from each side, creating a blossom that was half realistic and half robotic. It was simply breathtaking. The artistry involved is astounding.
I try to keep my thoughts of Nix to a minimum as I work, but we have so much downtime on slow days it’s a little hard not to. I just have to keep reminding myself, he’s my bosses’ son and my roommate and the biggest man whore I’ve ever met. Getting involved with him would be asking for disaster. Instead of thinking about his well-defined washboard abs, I focus on cleaning glasses and stacking them OCD-neatly on the shelves. When something, or rather someone, grabs my attention.
Coming through the door is a rather tall, attractive man. Dressed far too nice for our Wednesday crowd, Friday or Saturday maybe, but not Wednesday. He’s in a dark blue suit with tuxedo lapels that are tailored to his very trim body. A crisp white dress shirt pops from underneath with the two top buttons opened. The man is pure hotness, and I can tell he knows it. But his self-confidence is not completely arrogant like Nix’s. Rather, it’s a comfortable acceptance of himself. I wish I was that confident with myself.
The hot man has neatly styled jet-black hair and stylishly shaven facial hair, accentuating his sharp features. Electric-green eyes scan the space as he approaches the bar. That’s when he catches sight of me. When he does, he heads straight my way. Upon reaching me, I realize he’s not as tall as Nix but maybe more Beau’s height of about six feet, maybe six-one. Dark olive-toned skin screams Italian heritage and sex appeal. Then he smiles at me. A lopsided smile, white teeth, and all, as a dimple appears on one cheek. I wonder if Nix has dimples. He never smiles enough for me to know, only a small smirk or grin.
“Hi there.” Casually sitting on the stool at the bar, unbuttoning his jacket. Flashing a glimpse of steel under one arm.
“Hello. What can I get for you tonight?” I try to be as polite as possible without drooling over the sex on a stick man sitting in front of me.
“Whiskey, three fingers on the rocks.”
“Any particular brand you prefer?”
“Whatever you have, that’s best.”
“Coming right up.”
I busy myself pouring his drink and placing it in front of him. He hands me a black AmEx card. Damn.
“Would you like me to start a tab for you?” with a black AmEx card, he can afford it. Hell, he could buy the entire fucking bar if he wanted to on this thing.
“That would be great.”
After I set everything up in the register, I return to sir hotness. Him never taking those bedroom eyes off me. No one else needs me right now, and I’d like to talk to him some more. Nix might be off the menu, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look for a beefy male elsewhere. The fact he’s packing doesn’t mean dick to me. In this town, I’m learning almost everyone is.
“Is there anything else you need?” I’m not ashamed to say I turn on the flirt just a little.
“Your name,” He says with no waiver or hitch. He’s interested, too.
“Clover.”
“Pleasure is all mine, Miss Clover. I’m Braxton.”
“Nice to meet you, Braxton,” I say, extending my hand out toward him. Normally I don’t like to touch customers, but he’s being really polite and smiling at me with fuck me eyes that are currently asking me to hop over the bar and straddle him, so I break my rule—just a little. Sliding his hand into mine, he turns it, pulling my arm across the bar to place a gentle kiss on the backside. Alluring eyes glance up at me. His hand is soft and smooth—nothing like Faust or Beau with their calluses and scars. This man does not do manual labor or anything extraneous. That doesn’t mean he’s any less man than them.
“I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new?” Slowly releasing my hand, his touch lingers ever so slightly.
“Yeah, I started just a couple weeks ago.” He must be a traveling regular.
“Well, I hope you stay.”
“So do I. I really like it here.”
“Glad to hear it. I suppose I’ll have to come into town for business more often then.” His grin is playful as he sips his whiskey.
“You have a lot of work in Huntersville?” Perhaps I’ll get to see him again after all.
“A fair amount.”
“Is that why you’re here now?” I play it off as friendly bartender chatter, but I’m fishing for more information about this new sexy stranger, Braxton. Even his name is sexy.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Sadly, just tonight.” He looks bummed that he’s only here tonight. I am, too.
“Shame.” I flirt unabashedly, giving him my sweetest and most work-appropriate sultry smile. He’s obviously interested and cute.
“Shame indeed.” His voice deep and tinged with sexual desire.
I need to shift the conversation to something a bit more work-appropriate before I decide to proposition him for a quickie in the supply closet. “Where
do you call home?”
“Greensboro. It’s just a couple hours from here. But I have homes in a few cities in North Carolina.”
“You own a lot of properties?”
“My family does, yes.”
So, he’s rich, handsome, and interested in me. Score! Plus bonus, he’s not related to my boss, and there is no rule about fraternizing with customers. He seems close to his family and is sweet and funny. If I can’t have hulking brooding sexy as sin Nix, then I’ll gladly take flirty sweet hot Braxton as a substitute.
“You work with your family?”
“Yes. We have a large business that’s been in the family for a few generations. You could say it’s our legacy.” All nonchalance and indifference. He scratches his dark facial stubble.
“Wow. Sounds interesting.”
“It is, but I’m not here to talk business. I’d much rather know more about you.” He tilts his cup in my direction before drinking. I’m not sure how much to tell him. I keep it simple and vague.
“I just moved here from Mississippi. I’m twenty-eight. I like to draw and hate birds.”
He laughs at my confession. Hearty and deep. It’s warm and silky and could melt the panties off most women.
“Birds? Why birds?”
“I don’t know. They’re just mean, angry little monsters, and they never liked me either. So, the feeling’s mutual.”
We chat as I work, the conversation flowing easily. Lighthearted conversation, nothing too deep or personal. He keeps me engaged and pulls me back to him when I get pulled away. I keep finding excuses to go speak with him, even though he has a full drink. This is probably the best Wednesday night I’ve had in a while. Beau has been the only man I’ve been able to speak with easily lately, and I can’t flirt with him. At least, not seriously.
Phoenix (The Colton Cousins Book 1) Page 8