by K. A. Tucker
And here, I thought tonight would be different.
I kick off my sheet with frustration and roll out of bed, going straight for my sketchbook and charcoal pencil. Even with blurry eyes, it’s been my therapy for these times, distracting my inner thoughts, lulling my distress.
Flipping to the back, I stare at the profile sketch of the cash register man. The one that the sketch artist did was all wrong. I kept telling him it was all wrong, and he kept asking me to tell him what to change. Problem was, I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Me, whose skill with recalling and drawing faces is probably better than any police sketch artist.
I’ve tried sketching his face myself the last couple of nights, to see if that makes a difference. So far, it hasn’t. I can’t figure out why it’s wrong. I just know it is. Trying again tonight is only going to frustrate me.
I flip to a fresh page.
I met three people today. A confused delivery guy with the wrong address; Bobby, the enormous teddy bear biker who swindled a tattoo out of me; and the mystery guy, whom I likely won’t ever see again.
His is the face I want to see on my page tonight, even if it ends up being an indistinct version of it. Settling back on my bed on my stomach, the cool air from the open window skating across my bare skin, I begin with long, even strokes of my pencil to capture that hard jaw, using the side to shade in the chiseled contours. Even with the dark beard, I could see them. Next I focus on his eyes. The charcoal makes them more menacing. I like that about this medium. It intensifies emotion.
My pencil flies as I unload my memory of his face, which is more sharp and detailed than I had expected. When I’m finished, I find myself staring at a portrait of an extremely handsome man—the first one I’ve met in San Francisco—whom I turned away today. A man who exuded strength and confidence and something I can’t put my finger on. A man who stepped in and helped me without my asking for it, but when I needed it. When I hated that I needed it.
Clearly I was not thinking straight today. I could have locked the door and sent him to the back room, and spent hours with him, my hands on his flesh—which I can already tell is hard and sculpted—and my mind on something other than my grief and stress.
I wonder if he’d be interested in a girl who looks like me. With my luck, he’s more into a girl like Amber. Everyone wants an Amber. Even I’ve considered an Amber once or twice, when I was drunk and horny and wondering if maybe I’ve been confused about liking penis all along, and perhaps that’s why I’ve felt no drive to seek out a real relationship.
But I’m not confused at all. I like men, and I definitely would have made myself available for this one had my world not been turned upside down only a week ago.
It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, since I’ve felt that release.
Getting one last long, good look at the face in front of me, I toss the book to the floor beside me.
And reach into my nightstand drawer, hoping the brief distraction will help my mind settle into sleep.
EIGHT
SEBASTIAN
Patience and control are necessary assets in my line of work.
Thank Christ I have both, especially now, as I hold my breath and all movement, afraid to make a sound that will announce my presence.
My assignment was nearly blown tonight. Pure adrenaline coursed through my veins as I watched the girl approach through the slats in the door of this cramped, cluttered closet, waiting for the moment that she caught the glint of my eyes on her. Her hand reached for the handle, and I instinctively ran a series of countermeasures that involved rope and gags and scare tactics through my mind. Things that Bentley wouldn’t want me doing just yet.
Things that, frankly, I have no interest in doing to her at all.
But her phone rang and she abandoned her task, and I was saved. Only for a short time, though, because then she stripped down to skin while I spied like a pervert, my gaze glued to her form beneath that sheet, then to her form lying above the sheet¸ as she worked on something in her sketchbook, the last of the day’s sunlight streaming in through the window to give me the most uninhibited view.
And now . . .
I hadn’t expected such soft, round curves on her tiny frame, but they are there, in the form of a small but tight ass that I got a good glimpse of when she leaned over for her sketchbook, and tits that stand up so well, they could be fake, but I can tell they’re not. She hid her assets well beneath that loose-fitting shirt today.
I’m doing my best to control my breathing, even as hers quickens into soft pants, and her hand begins moving more furtively, and her legs fall apart until each knee is resting against the mattress. My fingers tingle with anticipation, because I had that bubble-gum-pink wand in my hand earlier, and now she has it against herself—in herself—and it’s like my hand is right there with it. Almost.
Is she thinking about me right now? I heard everything she said; I’m guessing I’m the “hot guy” she turned away today, whom she would have made strip. That makes me smile, because there was nothing about our encounter that would suggest she’d ever give me the time of day. It sounds, though, like she doesn’t give many guys the time of day. Or at least not a lot of time. I’ll have to be careful about how I approach her. I don’t want her getting bored with me before I’ve gotten what I need.
This, I can say for sure, has never happened to me. I’m letting my mind wander as I wait, her body tempting a weaker side that I have learned to suppress until now. That has frankly never threatened to sway me during an assignment, where I hunt threats and criminals, vile human beings that the world is better off without.
I do not hunt young, attractive—albeit sharp-tongued—women who pleasure themselves in bed in front of me, who cause me to entertain thoughts of slipping out of this closet and not leaving this house. Of walking over to her bed. Of her opening her eyes and reaching for me. Of my stripping and climbing onto her, tossing that wand to the side and finishing her off with my hands, or my mouth.
Or the dick that’s pressing hard against my zipper.
But I know that reality will not match fantasy, and that is not my purpose here, so I force down my urges and chastise my dick for even veering in that direction. And yet I still don’t look away when she closes her eyes and opens her mouth and arches her back and moans out a release, even though I know that would be the respectable thing to do.
I just fucking can’t.
She simply lies there for a few minutes, those tits swelling with her deep breaths, until she calms down. Then, groping the mattress near her thighs, as if she has expended her last ounce of energy, she pulls the sheet up and over her body.
Ten minutes later, she is as still as a corpse, her breathing shallow and slow.
Easing the door open so slowly that it can’t sound a creak, I edge out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door, ensuring that I lock the dead bolt on the way.
Her boots stomp on each step as she drags herself down the steep front stairs to the Honda parked out front, a tall coffee travel mug gripped in one hand, a black case dangling from the other, oversize black glasses covering half her face. Reluctant to be awake, I’m guessing, even though she logged in at least twelve hours of sleep last night.
I know because I’ve been sitting in the backseat of my car and watching that upstairs front window since midnight, waiting for her to leave, like she told someone on the phone that she would. But the light didn’t come on until six this morning. I guess she must have been exhausted.
I reach back and rub the muscles in my neck. I drifted just once, for half an hour, when the clock hit four and it didn’t look like she was going anywhere. It’s never a good sleep, hidden under a black blanket in case anyone walks by and chooses to peer in, but it’s all I needed. Besides, this backseat is probably cleaner than the hole I rented—the walls shedding their floral paper and dark corners hiding roaches. It’s fine, I’ve barely been in it since I got to San Francisco. I went back last nig
ht only to shower, jerk off to thoughts of her naked on her bed, and change clothes.
Even now, the sight of her fully dressed has my heart rate quickening. I need to push away the mental images of her still burning in the forefront of my mind and remind myself that she is a potential target.
A threat that I might need to eliminate.
Based on what I overheard of the girl’s phone conversation, I assume she’s heading back to the shop now, to clean before her afternoon appointment shows up. That gives me a few more hours inside her house, to search through the filing cabinet for clues on other properties, rented deposit boxes, anything that could be used as a hiding place.
Her taillights flash red just as the burner begins vibrating in my pocket.
I slink down in my seat, not wanting her to spot me when she pulls out. She’d remember my face, and that wouldn’t be good. “What?” I don’t hide my irritation from my voice. Bentley knows better than to call. It’s against protocol.
“The house?”
“Negative, so far.”
“What’s taking you so long?”
I frown and don’t answer.
“The girl?”
“I told you I’d call when I had an update.” I slide down even farther, to a lying position as she passes.
“Then find a fucking update to give me today.” He hangs up, leaving me both irritated and intrigued. This isn’t like Bentley. He always cuts contact until I’ve completed my assignment. It’s one of his requirements, to limit any dots from ever connecting him to my work, if I don’t cover my tracks well enough. He’s also never this impatient, trusting me to do my job swiftly and effectively.
It makes me wonder exactly what’s on that video.
But I need to not think about Bentley or the pretty girl, and the private moment that I was privy to last night. I need to focus on simply finding this video and completing my job.
I quietly count to ten, then make my way back to the house, promising myself to stay the fuck away from her bedroom this time.
NINE
IVY
Dickhead.
I should have expected this. Ned always said these bikers operated on their own clock. They’ll book an appointment and then stroll in three hours later, expecting you to drop everything for them. Ned said the first time he got fed up enough to tell one of them to fuck off because he had another appointment, he thought he was going to end up in a pine box by sundown. After that he learned to keep wide windows of time free around their bookings.
But it’s now almost five, I have my machine ready and the back room prepped, and I’m pissed off enough to tell Bobby to take his blowtorch and shove it up his ass. I don’t need it anymore, anyway. But I do need the big brute to move that chair out to the trash. I’ve finally accepted that no amount of independence and stubbornness is going to do it for me.
I also haven’t eaten. It’s a good excuse to visit Fez at the pizzeria, anyway, seeing that I woke up this morning to half a dozen texts from him. I hope he didn’t wait too long for me last night.
Of course, the minute I have the handwritten BACK IN TEN sign ready and am walking down the long hall to tape it to the front window, knuckles rap against the door.
“You’re two hours late!” I holler, rolling the shade up, preparing my best scathing glare for Bobby. It’s not his giant frame I find looming outside, though.
It’s that guy from yesterday.
We simply stare at each other through the grimy glass for a moment: me, in surprise; him, something unreadable, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He’s swapped his black T-shirt for navy today, to go along with the jeans. Simple, clean, unremarkable. And yet very appealing on him.
“Is it Thursday yet?” There isn’t so much as a hint of a joke in his voice. I can’t tell if he’s serious.
“You’re persistent.”
“Yes.”
“Persistence annoys me.”
Finally, a slight smile touches his lips, and I instantly find myself fighting the urge to match it. He slides his sunglasses off his face, meeting my eyes with that cool, indifferent gaze. “And what doesn’t annoy you?”
“Not much, honestly.”
Another staring match. As intense as the weight of his gaze is, it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it was yesterday, now that I’m no longer wary of his intentions.
I should be difficult and tell him to come back in a few days. The thing is, I don’t want to be difficult. I want to be very easy for him right now, because I’ve been thinking about him more than is wise since yesterday. Especially since last night. If just a sketched picture and thoughts of him could get me off so quickly and easily, I wonder what the real man could do to me.
Not that I would ever flip my hair or giggle at his jokes or do anything else to make my interest obvious.
I unlock the door and pull it open, stepping back to give him room. “The guy I was supposed to be working on hasn’t shown up, so I guess you’re in luck, because I’m all ready to ink and I need skin to work on.” I let my gaze drift over his arms, honed with muscles and free of any markings, before moving over to his chest and stomach. Wondering if the rest of him is this perfect. Wondering exactly which part of him I’ll get to touch.
“You look more rested today,” he murmurs, a secretive smile touching his eyes. As if he can read my mind, as if he knows that he helped put me to sleep last night.
I don’t answer, pushing the door closed. I lock it once again with a sly smile. As far as I’m concerned, if Bobby shows up now, no one’s here.
“You’ve done a lot here since yesterday.” His piercing eyes survey the interior, stalling over the six full trash bags sitting in one corner and the four boxes of “Ned things” that I’m not sure what to do with yet, but I can’t bring myself to throw out.
“I’m having it painted at the end of the week, so I don’t really have a choice.” The painter showed up here at nine this morning for a quote, and I, still groggy from too much sleep, agreed to a Friday start, not really thinking about how much I’d need to get done by then.
But I am thankful that I wasn’t too out of it to pack a change of clothes for the afternoon, knowing that I’d be covered in dust and dirt by now. I smooth my off-the-shoulder army-green shirt down over ripped detail black leggings.
“I see you’ve taken care of the chair.” He turns, but not before I see the smug smile touch his lips.
“I haven’t had time,” I lie, eying his arms again, hopeful. I’m not going to ask for help outright. If he’s smart, he’ll have figured that out about me by now.
It looks like the hot stranger has brains to go with his brawn.
He steps past me without a word, the scent of fresh soap catching my nose and stirring my hormones. Grabbing the chair by its wide arms, he heaves the entire thing from its resting place, uncovering a square of pristine honey-colored hardwood. My chest swells ever so slightly when I catch a nostalgic glimpse of what Black Rabbit’s floor must have looked like on the day Ned opened its doors for the first time.
“Is the Dumpster in the back?” he grunts under the weight of the chair, the strain in his muscles visible from beneath his shirt. He doesn’t wait for my answer, heading down the hall, stopping at the back door to both unlock it and, I suspect, to give his arms and back a break.
I trail him, dragging two bags of trash along the ground behind me, all the way out to the Dumpster. He flips the lid open.
“I’m guessing it’s too heavy to lift ov . . .” My words drift as he hoists the entire chair up and over his shoulders to topple it into the bin, the sound of metal ricocheting off the inside deafening.
“. . . or not.” My breath catches. I couldn’t move that thing even an inch and he just had it over his head. How is he that strong? He does have broad shoulders. I study his hands as he wipes them across his jeans. Large, masculine hands that look like they’ve done their share of manual labor. An angry scar runs along his right thumb, faded by years.
&nb
sp; “What are you staring at?”
“Your scar,” I admit. I wonder how he got it, and if it bothers him, but I don’t ask. “I’ve covered a lot of scars for clients.”
“I don’t need it covered,” he says. “Scars give you—”
“Character,” I finish in unison with him. “I don’t mind them, either. They make people more interesting.”
He closes the distance and pulls the bags from my grasp, his fingers grazing mine, and tosses them into the Dumpster. “Anything else that you need carried out here?” His words are slightly breathless, and a light sheen of sweat coats his forehead. At least it wasn’t too easy for him. While I hate it when someone makes me feel small and weak and incapable, actually witnessing that made me feel something else. Something thrilling.
“I think I can handle the rest.”
“Okay.” He flips the lid closed. Looping his hand beneath the front of his T-shirt, he pulls it up to wipe the sweat from his forehead, giving me a glimpse of his chest and stomach, both of which are padded by an impressive layer of muscle. “So . . . should we get started?”
A flicker of light dances in his eyes, and I know that that was intentional. He could have used his arm, or his hand. Hell, he wasn’t even that sweaty.
“Yeah, sure.” I try to sound nonchalant, but for the first time since Ned died, I actually feel the urge to sit down in front of my machine. Even if it’s for the wrong reasons. I don’t care what this guy wants, or where. I’ll do it. But that’s not the most professional way to broach the topic with a new client. One whose name I don’t even know.
I reach out. “My name is Ivy.”
He pauses for a long moment, staring at my hand before taking it in his, his skin rough and warm and powerful. “Sebastian.”
“And what exactly were you thinking of having done, Sebastian?” Please let it involve taking your shirt off. Better yet, your pants.
“A piece, right here.” He runs long fingers over the left side of his torso, from below his armpit to his hip.