by Naima Simone
Several emotions march across her face like an advancing army: shock, outrage, confusion, then—thank God—capitulation.
“Fine,” she murmurs. “But only until I find a new place.”
“Whatever you want.” I’d agree with the pope deciding to convert to a Southern Baptist. Anything just as long as it gets her moving.
“And we keep things platonic between us. No fucking.” She waves a hand back and forth between us. “No repeats. You’re my stepbrother helping me out.”
My cock throbs with an outraged The hell you say! but I nod. It’s smart not to muddy these already dirty, turbulent waters. Sex never simplified a damn thing, just made everyone lose their minds.
From this moment on, Cypress is my roommate.
Who happens to be my stepsister.
Who happens to be the woman I can’t purge from my mind and who makes my dick hard.
Yeah, this is going to work out just fine.
Chapter Eight
Cypress
The biting March wind chaps my face and creeps beneath the turned-up collar of my coat as I stride up N. Western Avenue. For most native Chicagoans, forty-one degrees isn’t that cold. But not living here for eight years, my blood has thinned. And now, more than ever, I’m worshipping California weather. This time last year, I was stepping outside in a shirt and shorts, basking in the moderate seventy-degree days. There, boots were a fashion statement, not a necessity. Now, striding through dirty slush that’s a result of last week’s snow and yesterday’s rain, I’m asking myself what the hell I was thinking to leave the City of Angels.
With a breath of relief, I close in on Hard Knox Ink. It’s nearing seven o’clock on a Friday night, and the bars and cafés across from the tattoo shop are already busy with customers strolling in and out. The door opens on the small, live-music venue across the street from the shop, and laughter and loud conversation pours out. It’s still too early for the live acts, but apparently there’s already a good crowd getting ready for one that’s coming up this evening.
A flicker of wistfulness shimmers in my chest. I used to be one of those customers. Going out with friends, enjoying clubs and drinks after a hard day at work. My job had been stressful, but I’d balanced it with play, as well. Now that seems so far away, it’s barely a glimmer on the horizon of my real life. These days, winding down for me encompasses a long, hot shower with the luxury of shampoo and conditioner—not two-in-one—and a chapter of my current book before passing out.
Oh yes. I’m a crazy party animal.
Sighing, I dropkick the pointless memories aside, focusing on my precarious present. And that includes entering the business where Jude works. Pulling the door open with the hand not holding a white plastic bag, I quickly slide inside and smother a pretty orgasmic moan as the warmth inside wraps around me like a cocoon.
Immediately, my ears are assaulted by some god-awful heavy metal that is all clashing cymbals, rapid-fire beats, screaming guitars, and unintelligible singing—and I’m being real generous with calling it singing. The customers perched on the black leather couches in the lobby area don’t seem to mind at all, though. Most of them are flipping through the tattoo portfolios scattered on the large glass table, or standing and perusing the hanging collections of stencils, drawings, and pictures of other tats.
I pass by them and approach the big, curving front desk and Eden, the shop manager and Connor’s-widow-now-Knox’s-woman. I don’t know if that makes us stepsisters-in-law or not, but I bet the complication is one of the reasons why Knox’s name transformed Dan and Katherine’s dining room into a deep freezer.
“Hey, Cypress,” the petite brunette with the cutest smattering of cinnamon-colored freckles across her nose and forehead greets me with a wide smile. “How’s life over at The Rabbit Hole?”
“We’re all mad over there,” I say drily, slightly altering the Mad Hatter’s famous quote that is very appropriate for the dive bar.
She laughs, the bright, happy sound bouncing off the exposed brick wall and echoing in the shop. Though Eden suffered the tragic loss of her husband, she is one of the sweetest and purest people I’ve met since returning to Chicago. I don’t blame Knox for falling in love with her.
Speak of the ex-MMA-fighter-turned-tattoo-shop-owner…
He appears behind Eden, his huge frame nearly swallowing his girlfriend’s. Good God. Katherine deserves a medal of valor for birthing the giants in her family. With dark brown hair and beard; thick, muscled arms covered in ink; and a stare that would have Darth Vader sucking his thumb while crawling back to the Death Star, my stepbrother Knox was…intimidating. But then he cups the back of Eden’s head and presses a gentle kiss to her dark hair. The tenderness in his gaze as he peers down into her upturned face is so loving, so hungry that I glance away. Not because it makes me uncomfortable.
Well, that’s a lie. It does make me uncomfortable because I hate the pinch of envy and need in my chest. Which is ridiculous, since I don’t even want what they obviously feel for each other. I don’t…
“What’s up, Cypress?” Knox says in that gravel-rough but utterly sexy growl that must be another Gordon trait. “You here to see Jude?” Before I can answer, he turns back to Eden. “Bird’s just about ready to check out. Make sure he gets the family discount, okay?” Then returning to me, he jerks his head in one of those man-moves that could mean anything from “what’s up?” to “get over here” to “what do you think about the state of global warming?”
Interpreting this one as “follow me,” I do, moving through the swinging half door separating the lobby area from the tattooing area. He spots the plastic bag with takeout containers in it but remains quiet. Something I’ve noticed he does a lot in the three weeks I’ve been staying with Jude and started occasionally dropping by the shop. Knox isn’t what some people would call a Chatty Cathy.
“Well, look who’s come to see me,” Hakim Alston announces, stepping outside of his cubicle, his muscular arms outstretched. The Taye Diggs-ringer with long locs grins at me, beckoning me closer with a curl of his fingers. Snorting, I walk into his embrace, and he squeezes me tight, lifting me off my feet. He lowers me back to the floor, placing a loud, smacking kiss on my cheek. The tattoo artist is an outrageous but completely adorable flirt. “I knew you’d be back, Cy. I have that effect on people. They just can’t resist me.” He flexes his biceps, and I’m not going to lie. It’s impressive.
“No doubt. He’s like a flesh-eating virus that scientists haven’t found the cure for yet.” A dry, feminine voice drifts over the wall of the cubicle behind Hakim’s. Heaven—no, she prefers to be called V—rolls out into the entrance of her cubicle, her wild, dark curls a beautiful halo around her lovely face. The small, silver hoop piercing her eyebrow glints under the ceiling lights. “We’re slowly building an immunity though.” She snickers and smiles at me. “What’s up, Cypress?”
“Hey, V.” I learned the first day that she won’t respond to her given name for some reason.
“If we stop by The Rabbit Hole tonight, you think we can get free drinks?” Hakim grins. “Since we’re cool ’n’ all?”
Knox grunts. “Stop trying to pump her for free beer. Don’t you have a client waiting?”
Hakim rolls his eyes, sweeping a hand down the front of his body. “Don’t I always? What part of ‘in demand’ do you not understand, man?”
I snicker, and Knox gives another grunt. This time it might contain some humor, but since I’ve only been getting to know him again for three weeks, I can’t really tell.
“Jude’s using my room,” Knox informs me while heading toward a hall that branches off the bigger tattooing area. It also leads to the bathrooms, offices, and break room.
He pauses before the first closed door, knocking briefly before opening it. Inside, Jude is perched on a black, rolling stool, removing a pair of dark gloves. To the left of him, standing with his back to a long mirror, is a guy straight out of central casting for American Gladiator: clean-sha
ven head, tall, muscles on top of muscles, and tatted—including the one of a skeletal, hooded Grim Reaper adorning his right shoulder. It’s…amazing. Detailed. Stark. So realistic, I’m almost expecting the figure to hover off the guy’s tight, golden skin and slice the metal scythe through the air.
I look at Jude, and his forest-green eyes are already on me. My gaze drops to his hands, now free of the gloves. When I first met him, I remember thinking how his long fingers were strangely elegant for a man with such big…everything. But now it makes complete sense. They’re artist’s hands. Capable of creating such beauty, it’s magical. Capable of exquisite gentleness or a firm touch when needed. Capable of eliciting emotion with just a stroke, a design, a touch…
Inhaling past a suddenly constricted throat, I drag my too-obsessed scrutiny from his hands, up his Henley-covered torso, and to his face. But his warrior-angel features only kindle and stir the dancing flames low in my belly. Only worsen the tightening behind my navel. If I’m reliving how those gifted fingers drove me insane with pleasure, I’m also remembering how his wicked mouth stole my sanity with its greedy demand. How those eyes peered into mine, owning me just as his body claimed mine.
I’d thought the week after our night together had been torment with the dark, hot memories. That week has nothing on the last three. Living, sleeping just feet away from him with only his door and mine separating us…it’s been hell. Pure, dirty, twisty, erotic hell.
Sharing his space, breathing in his scent that permeates every room, sitting next to him and watching television on the rare nights we’re home together, his body heat reaching out to me, hearing that midnight-and-sex voice… Torture.
But by some divine miracle, we’ve kept it strictly platonic between us. Even though I’ve touched myself so many times to the image of him that I can’t even go to sleep without a Jude-induced orgasm, I’m clinging to that invisible but oh-so-tangible line. When my feet swing over the side of the mattress and hit the floor with every intention of heading in his bedroom’s direction, I remember who this battle is for: Mom.
So far, Dan has been holding up his end of the bargain. He shot me three emails with PAID receipts. But there still remain more bills, and as long as they hang over my head like the sword of Damocles, then my pussy is a Jude-Free zone.
But as he rises from the stool, his intense, scalpel-sharp eyes tracing my face like a brush of fingertips over my eyebrows, lids, cheeks, mouth, and jaw, I’m almost grateful for the stipulations handcuffing me. Because this man…
I exhale and duck my head on the pretense of studying the giant in the corner.
“Bird, this is my stepsister, Cypress,” Knox introduces us. “Cypress”—he nods toward the other man—“Bird. He’s a fighter with the BFC.”
Even I know what BFC stands for—Bellum Fighter Championship, the internationally known MMA organization. I don’t know this guy, but I wasn’t far off with the gladiator impression.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “Your tattoo is gorgeous.”
“Cool meeting you, too.” He grins. “And thanks. Jude hooked me up.”
“Hell, it’s an honor, man,” Jude replies, drawling, “Besides, having my work televised and on display for millions of people isn’t a hardship.”
Bird laughs. “True that.”
“He’s fucking good,” Knox states in a gruff, no-nonsense manner that practically dares anyone to say different. “Good enough to run his own shop.”
If I wasn’t a complete Jude-creeper, I might’ve missed the tensing of his body. But I noticed it, and the weird vibe running back and forth between him and his brother. In the next instant, though, Jude has reverted to his laid-back self, cracking jokes with Bird as he applies ointment to the new ink and covers it with gauze. When Knox and the other fighter start talking about an upcoming BFC event in Detroit, Jude turns to me.
“That for me?” His gaze briefly dips to the plastic bag I’m still clutching—the bag I’d forgotten about until this moment—before returning to mine. I’ve never known a man who can convey so much with a single look. And right now, the warmth, the surprise that’s there no matter how many times I show up with food for him, always seizes my heart and squeezes for all its worth.
“No, for Hakim. But since he already ate…” I shrug a shoulder.
The corner of his mouth quirks. “I would say something about it being only fair since Hakim gets a lot of my leftovers, but I’ll refrain…”
“I’m so telling him you said that,” V sing-songs as she strolls past the open doorway.
He laughs, taking the bag from my grip and, settling a wide palm low on my back, guides me from the room. “Snitches get stitches. You just remember that, V,” he calls after her.
Her snicker echoes in the hall as she returns to the main part of the shop.
The camaraderie and obvious affection among the staff here is fun and would put anyone at ease. Another pang of envy resonates within me before I can shut it down. There was a time I believed my department at UHG shared the same comfortable solidarity. But I’d been blissfully unaware of the stench-filled underbelly of sexual harassment and intimidation for most of the four years I interned and worked there. And once those blinders had been ripped from my eyes, there was no returning to that place of willful ignorance.
“You good?”
Jude’s question snaps me out of the past, and I offer him a smile that feels strained on my lips. “Yeah.” I rub my hands up and down my arms that are bared by my work T-shirt. “It feels good out there, but I swear the temperature in here is always cold-as-hell degrees Fahrenheit,” I mutter, nodding at the bag he held. “I brought burgers and fries tonight. Hope that’s okay?”
He studies me for a long moment, setting the containers of food on the table. “You know it is, Cypress,” he finally murmurs, addressing my question, but his steady, incisive stare lets me know I’m not off the hook with my clumsy subject change. “I thought I told you this isn’t necessary.”
I wave off his reminder, sinking to the battered but comfortable couch. “I know, I know. You said something like that.”
He snorts. “Be right back.”
He strides out of the room, and I’m thankful, not wanting to get into another discussion about why I need to stop trying to compensate him for letting me stay with him. I haven’t listened yet and don’t intend to start.
After my first week at his apartment, I tried to give him money for rent, and he refused to accept it. The second week, a repeat of the first. Save for your place. That’s why you’re here. That’s been his unchanging answer every time. Since he won’t take my money, I’ve been repaying him in other ways. Keeping the apartment clean. Getting up and fixing breakfast on his days to open the shop. And bringing dinner by on his late nights before I head to work.
I’m used to paying my own way…and that of others. This—having someone take care of me without expecting or asking anything in return—is like living in an alternate reality where I’m not certain of the rules. And it leaves me constantly on guard, waiting for the hammer to drop when I violate one.
And I’m definitely about to violate one.
Glancing at the closed break room door as he reenters moments later, I inhale, hoping to smother the sudden flutter of nerves beating the hell out of my stomach. One of those rules we’ve established by tacit agreement is: You mind your business, I’ll mind mine.
Except for my confiding in him about the state of Mom’s finances, we haven’t crossed that line, but now I’m about to step over it, then kick dirt on it for good measure.
“Here.” He hands me a gray hoodie with #TeamTyrion across the front.
“Really?” I snicker, accepting it and pulling it over my head. The soft cotton contains his scent, and it encloses me like a hug.
He shrugs, a corner of his mouth quirking in a half grin. “Eden came in one day with one that said #TeamDaenerys, so I had to out-Game of Thrones her. She started it.”
“Thanks for this,” I m
urmur. Clearing my throat, I reach for my to-go box and open it. Procrastinating. “What was that about between you and Knox back there? After he made the comment about being good enough to run your own shop, you kind of looked like you wanted to junk-punch him.”
Jude snorts. “First, I’m not going anywhere near Knox’s junk.” He shrugs. “It’s nothing. He’s opening another Hard Knox Ink and wants me to manage it.”
I stare at him. “Is that the job opportunity most people would kill for?”
His eyes flare. Probably surprised I can repeat his words from our first meeting back to him almost verbatim. As if I could forget anything about that night. About him. “That’s it.”
“And you turned it down.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Is it because of London?” His gaze narrows on me, and it’s my turn to nonchalantly shrug. “I was straightening up in the living room,” I hedge, using the task of unwrapping the plastic fork and digging into my salad as a handy excuse not to meet his gaze. “Several of your mail and documents fell off the table. I respect your privacy and would never infringe on that…” Oh for Christ’s sake. Sighing, I set the fork down and glance up at Jude. He hasn’t touched his food but stands next to the table, arms crossed, watching me. Jesus, I wish he’d look at the floor. Or at the wall. Anywhere but me, because the intensity and beauty of his stare melts brain cells. “I saw the contract for your guest artist position in London.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Yet the tension that invades the room—invades him—is unmistakable.
“You’re leaving the country,” I state, needing him to confirm what I know bone-deep. “That’s the reason why you didn’t accept Knox’s job opportunity. You’d already decided to take a guest artist position in a London shop. Does he know?”
“Yes and yes.”
That’s it. No explanation, no expounding. Just yes. The breath-stealing punch to my gut is silly and unwelcome. Why should it matter? It doesn’t, my inner-voice insists. But my sore chest disagrees.