Drex sprinted into the room and bounced at her feet, enticing her to bend and scratch him from head to toe. Ryan had never known anyone who paid so much attention to a dog before. Then again, he’d never known her before.
She tilted her head, blond hair feathering over the smile glued into place. “Such a long night you need coffee in the veins?”
No surprise at all as to what he’d found. An angelic lilt to her words. And with that morning sunlight haloed behind her? Man, she was good. Plastic bit into his fingers as he squeezed tighter, resisting the burning-hot urge to throw the fucking things across the room. “Goddammit, Sailor, you said you were clean—”
“Clean?” Her hand stopped mid-stroke, and she jerked her head back. “Wait. You think that’s for—” In a blink, she was off her knees and closing the space between them. “Ryan, no, these aren’t for…drugs. I mean, yeah, some people use them for that, but that’s not why I have them. It has nothing to do with…that. Pinky swear.”
She lifted her little finger. Ryan stared at it. What were they—third graders?
A hand on her wrist, he lowered her arm. The perk about spending the last ten years in a bar? Perfecting his liar gauge. Narrowing his gaze, he watched her face closely as she set her purchases on the counter. Direct eye contact, not fidgeting or picking her fingernails or shifting her feet like someone lying might.
Every cell in his body wanted her to be telling the truth, wanted not to have to walk out of this apartment and never see her again. Gritting his teeth, he forced out, “What are they for then?”
Taking the syringes from his grip, she set them beside him and skimmed her palms up his chest. Soft hands. Warm hands. Hands that grounded him in a way that no woman ever had before.
“Turns out, when I first adopted Drex,” she explained, scrunching her nose, “he came home with a urinary tract infection. The vet gave me antibiotics and these”—she pointed to the syringes—“and he showed me how to inject him. I had to do it for ten days.”
His gaze flicked to the ball of fluff prancing at her feet and then back to Sailor. “A dog with a UTI?”
With the tip of her shoe, she rubbed the dog’s belly. “At the shelter, he must’ve been really good at holding in his tinkle.” She grinned, though the lift of her lips didn’t come close to lighting up her eyes. “Did you know you’re hanging out with the only dog owner in the world who can un-potty train a dog?”
…
Sailor held her stiff smile throughout breakfast—a maple bar and a glass of chocolate milk over ice, watching as Ryan scarfed down a huge apple fritter and two cups of coffee. Across the table from her, he glanced to every bare wall in the room, to the popcorn ceiling and recessed lights, and not once her way. Something was up, and she wasn’t going to sit with a donut in her hand and maple glaze coating her fingers and not decipher what it was.
Only that was the easy part, judging by the pinched-up expression he wore.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” she asked after large gulp of milk. “About the syringes? You still think I’m the person I was back then.”
He said nothing, and Sailor’s stomach hit the floor with a loud, gurgled splat. Was it always going to be like this? Him not trusting that each day that passed she fought like a warrior not to become that person again? Not give in to the lure and simplicity of the drug lifestyle? The freedom that’d come with it?
Getting where she was today hadn’t been easy. She had Marissa to keep pointing her in the right direction. And the responsibility of Drex, which obviously had been a boundless way to keep her busier than normal. And now she had Ryan, too, or so she’d thought. The person who’d allowed her to insert herself into his life and sample the tiniest bit of her father and his bar.
A tiny sliver of hope that maybe she could be a part of it, too.
“I guess…” she muttered, dropping the rest of her bar onto the plate with a clunk, no longer hungry. “I guess I don’t deserve your trust. The question is…will I ever? Or are you always going to think of me as the girl who ruined your dreams?”
Elbows resting on the table, Ryan lifted his mug to his mouth, drew in a long sip and returned it to the table so casually they could’ve been discussing how donuts were made. “I’ve known drug users before, and I know it’s not something people can give up easily.”
Easy? Pssht. “Who said the last two years have been a piece of cake?” Messing up had been simple—throw everything away and don’t look back. But trying to get her life back and make something of herself had been grueling, one of the hardest things she’d ever done.
The way he looked at her just then, eyes filled with something that looked a lot like pity, had her squirming in her seat as if it were splintered and poking at her.
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Ryan.” She steadied her forearms on the edge of the table. “Leaving that life and working to where I am right now has changed me inside and out, and I don’t regret a single moment of it. Even the mistakes. They’ve made me a stronger person.” She stood, the splintery feeling too much to bare, and extended a pinky finger in his direction. “I’ll offer this to you one more time, but if you accept it, that means you understand I’m going to do everything in my power never to return to that life again. And it means no more doubts from you.”
He shifted, sliding his legs out from under the table and pointing in her direction. When he faced her like that, full on, she could feel the force of their connection. Reaching out to her. Pinning her in place.
“You use that”—he gestured to her pinky—“like it means more than just a childish promise.”
She shrugged, trying not to let her words sink like her emotions. “I don’t remember much of my mom. She died when I was five. But I do remember this.” At her ankle, Drex brushed against her, the tickle of his fur on her bare leg comforting. “The ultimate promise, she used to call it, and she didn’t use it lightly.”
Lifting his chin, he studied her hard. One second passed. And another. Then he said quietly, “And you’re offering it to me.”
“Yeah.” Words fell out of her mouth before she had a chance to analyze them. “I guess that means you’re growing on me, too.”
Slowly, he hooked his pinky around hers and squeezed. He didn’t say anything more, just held tight and stared at her until Drex—still at her feet—stood on his hind legs and started begging for an apple fritter.
After breakfast, they both decided it was time to get ready for the day. Sailor’s shift at Above the Stem started in an hour, and Ryan needed to work the budgeting before the bar opened up later in the afternoon. From the table near the door, Sailor handed Ryan his keys and as they plopped into his hand, the lightness in his face dimmed.
“My keys,” he said, a hint of wariness coating his voice. “Those were my keys you set down when you came in. You went back to the bar? Without me?”
“Oh, um…” What could she tell him? That she’d snuck into the bar to make a few more changes? New rustic wooden “M” and “W” signs for the bathroom doors to replace the generic blue stick-figure plaques, a handful of flameless scented candles in the women’s restroom, and a framed, weathered-looking poster hung just above the toilet in the men’s that stated in bold letters:
ATTENTION!
FOCUS.
AIM.
FLUSH.
She’d cracked up when she’d seen it at a boutique downtown and hoped the bar’s customers would, too. Little touches like that stuck with people. Especially drunk people.
But those changes were meant to be a surprise, so instead of telling Ryan, she smiled sweetly and said, “I thought I left my phone charger plugged in behind the bar, so I went to look for it on my way to pick up our breakfast.”
One side of his brow lifted. “You didn’t have to go alone.”
She nuzzled into him, the top of her head fitting perfectly in the crook of his neck. “I know, but it isn’t often I wake up with a hottie in my bed, and I selfishly wanted to keep you in there
a little longer.” Or a lot longer. She slipped her arms around his waist, wishing he hadn’t put on his shirt so she could give those abs a good-bye kiss, too. “You’re lucky I don’t own a pair of handcuffs. I might’ve used them.”
Hot whispered words brushed along the shell of her ear. “You’re lucky I do own a pair, and I’m bringing them over next time.”
…
When would be the next time? Damn, he was already itching to spend the night with her again. And again, and again, and again. Her legs tangled with his, the scent of him and her and the way they unified into something delicious and mouthwatering. Getting enough of her seemed an impossible feat as he pressed one last kiss to her sugary sweet lips before heading out to his car.
“You sure you don’t want to come in early today?” he spouted over his shoulder, stealing one last peek at the skintight leggings clinging to her. “I could probably use some help with organization. Or filing. Or…I’m sure we could find something to busy your hands.” He winked.
Leaning one shoulder into the doorway, she folded her arms and smiled, shaking her head at the same time. “Ms. Trost needs me at the flower shop today. An order for thirty centerpieces came in yesterday, which is too much for her and her arthritis to do alone.”
His steps slowed at the sidewalk. “Spending the day with hundreds of flowers? Sounds like a party to me.”
Wrinkles crept up the bridge of her nose. “Let’s just hope I don’t assassinate any of the guests. My track record is a tad washy.”
“As long as it’s not the old woman who writes your paychecks, you’re golden.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned for the street. “Call me when you’re finished?”
“I will.”
“Or sooner.”
She laughed. “Pretty sure I read somewhere that playing hard to get is the best way to get the man.”
“Those girly magazines have it all wrong.” He hopped up the steps, the look on his face darkening into something mysterious as he cradled her head in his hands. “And it doesn’t work when the guy is already going after the girl.” He kissed her long and hard, savoring each taste he took of her, each nibble of her lip, and then forced himself to get in his car and drive away.
After a quick stop at his place to shower and change, he entered the Alibi, noticing the deadbolt on the front door wasn’t locked in place. Sailor had stopped by to look for her phone charger. Did she forget to lock the door on her way out? Most likely, that was the case, but then why did his skin suddenly prickle like he’d just stepped inside a walk-in cooler?
Slow steps. Eyes scanning. Nothing appeared out of place as he wound past bar tables to the back office, the changes made last night catching his eye, along with two new wooden signs on the doors of the bathrooms. He hadn’t noticed them yesterday, but then again, he’d been a little…distracted.
Damn, spending all this time with Sailor, letting his guard down around her, letting her in had to be messing with his senses. She made him feel, she made him want, she made him—
The opened safe sitting atop his desk and papers sprawled over the wooden surface both sucked every ounce of air out of his lungs and slammed him with the pain of a freight truck. Why was his safe out?
And why was it open? Empty?
That safe not only held some of Marty’s earlier profit-and-loss statements and Ryan’s extra stash of emergency cash, but also a few of Marty’s things that’d been left to him—the gold watch he hadn’t gone a day without checking, the very first bottle opener used at the Alibi, and the twenty-year-old pocket knife given to Ryan for his eighteenth birthday. It had belonged to Marty when he was a kid, been used to whittle and carve sticks into swords and boats and whatever else kid-Marty had been into. Aside from the bar, they were all he had left of the man who’d gotten him off the streets. Saved him.
Rushing to the safe, Ryan’s chest burned with the need for air. And something else—the understanding of who’d done this. Sailor had been the last one in the bar. Sailor knew where he kept the safe. Fuck, she’d probably even seen the code he’d punched in when he’d given her the necklace. Seen the other items tucked into the corner as he’d pulled it out.
All she’d ever wanted was a connection to her father. And because he’d been so blinded by her quirky charm and gorgeous looks, she’d conned her way into getting it. The bar wasn’t up for grabs, so she’d taken what was.
He slammed his fist into the table, and then the wall behind him, sharp stabs of pain slicing from his knuckles to his elbow. How could she have betrayed him like this? Lied to him? Stolen from him?
How could he have let her?
The ticking of the clock on the wall above him pricked at every bit of exposed skin. His arms. His neck. Tick, tick, tick. One second, then two and three, each one growing louder, burrowing into his pores. Each one another moment she was getting away with deceiving him. Lying to him. Stealing from him.
He snatched up his keys and slammed through the door, his vision clouding as he charged for his truck. She may have stolen from him once, but there wasn’t any way he was going to let her get away with it.
…
Flowers covered the large workspace in the back room of the shop, set up in no particular order at all. Peonies and ranunculus and gardenias, all in shades of creams, yellows, and pinks. It was too much, too disordered, and Sailor had no idea where to start.
At least she had Ryan. She sighed, the softness of his kisses from this morning still lingering on her lips. She loved those kisses. She loved kissing him. She loved… She loved…
No, it was too soon to be feeling anything that started with the letter L. Except “like.” It wasn’t too soon to say she liked him. She liked him a lot. More than a lot. More like love—
Oh, stop it, Sail! She scooped up a handful of flowers, examined the random selection. Was there a science to this? An art? An equation? How in the world was she supposed to figure out the best possible combination of color to green? Of pink to yellow?
Just as she was about to call out to Ms. Trost—who’d gone to the back for more vases—the front door to the shop swung open, and with the sun shining from behind, a large figure stepped in. Funny how after such little time, she could recognize the set of Ryan’s shoulders, the V-shape of his waist, the manner of his gait without even seeing his face. Smiling, she paused with a handful of peonies, her chest swelling until it felt like the straps to her apron were about to burst.
“Did you miss me already?” she teased, tossing the flowers to the counter. Petals smacked the smooth surface, and she cringed—somewhere in the series of florist dos and don’ts, surely there was something about not bruising the goods.
Ryan closed in, his steps heavy and echoing in the tiny room, and the closer he got, the more the sun fell away and his features came into focus. The clenched muscles of his shoulders constrained under his charcoal-gray T-shirt, then the cords stretching up his neck. She shifted her feet, suddenly feeling like a swarm of aphids had landed on her legs.
Wow, the man sure did know how to play the pissed-off, alpha-male part. Her lady parts tingled as he stalked closer, the night he took her in the back office of the Alibi replaying in her mind like a movie in fast-forward, only with the detonation of complete turned-on-ness building in slow-mo. Did he want to do that here? Make her his in her other place of employment? Not that she would go that far, but it might be fun to play the part for a minute.
Quickly, she looked around for an approaching Ms. Trost. No old woman. No boss to scold her for sexing up the customers.
Sexy Sailor, let’s see what you’ve got.
Pressing her backside into the counter, she braced her hands along its edge, her shoulders back, and thrust out her chest. She giggled, trying to channel her inner Marissa. Sultry. Alluring. Seductive. This was so not her, but something about the determination in his gaze made her feel like she could be. “Let’s play a game. It’s called Guess the Color of My Panties.”
He narrowed hi
s eyes, and they grew colder. Harder. Unquestionably steelier. His fingers balled into fists, blotches of white mottling knuckle to knuckle. “You…” One word out of his mouth—a growl of a word—and it didn’t take a mastermind to figure out something was wrong here. Very, very wrong.
“Ryan, is everything okay?” she asked, drawing back in an attempt to escape the heated way he was looking at her. Bad heated, not good heated. Like he wanted to pummel her into the ground.
“I knew you couldn’t be trusted,” he said, his tone deepening even more. “In my gut, I knew it, and I let you in anyway.” He swung his arms out to the sides, a thin, fabricated smile flattening his expression. “And what did it do? It fucking backfired on me.”
Backfired? She shook her head. “I don’t understand. What’re you—”
“You were at the bar this morning.” He ground his teeth, his jaw pulsing with the movement. “You had my keys.”
“I went to look for my phone charger. I told you that.” This—his anger—wasn’t making sense. “Are you mad about the bathroom signs? I didn’t tell you because it was supposed to be a surprise. Do you absolutely hate them? I can always take them dow—”
“I trusted you.”
“Yeah.” She pushed the edges of her mouth into a smile, bracing the center of her body against the counter. Words built up in her throat, right in the back where any minute she would throw them up. It happened when she was nervous. And scared. But mostly when her nerves were twitching. “Can you imagine how awkward this would be if you didn’t?” she blurted out. “I mean, that sign is really funny, but showing my thanks with a pee and poo sign? Some people may not get that.”
“Goddammit, Carlson.” He edged closer. “The cute, innocent act isn’t going to work.”
An act? Was that any different than lying? Slow and steady, the feeling like needles were pricking her skin started in a wave from her hips to her collarbone. “I’m not acting,” she said, wincing against the sting.
A Moment of Madness (Boston Alibi) Page 16