A few minutes later, the guy stitching up his neck said, “Okay, you’re good to go for now.” Then he turned to April, passing her a few pieces of paper. “Just make sure he follows these instructions and takes it easy for a couple days. He didn’t lose a lot of blood, but enough that some rest is in order.”
Clearly the guy assumed they were a couple—which she could easily understand given her behavior. “Um, okay,” she said quietly, feeling sheepish now.
Several uniformed policemen, all of whom knew Rogan, had already carted off the knife-wielding guy—April had found out that he was Juan Gonzalez’s friend, the guy Rogan had been trying to catch selling drugs all along. And apparently a significant amount of crack had been found on the guy during the arrest, which only made things all the worse for him and all the better for Rogan.
The restaurant had been cleared, of course, after the trouble had erupted, and when the EMTs departed, April found herself sitting at a table with Rogan alone—back in the place where everything between them had begun. So much had changed since then; so much had happened. It was hard to believe. But she just tried to focus on this moment and on being glad Rogan was safe, and in better shape than his bloody T-shirt would suggest.
“I, um, guess you’ll need these,” she said, setting the EMT’s instructions on the table and sliding them in his direction.
He turned toward her then, shifting his legs beneath the table so that they touched hers. Oh God, it felt like so long since there’d been even the slightest physical connection between them, and just feeling his denim-covered knee gently between both of hers made her skin tingle. “Unless you want to come home with me, make sure I’m doing okay.”
Oh. Wow. She hadn’t expected that. But it was a good idea that made sense. And she was glad he saw that. “Of course. I’d be happy to.” Then she cringed anew and said, “I just hate seeing all that blood on your shirt. It upsets me.”
“Then we should head to my place right now and you can help me change it.” The playful cock of his head, his soft grin, told her he was actually flirting with her—now of all times.
But all things considered, she wasn’t sure what to do with that. She loved him, yes, and she’d be there for him, of course—but even as much as she missed having him in her life, she didn’t want to be lured back into a one-sided relationship where she constantly felt like the one who wanted more, felt more, gave more. And it would be easy to forget all that right now—but she just couldn’t let herself. So she simply bit her lip, lowered her gaze, and said, “Yeah, sure.”
And she reached for her purse, thinking the time had come for them to get up and go—when both his knees clamped tight around one of hers. “My childhood sucked, Ginger, okay?”
She flinched, totally taken aback. “Huh?”
He looked her in the eye now to say, “You want to know about my family—so all right, here goes. My parents were physically abusive—they beat the shit out of me and my little brothers all the time. They were alcoholics and the kind of people who shouldn’t be allowed to have kids.
“We were poor, lived in an old ramshackle house a long way from town, and it was like . . . being trapped with them there and never knowing what the next moment held. One minute things were fine, the next all hell could break loose.
“Since I was the oldest, I was also the biggest, and the fact is, I didn’t get the worst of it. Once I got big enough to start fighting back, they picked on my brothers more than me. I tried to protect them the best I could, get between them when I could, but I still spent a lot of time seeing my brothers get kicked and beaten for no reason. The best I could do was take care of them afterward, bandage up their injuries, so I got pretty good at that part. But it never felt like enough.”
He stopped then, sighed, and April felt the full weight of the things he was telling her. And she understood now, completely, why he hadn’t wanted to before. Her own parents had died and that was awful, but this was a whole different kind of awful that she could only begin to imagine.
“The upshot was—my brothers didn’t stand a chance in life. One of them is in prison in Tennessee, the next youngest died of a drug overdose about five years ago, and I don’t know where the hell my baby brother is because he took off when he was seventeen and I haven’t heard from him since.”
April could barely breathe. Oh God, it was just too much to bear and now she felt awful that she’d pressed him to tell her.
But still he went on. “My mother is dead—suspicious circumstances. I’m pretty sure my old man drowned her in the bathtub. But nobody made much of a fuss because we lived outside a run-down old town near Lansing where people didn’t care much, and I guess she didn’t seem like much of a loss. I’d already left by then—and I didn’t go to the funeral. As far as I know, he still lives in the same house, drinking himself to death. Or maybe he’s dead by now and nobody let me know—I can’t say. And I don’t care.
“So that’s it. That’s the story of my family.”
April barely knew what to say. “I’m . . . so sorry, Rogan. For all of it. I wish I could somehow make it better for you. And I’m sorry I pressed you to tell me.”
“It’s okay,” he said softly, stiffly.
“No, I’m not sure it is.” She really saw that now. That there had been good reasons he didn’t want to tell her these things. And that maybe if she’d just been more patient and understanding, he eventually would have in his own time. Which brought a question to mind. “But . . . why are you telling me now?”
He didn’t answer right away, yet his knees still held hers tight. And then he reached out past the corner of the table to take her hand. “Truth is, Ginger, I’ve missed you. A lot.”
April drew in a deep breath. “You have?”
He let out a heavy sigh. “Hell . . . I’ve been going fucking crazy, okay? I . . . like having you in my life. For more than just sex. The sex is fucking amazing, but . . . there’s more to it than that, babe. And if you needed me to tell you all that in order to keep you in my life—then that’s why I did it, why I told you. Okay?”
April still barely knew how to respond—it was so much to take in. But a joy, a sense of real connection, deeper than anything she’d ever really known before in her entire life, began to permeate her soul. She’d never actually had this before—a man she was totally wild about, crazy in love with . . . who saw enough worth in her to come back, make a real effort, do something to show that he must be pretty crazy about her, too.
She couldn’t quite believe it—and yet she did. Because as different as the two of them were, there was just something about Rogan and her, together, that made sense. They filled certain voids for each other. And she thought he was amazing.
“I’m so sorry I made you tell me, Rogan. I see now why it was hard. But . . . oh God, I’m so happy you did. Because . . . it really means something to me. For you to trust me that much.”
His glance dropped to the table. “So you don’t think I’m some low-class loser now who you don’t want in your life?”
She let her eyes open wider on him, utterly stunned by the question. And realized there had been perhaps more than one reason why he hadn’t been comfortable telling her. So she said, “Are you crazy? I think you’re nothing short of incredible. To have overcome so much. To do what you’ve done with your life. To be doing a job that helps people.” She stopped, shook her head. “I’m blown away by how strong and wonderful and perfect you are.”
She felt his gaze lock on her face then, along with the gravity of what she’d said to him without quite having thought it through first.
“Perfect?” he said, sounding truly confused. “Damn. Don’t think that’s a word anybody’s ever used to describe me before, Ginger.”
“Perfect,” she whispered, shyly lifting her eyes, “to me.”
She saw the sentiment pass through him, saw him absorbing it—his eyes changing, softening. And when he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a whisper as well. “Really?”
>
She just nodded.
And his voice was back to normal when he said, “Aw hell, woman, the truth is—I think I love you. All right? There, I said it. I fucking love you, April.”
April’s heart filled to overflowing as she rushed to say, “Oh, Rogan—Rogan, I love you, too.”
And then Rogan reached for her—just before emitting a deep sound of pain, having stretched his neck too abruptly—and April quickly said, “Be still. Stay where you are. Let me come to you.”
And as she moved gingerly onto his lap, he gave her a sexy grin to say, “Who’s the boss here, Ginger?”
“Right now, me. You’re going to have to learn some give and take, mister.” And with that, she wrapped her arms carefully around his neck and kissed him for all she was worth.
They didn’t talk much for a few minutes after that—both of them more wrapped up in kissing than talking—but Rogan seemed content enough with the concept of give and take, and God knew he’d given of himself today, in a whole new way.
And April realized that while he’d been teaching her to give less of herself to people, maybe she’d begun teaching him, helping him, to give a little more. And she knew all this give-and-take stuff, all this control stuff, would balance itself out until they both found the exact place where they were supposed to be—together.
Finally, after they’d kissed for so long that April’s lips felt a little sore, Rogan said, “Come on, Ginger. Let’s go home and let you get me out of this shirt. Maybe the pants, too,” he added with a wink.
“Just remember, you’re supposed to rest. So I’m calling the shots for now.”
“Wow, first you attack a drug dealer with a clay vase and now this. You’re starting to scare me a little, babe.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to let him hurt you any worse than he already had.”
“I had no idea you were so tough,” he told her as they stood up to go. Yet then he pulled up short. “But wait—yes I did. Sometimes I forget—you’re tough all the time, with other people. Hell, the first time I saw you, you were throwing yourself in front of Kayla Gonzalez, trying to protect her. You’re only your softer self with me. And I love you for giving me that, baby.”
She smiled up at him. “I love you for making me give you that, my big bad wolf.”
Click here for more books by Lacey Alexander
About the Author
Lacey Alexander’s books have been called deliciously decadent, unbelievably erotic, exceptionally arousing, blazingly sexual, and downright sinful. In each book, Lacey strives to take her readers on the ultimate erotic adventure, and she hopes her stories will encourage women to embrace their sexual fantasies. Lacey resides in the Midwest with her husband, and when not penning romantic erotica, she enjoys studying history and traveling, often incorporating favorite destinations into her work.
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Read on for a peek at the first novel in
Lacey Alexander’s H.O.T. Cops series,
Bad Girl by Night
Available now from Signet Eclipse.
She knew how to do this.
She got out of the car, body humming, the mere click of her heels over asphalt somehow adding to her anticipation. Was it from the audible evidence that she was moving, getting closer to her destination after two long hours in the car, or was it the reminder of the shoes themselves, the fact that she wore her sexy strappy heels for one purpose and one purpose only?
The hotel sat along the water in Traverse City—a busy tourist town on Michigan’s west coast—and the architecture said “modern yet warm” with stone pillars and lots of dark wood to remind you where you were: the great outdoors, the “north woods.” Yet boating and hiking were the last things on her mind as she stepped inside and looked around, her gaze homing in immediately on the big oak doors that led to the hotel bar.
As she walked into the Lodge, curious eyes swept over her dress—red and silky, clingy. Like the rest of the building, the décor was warm, woody, the walls hung with things like old snow skis and hunting vests. A large mural depicting a family of bears spanned the long wall behind the bar, where she calmly, confidently eased up onto a stool. She didn’t mind the eyes she felt watching her—in fact, it heightened the tingle of expectation, the eagerness now stretching through her in a slow-flowing river of heat.
The gaze of the good-looking bartender, in his late twenties, held no judgment as he said, “What’ll ya have?”
“A white wine spritzer, please.” Once, she’d started out with cocktails and discovered they made her too drunk, dulled her senses too much. And even simple wine possessed the power to leave her tipsier than she wanted to be right now—watering it down with a little Sprite made it just right. And that was the key to her trips here every few months—making sure everything was just right. “Goldilocks Does Traverse City.”
The thought should have made her smile, but it didn’t. Nothing about this amused her.
Acclimating to her surroundings, she glanced around—without being obvious—to get an idea of the bar’s patrons. She spied a creepy-looking old guy watching her from a booth and immediately blocked out the ick factor his gaze delivered. Loads of masculine laughter echoed from a darkish corner somewhere behind her, and the sound heightened her senses. Three college boys ogled her, too, from the end of the bar. Too young. But at least flattering. And if there were other females in the room, she didn’t notice—they were invisible to her right now.
She could move on to another bar if she had to, but she’d give this one a while first. This was like . . . hunting. And north woods girls understood about hunting—that the best hunters were patient, quiet, still. They let their prey come to them. And then they struck. She knew how to do this.
Once upon a time, the endeavor had made her nervous—she’d questioned her every move, analyzed everything around her; it had all taken an enormous amount of courage and concentration. The act of walking into a bar, meeting a man, leaving with him, had been accompanied by grave fear. Valid fear. She knew the kinds of bad things that could happen to a woman.
But each time she drove from Turnbridge to Traverse City, the two-hour commute transformed her even more than it had the time before. She became no less smart than usual, yet she was more in control; she was self-possessed; she was the one who orchestrated the events, ran the show. Fear fell away to be replaced by power. And now, at thirty-two, she could barely remember the fear of those early years—it had disappeared completely. Now the moves came naturally. They took little more effort than breathing.
The night, the darkness, protected her. So did the low-cut dress, which showed her curves and flashed too much cleavage. Cleavage that made a promise. The shoes, too, were like sexual armor—they turned her into someone tall, willowy; they also made her into a woman unafraid of her needs, bold enough to take what she wanted. Heavily painted eyes provided one more shield, as did her hair. Long honey gold shot through with warmer strands—she normally wore it straight, tucked behind her ears or pulled back into a ponytail, but when she came to Traverse City, she used hot rollers to change it into something wild and tousled.
The whole ritual, most of it taking place before the mirror above her dresser, made her feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs—the very act of preparation exciting her hours before her goal would be reached. Somehow the long, detailed process—and the rising fever of expectation that came with it—made the whole thing more satisfying in the end.
A few sips before her glass was drained, another appeared before her on a napkin. She looked up to meet the bartender’s eyes and he gave her a small smile. “From the guys at the end of the bar.”
She tossed only a cursory glance in their direction. The college boys. One of them was attractive, probably a football star or something equally as ego-building, judging from the arrogance in his pointed gaze. But in addition to his being too young—which generally meant selfish and cl
umsy in her experience—she didn’t like him. A little arrogance was one thing, but this guy was overrun with it; it was the most obvious thing about him. “Tell them thanks,” she said to the bartender, “but that I’m meeting someone.”
The bartender, suddenly her confidant, raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “Are you?”
“I’m sure I will eventually,” she replied, all smooth voice and unwavering self-control.
His grin said he liked her style—then he headed back to break the news to her youthful admirers.
She heard the football star mutter, “Shit.” She’d cost them five dollars, after all. And a minute later he and his friends left, clearly seeking greener pastures.
When a highball glass was plunked down next to her from behind, she turned to see—oh, hell—the old guy. Though he wasn’t as old as she’d first thought—early fifties, maybe—he appeared grizzled, tired for his age. “You look lonely,” he said.
She knew she looked far more ready than lonely, but that aside, what man thought that was a good pick-up line? “I’m not,” she assured him sharply.
“Damn, girl—I just came over to say hi, get to know you a little.” He sounded angry, offended. She didn’t care. This was how the game was played—you didn’t have to be nice. She had the idea he’d been drinking for a long time already.
“I’m meeting someone,” she told him. It was a tried-and-true excuse, easy to remember, and not even technically a lie, since, as she’d told the bartender, she would eventually find the guy who was just right for the night. She always did. She’d never gone home unsuccessful. Not even back in the beginning when her hunting expeditions had also held all that uncertainty and worry. She knew how to do this.
“You been sittin’ here half an hour,” he pointed out. “You ain’t meetin’ nobody.”
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