by Zoey Parker
Dayton is nothing like I imagined him.
For one, he’s dressed in drab-colored shorts and a white polo shirt. Golfer comes to mind, but the man carries himself like a cop, through and through. He holds out his hand on my standing from the plastic chair, his small smile falling short of reaching his eyes.
Those eyes, a clear blue bordering on gray, assess me. He does his full survey of me when he lowers his hand from our quick, squeeze of a grip. It’s a handshake that means business. While he studies me, I give him a good look as well.
His temples are graying, the bits of salt and pepper folding over into curly sable. Under the station’s fluorescent lighting, his dark complexion exaggerates the gloss over his broad forehead.
When he stretches his lips for his forced smile, all he does is bare his startling, white teeth at me and reveals himself for the asshole he’s going to be.
I don’t balk at the show of teeth. I like teeth. It tells me he isn’t all bark. It’ll make it so much easier, more satisfying, when I push him out from his ivory tower.
“We can speak in my office,” Dayton says. He turns on his black Nikes, heels squeaking, the bright red laces expertly tied, and like the rest of the man, polished and presentable. If he thinks his appearance will throw me off, he has another thing coming.
My intentions are to leave his office and leave behind a message: The Hanleys own this town—are this town—and as long as Dayton wants to keep his job here, he’ll have to cooperate with me and mine.
“Mr. Hanley, please.” Dayton gestures to a chair in front of his desk.
I take the seat because I’m not a douche, and my mother raised with manners. Anyway, my words can be as impactful on my feet as they would be off. And this way I’m level with him.
Leaning forward in his office chair, Dayton locks his fingers together and settles his chin on his makeshift post. “What can I help you with?”
I smile. “See, you stole my line. I’m here to ask you if you need my assistance.”
Dayton mimics my mirth, his lips tugging up for a fake show of easy emotion. “Ah, this must be about Derrick Smyth’s death.”
What does he think I am? An amateur? Toss out the name of the deceased and see if I jump at the bait, quiver in my chair and start sweating buckets?
Fucking idiot.
“I heard.” And at his cocked brow, I explain, “Small town, detective, news travels fast. Derrick Smyth happened to graduate from the same high school I did, though he was two years older. It’s sad to hear his passing and sadder that he has no immediate family in Potentia.”
“You know his family?”
“Knew,” I nod. “Derrick lived with his grandmother, was raised by her when his mother slipped away to drugs and his deadbeat father ran from his duty.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We’ve been trying to get in touch with any family that could claim the body now that autopsy’s done.” Dayton pauses, his gaze boring through me, lips a thin, even line.
“It was a clean, speedy report. The ME didn’t linger. Clear as mud, really, what killed the poor man: two bullets, both still lodged in his chest,” he tells me, pushing back into his plush-looking seat, one hand tapping out the two purported entry wounds, the other hanging lax over his armrest.
“I’m sure you’ll catch the culprit.”
“Culprits,” Dayton raises his voice, nodding. “Oh yeah, I suspect there’s more at play here—more than one man or woman running rampant. Derrick had his nose in something that got him killed. That’s what my gut is telling me.”
“You seem to have this figured out,” I say.
Dayton continues that terse nod. “I do. That I do.” He moves fluidly, standing and striding to the boxy window offering a small bit of light and air to the claustrophobic, dark wood-paneled office.
His purposeful gait suggests he’s thinking several more steps ahead than I credited him. Maybe I should have considered sending Russ in to do some more reconnaissance. Still my gut is telling me no amount of recon would have leveled the playing field in my favor.
“See that’s the thing. I don’t think I have it all figured out.”
I keep silent; he’s going somewhere and I want him to believe I’m with him when really I have no fucking idea what’s going on and how this conversation slipped out of my hands.
Turning from the window, he stares at me, his hands hooking behind his back. “For instance, I have no clue why you’re here, in my office.”
I recover quickly. I’m a Hanley. I’ve dealt conning cops off me since I was old enough to understand the depth and darkness of my father’s pockets. “The funeral. I’m here to offer to foot the bill of Derrick’s funeral.”
It’s Dayton’s turn to look shocked. He smooths out the lapse in emotional grip soon enough.
“Is that so?” His jaw is steel. Brows wrinkled in thought. Then he nods. “Understood. I’ll see that you’re put into touch with the hospital’s morgue.”
Standing to leave, I know when I’ve overstayed my welcome.
Dayton calls me back at the door. “Mr. Hanley, I’m looking forward to the ceremony.”
“I’ll do my best for Derrick.” I bob my head as way of farewell and Dayton doesn’t hinder my exit.
When I walk to the waiting room, I note the young woman is still sitting there. She shies away from me as I pass toward the station’s exit.
I think of Lily yet again, and the snatches of the dull headache following me around creep back. It takes me a few minutes of lying my head on the steering wheel before I start the engine and drive, steering my Lexus toward Lily’s apartment.
I call Russ on the way. “We’ve got a problem.”
He informs me he’s replaced Keith in watching over Lily and her friend. When I tell Russ I’m on my way over, his silence tells me he’s surprised.
“Oh and Russ, how do you feel taking the ladies out with me and showing them our idea of St. Louis?”
It’s high time I groveled.
Chapter 13
Lily
Four weeks later
“Luke!”
I’m half-asleep when I open the door, but fully awake when I see who’s knocking so early on a Sunday. My boss, handsome and looking enviably fresh-faced, shakes a large, brown takeout bag and holds out a carton cup holder of sweet-smelling breakfast offerings.
“Delivery.” Luke’s smile parts his lips to straight, white teeth. The man’s a walking Adonis. Who can blame the gods for fighting over beautiful humans?
And not only beautiful but thoughtful; for a fake boyfriend, Luke’s a pretty affectionate man. One of these days I’ll wake up and catch myself believing this ruse. It hasn’t gotten easier over the last month. Four weeks of being Luke’s girlfriend and I’m oftentimes blinking his way, wondering how I ended up here, with him, and us, like this.
“Not a morning person,” he says as I step aside to let him pass through to my apartment. I close the door, clasping my hands together, sensitive of my space now that he’s filling it with his overwhelming presence. Luke walks, talks—breathes power. It oozes off him, infecting anyone around him to jump to his orders.
“We’ll need some plates,” he says, cheerily.
"I’ll get to it.” Like it’s an order, I hop off to fetch our tableware.
When I get back to pass the plates over, he’s setting our meal up on the coffee table. Despite living in Potentia for three years, long enough to shop for furniture, I haven’t considered getting a table. Besides, lately I eat most of my meals catching up on episodes of my favorite TV shows.
Work has gotten a little crazy. But who am I kidding? My life’s gotten out of hand.
Sometimes it comes at me at surreal snatches. I’ll wake up smelling Luke’s spiced, earthy musk on my sheets from the night he spent over, or I’ll feel a tantalizing ache between my legs from his rough lovemaking.
It’s been like that since Luke came over, four weeks back, after our little spat the night we feared he’d g
otten me pregnant. I hadn’t expected him, and certainly not in less than a day. But he was so vehement that we get back together, to give our alibi and fake romance another go. I just couldn’t refuse him.
The thing is, I had missed him. Less than a day and I had been a wreck.
And here we are, Luke grabbing for my hand, drawing me down to his lap. I wiggle to get comfortable, my bare legs hanging off to the side of his toned, taut thigh. His light wash jeans feel cold from the cool air from outdoors. My skin has a fine layer of gooseflesh when his warm hand clasps my knee and trails up my leg, kneading and massaging me along the way.
“Did I wake you up?” he murmurs against my mouth. On his lap, I’m level with him. I gulp in his warm breath before he touches my lips with his.
Luke makes love to my mouth the way he does when his head is buried between my legs or when his thighs pry me apart for his cock to slide in and out of my channel. He groans at my rocking over his clothed erection.
I’m going at it subconsciously, hips undulating, desperate to relieve the building pressure in my achy core. My skimpy bedtime shorts roll up my thighs, prompting his fingers to slide through one of the leg holes and find my bare clit.
Breaking off with a moan, Luke laughs. “No panties?”
I shake my head. I don’t like the restrictive feeling at night.
His index finger flicks my hard button, his hot mouth latching onto my throat and sucking me in. His finger bores of my clitoris and he moves down, pinching one of my puffy labia lips and then the other.
I seize in his hold, moaning his name. “More…” I beg him. Trying and failing to get those fingers in my wet opening. I’m squeezing air right now, but it's Luke’s cock I want. I’ll settle for his fingers though. Anything to calm this torrent whipping up a frenzy inside me.
“Behave, Lily,” he warns when I’m back to rubbing against him.
I can feel how hard he is. Yet he’s denying himself as he holds back from me too. I should be used to this, but I’m not. He’s told me I should be trained to last longer during these petting sessions, but usually I’m undone at his first touch, his first kiss.
And I often get what I want.
A little begging goes a long way. I rub a little more and Luke sighs, his lust-glazed eyes taking in my pout.
My eyes widen as he pushes into my entrance, taking me fast with two fingers. A third digit has stars exploding behind my eyes. I arch, my chest brushing his, my hands falling from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck. He curls his fingers sharply, pushing a sensitive bud of nerves.
This I haven’t felt before. The orgasm pulling me apart takes my breath, my very soul away. My ears are ringing loudly, my eyes clamping shut and squeezing tight. My back arcs away from Luke’s fingers but they keep pushing that wonderful spot, flooding me with wave after wave of body-racking pulses.
I cry his name, aware my neighbors must be wondering who Luke is and why I’m screaming for him. And then I collapse, faintly noting Luke’s arm around my waist keeping me from sliding to the floor into a mushy pool of satisfied goop.
Luke’s kisses are waking me, drawing me from the dreamless sleep.
My head’s resting on his shoulder, my body curled into his. We’re still sitting on the sofa, our cold, untouched breakfast spread out before us on the coffee table. Luke chuckles at the sight of me.
“I should be looking like that. You scared the shit out of me, sweet thing.”
“Why?” I strangle out the word, licking my dry lips. I realize my throat is hoarse.
I squirm in his lap, embarrassed to have lost my grip on reality like that.
“You don’t remember?” Luke’s lips pull up on one side, the adorable quirk softening his sharp, angular features. His nostrils flare. “Oh, Lily, you had a little death.”
“A what?” My shock raises my voice.
Throwing back his head, he laughs from his belly, deep and pure. Luke shakes his head. “The proper term is la petite mort. One second you were with me, and the next you were silent and unresponsive in my arms.”
“I died?” I stammer.
“Not that kind of death. More like you slipped out of consciousness, but it happened for a couple minutes. It was kind of scary, but also really hot.” Luke touched his lips to mine.
I lean in instinctively, liking the soft connection.
His arms squeeze my middle, pulling me closer. Moving from my mouth, he whispers, “Just to be clear, you’re my first for this. It’s giving an ego boost.”
“Glad to be the helium filling your big head.”
Luke laughs uproariously.
I love how the vibrations tickle through me. I’m giggling too.
Then I gasp, my hitched breath silencing both our sounds of glee.
“I wet myself!” I’m mortified to see the large stain curving up from the crotch of my shorts. One of Luke’s pant legs is also damp. I freeze up, afraid of how to proceed. Luke’s lips smacking against my cheek draw my fearful, humiliated gaze to his.
“You didn’t wet yourself. At least, not the way you’re thinking,” he says. “What you see there is your explosive desire. I made that happen, beautiful. We did.”
“We did?” I’m playing echo really well this morning.
He nods. “You bet. I knew what I was doing. I pushed near your urethra, and you squirted your sweet juices, babe.”
“I peed myself.” I start, but at his hard look I say, “I peed with pleasure.”
He gives up with an exasperated sigh. “Call it what you want. It’s your juices I’m wearing proudly.” He smirks then, his tongue dashing over his bottom lip. He doesn’t have to tell me what he’s thinking. His look tells me enough.
“As much I would love to part those yummy thighs and clean you up myself, we best do that in the shower, and then see about getting on with our breakfast.” Luke hauls me up into his arms.
I squeak. Clinging onto his shoulders and navigating him to my bathroom, I slowly get used to standing on my own two feet when he lets me down at the foot of the bath. It’s a fast shower, but an exploratory one. We caress each other, gently and thoroughly, but we hold off from going at it.
I’m buzzing with sexual energy when we step out.
Discarding my ruined shorts in the hamper on my way to my bedroom, I dress while Luke calls Russ. He’s sending him over with new pants.
I answer the doorbell, leaving Luke, in his boxer briefs, in my bedroom.
Russ isn’t alone. Kerry squeals into my arms.
What is it with everyone being so alert in the morning? The sun is only barely starting to warm from its orange-ish dawn hue.
I get to Luke first, handing him the shopping bag with a pair of black form-fitting slacks. Then I tend to my guests and heat up breakfast. Luke brought more than enough scrumptious cinnamon rolls. I brew coffee for Russ and tea for Kerry.
“Started without me,” Luke announces his presence, and it’s like the room comes alive. Russ sits straighter in the couch, slinging an arm around Kerry and drawing her closer to his side, making space for the boss.
Somehow my friend and Luke’s thug are hitting it off. I’ve warned Kerry about Russ without directly telling her what happened in the parking lot a month ago and how I came to meet her man. I also made it clear to Luke to keep my friend’s heart intact where his man’s concerned.
Luke draws me to his lap on my return with my new guests’ warm drinks.
I’m aware of Kerry’s smirk and Russ’ pointed effort to avoid staring at us when Luke starts feeding me bits of a fat, glazed cinnamon roll. It’s easier around strangers, but this is the first time my best friend is witnessing me with Luke.
I realize Russ is Luke’s friend, not just his goon. Despite our initial meeting, Kerry’s new man is polite enough and, as far as I know, he handles a gun skillfully. I only hope he treats my friend well.
When he finishes feeding me, Luke devours a cinnamon roll himself. Swallowing his last mouthful, he says, “We’re
heading to the dealership after this.”
“What for?” I ask, curbing a sigh.
It’s not how I’d like to spend a Sunday, but Luke smiles, slow curling and seductive. “I need your help, Lily.”
“Do you?” I tease.
Luke kisses me and I’m warming to my toes. His lips are sweet, sticky from the cinnamon and sugary glaze.
Kerry’s soft giggling yanks me out of my haze.
Russ has his face buried in her neck and wavy deep red hair, and she has a hand curled around his head, a wide smiling pulling her glossy, cherry red lips.