“I saw all of the people.” She twists the top of the napkin holding her ice and reaches forward, putting it in the bucket. “Looked like a good party.”
“I was ready to leave.” I take a long sip of the bubbly water and skip to the point. “You need a place to stay tonight?”
It catches her off guard. I can see the stiffening of her spine, the way she carefully glances in my direction without meeting my eyes, her gaze moving over the car in a slow, calculated movement. I’m not blind. I haven’t been with a woman in a year, but I can tell when a woman is attracted to me, have caught the appreciative linger of her stare, the flush of her skin when I lean close. If I wanted, I could have her. Not that that is why I am extending the offer. It’s a ninety-minute drive to Spring Lake, and it’d be nice to have some company.
“You don’t have to offer that.” She eyes her boots and picks up the first sock. “But yes, I would appreciate a place to stay.”
“It’s a bit of a hike. Just in case you need to be in the city tomorrow.”
She pauses, then nods. “I’m fine with wherever.”
Something is off, her willing acceptance to go home with me. Maybe it’s my staggering looks and the chemistry that’s sparked between us since we met. But still, we are strangers. She’s a single woman in a dangerous town. “I’m fine with wherever.” A great way to be hauled off by a psychopath and chopped into bits.
I press a button on the door and tell Edward to go to the Spring Lake house, a directive met with quiet acceptance and no questions. Maybe I will keep him around.
“What do you do in Spring Lake?” She works the sock back on her bare foot, and I watch the process.
“I’m an architect.” I have no idea where that comes from, but it breaks out of my lips before I can bring it back, and once there, I leave it alone. Hopefully, she won’t ask me anything else. I know next to nothing about architecture.
She pauses, the sock halfway on, then continues the action. “You don’t look like an architect.”
“Really,” I say dryly. “And what do most architects look like?”
She shrugs. “Why’d you take my shoes off?”
“I couldn’t exactly tickle you through them.” Another lie. I took her shoes off because I wanted, needed, to touch her in some way, to get my hands on her skin. Eighteen months has been too long. I am a junkie, and women are my fix. A fix I’m practically trembling for. I take a pull of the water and force my eyes off her and to the window, missing the bare arch of her left foot as she pulls on the second sock. “What do you do in Detroit?”
“Fund management.”
“I wasn’t aware anyone in Detroit still had funds.”
She laughs. “Yeah, well. People still do.” She runs a hand over the seat’s supple leather. “Not this kind of money, though.”
I don’t respond. Fund management? What the fuck is that? “Like, trust funds? Or REITs?”
“Not exactly.” She plays with the buttons set into the door. “What do these—” She stops talking as the seat begins to move. “Oh, that’s nice.”
“Spectacular,” I deadpan and watch her face, the blood still on it. “Come here.” I move closer, undoing Edward’s handkerchief and dipping it into the ice bucket.
She obeys, and I sneak peeks at her as I carefully swab the area around her split skin. Her skinny jeans are ripped, additional distress manufactured into the fabric in a cheap attempt to add character. The blouse is delicate cotton, with a lace neckline that reveals a peek of cleavage.
“You’re staring at me.”
“It’s not you,” I say, snapping my gaze back to her face, irritated by the amusement in her eyes. “I was looking at your clothes. Let me guess—Forever 21? H&M? A Walmart special?”
“God, you’re a snob.” She snorts, and the action causes tears to well. She hisses, and I catch the scent of peppermint on her breath.
“Only in the face of terrible fashion choices.” I dab the cloth against her cheek, catching the tears, and her eyes meet mine.
“You’re wearing a SCARF,” she says, and the scorn in her tone doesn’t match the look in her eyes. She wets her lips and all I can think about is kissing them.
Chapter 16
AVERY
He retreats to his side of the car and I settle into my seat, enjoying the feel of the seat massager against my back and ass. It isn’t my first experience with one, I had a Nissan a few years back that had a switch that shook the entire seat and made your butt numb within ten minutes. This is nothing like that. This is a smooth roll of machinery that seems to seek out any tight muscle in my ass and thighs, and gently knead them into submission. I swear, the thing is responsive, and a moan slips out of me. He glances over, and I catch the hint of a smile.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“I am, thank you very much.” I stretch out my legs and arms and spy a hinge in the ceiling liner. I press it, and a mirror pops down. I examine my nose, which has certainly seen worse. “Think I need stitches?”
“Probably.”
I flip the mirror shut and sneak a peek in his direction. He’s sprawled out on his side of the car, his long legs stretched out, his arm taking up the entire center console, his hand in reach of my leg. If I move my knee a little to the right, his fingers will brush it.
I’ve done this all wrong. From the beginning, as soon as I saw him, I should have introduced myself and told him why I was here and who I thought Vince was. Now, we’re starting off on a lie. A lie that he seems to also be a part of, though I don’t know why. Why lie about being an architect? Even if I hadn’t researched him on the flight, I would have seen through that. I’d have known it from the way his eyes had cut away from mine—a tell as glaring as I’ve ever seen. A tell I’ve tucked away in my back pocket for later.
It’s dangerous, giving a girl like me that sort of knowledge.
Almost as dangerous as it is for me to be so close to a man like this, close enough to touch. It’s been a long time since I was touched. Cared for. Kissed.
The last time was two years ago—a one-night stand in Philadelphia. We’d met on the plane, enjoyed drinks at dinner, then walked through the park. He’d told me stories of Europe, and his softball team, and his dog. We’d gone back to his room, got room service, drank wine and made love. It was quick but good, he’d been apologetic but sweet. In the middle of the night, I’d woken to find the bathroom door shut, his voice hushed as he spoke to his wife. I’d laid there in bed and felt stupid. In the morning, I’d smiled when he’d talked about seeing each other again and acted as if there was any chance of a future between us.
I should have told him off. I should have interrupted his chat with his wife and called him a dirty, cheating asshole. I should have yanked the phone from his ear and told his wife everything we’d done. I should have done anything but slinked back to my hotel, packed my bags, canceled my meeting, and flown home.
It shouldn’t be so hard to find someone. I shouldn’t have to borrow another woman’s husband while he’s on a business trip.
I look out the window as the car moves over a bridge, the traffic thin, the lights of New York a colorful backdrop across the water.
“Why do you live in Spring Lake?”
He shifts, and he seems out of practice with lying. It’s a good thing, and I warm to him because of it. I don’t want him to be a prick. If Vince Horace is really my father, I want him to have chosen a likable man, for him to have spent the last decade with something more than a pretty face.
“Spring Lake isn’t my full-time home,” he finally says. “I just needed to get out of the city tonight. I needed some space.”
I can understand that. I was in that crowd for less than an hour and had already needed the space, the escape.
“So, the party you were at was about that fashion guy?” It is the safest way I can broach the topic, and he turns to look at me, surprised. I’d intentionally picked a clueless choice of words in my reference to Vince, and his eyes drop t
o my boots. He nods as if reminded by the fact that I am not a part of his fashion-conscious world.
“Yes,” he rolls the response out with the finite care you’d treat a bomb. “I knew him. We were old friends.”
“Old friends?” I raise a brow. “You don’t seem old enough to have an old friend.” He doesn’t respond and I widen my eyes and use my best innocent voice, amused at this ridiculous game, one he isn’t even aware we are playing. “Did you design one of his houses?”
“No.”
I wait for some further explanation, a compound of the lie. Nothing.
“So…how did you know him?”
“You never told me why you were behind the house.” He switches the conversation unexpectedly and pins me with a stern look that almost melts my panties. Gay or not, this man has some serious sex appeal rocking.
“I had to use the bathroom.” The fib rolls smoothly out, and I add a blush to the mix to increase credence.
“The party had private restrooms,” he says, watching me more closely than I like.
I shrug, “Well, I wasn’t at the party. I was walking by and saw it. Stopped in to see what the fuss was all about.”
“So, you weren’t there long?” he asks, and he’s probably wondering if I was there for his speech, which I had watched on the plane, courtesy of YouTube. If I had, I would know that he isn’t an architect from Spring Lake and—to be honest—I don’t know why he’s keeping his true identity a secret. Why does it matter if I know who he is? Is he worried I will ask personal questions about Vince? Is he worried I will sue him for his money, his impending inheritance? None of it makes sense, and the mystery of his evasion raises my suspicions.
“You seem like you’re hiding something.” I confront the beast head on and am rewarded with a laugh.
“You seem like you’re hiding something,” he counters.
I say nothing, and he says nothing, and the fact that neither of us denies the accusation, hangs in the car.
I throw out a red herring. “Maybe I should find my own place to stay tonight.”
He snorts. “In Spring Lake at three in the morning? Good luck with that.”
He’s got a point. I feel like we’re going a ridiculously far distance, every mile an additional deterrent to me getting back to Manhattan in the morning. I haven’t thought this through, haven’t figured out a plan, a way to be present and waiting, when the mailman arrives. But I couldn’t not go with him, couldn’t pass up this opportunity to see behind the curtain of Vince’s life.
“What brings you to New York?” There is a quiet detachment in his voice, as if he doesn’t care much about the answer, but is instead seeking a change in topic.
I weigh my options and decide to go with a modified version of the truth. “I’m here to meet someone, who I think might be my father.” A dead someone. It is as close to a confession as I can get without sharing everything.
His interest is piqued, and he turns his head, meeting my gaze, his eyes pulling away to move back over me. I don’t know what his obsession is with my clothes. Maybe it’s a fashion thing, but it seems as though, with every pass of his eyes, he pulls new details from the mix. “You don’t know if he’s your father?”
I pull at the sleeves of my shirt. “I was adopted.” I straighten in my seat, a defensive habit born from years of pity and condescending remarks. “I found my mother a few years ago, but she didn’t have a lot of information on my father.”
When I was young, I used my adoptive status proudly. It was proof I didn’t belong to the staunch conservativeness of the McKennas. I quickly learned that most people are uncomfortable with the idea of adoptees. They don’t know the questions to ask, how to get the answers they want without the sense that they are prying.
At some point, I stopped telling people and stopped having the sort of close relationships where people asked about my parents. It wasn’t intentional, my slow departure from society. It’s just that in an industry like mine, there isn’t room for a lot of friends. My circles are mostly men and not the sort that I want to hang out with. They are nothing like this man. He’s a smooth glass of chardonnay versus my buffet of Pabst beer and cheap tequila. And… if I have to guess, I bet he doesn’t have many friends either.
“When were you given up for adoption?” Given up. An interesting and demeaning choice of words.
“As a child.” I reach into the ice bucket and pull out a bottle of water, then eye the cabinet to his right. “You got anything stronger than this?”
“Sure.” He slides open the compartment and reveals a row of crystal decanters. “What’s your poison?”
“Vodka, if you have it.”
“It’ll have to be a shot,” he says. “They didn’t stock the car.”
“You aren’t a drinker?”
“Not much of one.” He presses on another side compartment and unveils two shot glasses, a monogram of initials etched into their side. He pulls out a tray table and I raise my eyebrows, impressed at what the car offers. He sets two shot glasses on the platform and fills both, pushing one in my direction. Ignoring a toast, he tilts his head back and takes the shot. It is sexy, watching the stretch of his neck, the cut of his jaw, the flex of his cheek as he swallows the liquor without a shudder. For a man who doesn’t drink much, he takes it like a champ.
He wipes his lips with the back of his hand, then glances at me, his eyes dropping to my still-waiting shot. I bring it to my lips and toss it back. It is a smooth burn, an expensive slide of fire down my throat, and I barely grimace as I set it back down.
“My mother was a teenage pregnancy.” I lick my lips. “Her family wasn’t interested in adding another child to the mix.”
“But you’ve met her?”
“Yes.” I nudge the empty shot glass toward him. “About five years ago, I got curious and tracked down the adoption center. My mother had filled out a form, requesting to be contacted if I ever inquired about my paternity.” It had taken all of twenty minutes to get her name and number, and I remember being pissed at how simple it was, and thinking about how many years I’d wasted.
I reach forward and grab a bottle of water from the ice, twisting off the lid and washing down the liquor. “The center didn’t have any information on my father and neither did my mom.”
He refills his glass and doesn’t ask about my mom, probably didn’t think about the weight of a daughter’s first meeting with her mother. I’ve thought about it too much. On the way to meet her, I’d had to pull over on the side of the highway. There, I’d retched into an empty Subway bag, the taste of vomited ham sandwich still thick on my tongue when I’d finally met her. I shouldn’t have been nervous. She’d been nice. Very nervous and quiet. She’d brought me into her home and introduced me to her kids—two grubby-faced toddlers who’d blinked at me with disinterest. They were my half-siblings—and I’d stared at them and tried to will myself to feel something for them. We sat in that tiny brick home in upstate New York, listened to a story about her and a concert, and I’d wanted to get out of there. I’d ran away from the McKennas because I felt like I hadn’t belonged in their world. I’d spent my adolescence blaming that itch, that uncomfortable fit to the fact that they weren’t my blood, they weren’t my real parents, they were so different from me. But then I sat in that cozy little house and looked into the eyes of the woman who’d birthed me, and I’d seen nothing of myself. I’d seen a slightly frazzled, ordinary woman. One with a ketchup stain on her shirt and half-cut coupons on the dining room table. When I went to the bathroom, I’d snooped through her cabinets and found a giant box of tampons, a worn copy of a women’s workout magazine and toilet bowl cleaner. I’d sat on her toilet, run my hands over my arms and felt that same uncomfortable itch, that same disappointment, that same feeling of not belonging.
“So, how did you find your dad?” Marco brings the shot glass to his lips, pauses, and then slowly, almost tenderly, tilts back the glass. I watch him and try not to picture those lips between my legs,
his tongue palming out, his eyes meeting mine.
“I had a photo of him,” I manage. “Someone recognized him in the photo, told me where I could find him.” Not a lie, but almost. I think of my mom, producing the photo with a reluctance that suggested she didn’t want to part with it. I never got his name, she’d said. Or if I did, I forgot it. She’d blushed, and I’d been reminded of her description of the drugs. I’m surprised she even remembered the sex.
“Does he know you’re coming?” He pushes the empty shot glass forward, lining it up next to mine, a twin pair of demons.
“No.” I swallow. “I had planned on spending a few days in the city and working up the nerve to approach him.”
“Big city to find a man in,” he remarks.
I look out the window of Vince Horace’s car. “It won’t be too hard.”
“Does he live in Greenwich?” The question catches me off guard, and I turn my head to find him watching me. “I was wondering how you discovered the party.”
“Oh.” My fingers find the split on my nose, and I run the pads of them carefully over the cut, blood still damp and staining my skin. I pull my fingers away and, without thinking, suck the blot of blood off the end of them.
He pulls at my hand, sliding the fingers gently out of my mouth.
I’ve only been around a handful of gays in my life. It’s not that I’ve got anything against homosexuals. It’s just that life as a money launderer in Detroit … I’m not exactly bumping asses with them on a regular basis.
I flick my eyes from his hand to his eyes, which hold mine in a stare that rocks some serious heat. As I said, gay people and I aren’t well acquainted. But unless I’m confused—and that’s a very likely possibility—I’m pretty damn sure this guy is coming on to me.
I wet my lips and his eyes drop to them.
Yeah.
I swallow and speak to fill the gap. “I used to have a friend who lived in Greenwich. I was wandering around, trying to find her place, when I saw the crowd. I came close to get a look at what was going on. See what the fuss was about. Plus,” I add, “I love Lady GaGa.” I smile. “Only in New York can you score a free concert like that.”
Hidden Seams Page 8