by Tessa Layne
She gasps. “Oh Danny. I’m so sorry.”
“I was sixteen. I tried to step in, to save her. I woke up in the hospital with a broken arm and a concussion.” I smile grimly. “I was the lucky one. When I woke up, I still had my brain function. My mom… wasn’t so lucky.” Only select few know this — that my mother basically became a ward of the State until I had amassed enough fortune to move her to full-time nursing care. “And where were the people my great-grandfather had helped, then?”
Nowhere. Except for Vince Fucking Ferrari. He helped me find a job, and checked in on me periodically. I may not like the asshole, but I do feel indebted to him.
“I went into foster care for two years and somehow managed to keep my nose clean. My high school math teacher saw something in me and encouraged me to apply to Stanford. I’m still not sure how it happened, but between my math scholarship, earning a walk-on spot on the crew team, and distilling whiskey, I made it work.”
She lifts her head. “Wait. Say that again. You paid for college by distilling whiskey?”
I’m actually pretty proud of this. “I found Tom’s whiskey formula in an old trunk of paraphernalia my mother showed me before she got hurt. On the back of a campaign poster was this formula. It wasn’t too hard to figure out the process, and I made the first batch in the dorm. Harrison was my roommate, and he’d already pledged to Delta Chi, and once they’d tried my whiskey, they let me in too, so long as I kept them in spirits.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“The bad apples don’t seem to,” I correct. “I never fit in with all those rich boys. I had to scrap and scrape for everything. They were using me for booze, but I was using them for information.”
“A gangster to the core,” she laughs.
“No,” I correct. “That’s smart business. Those rich guys? They’re just as shady as the guys I knew on the East side. The only difference was they had the money, and with it, the power to make bad shit go away. I’ve made it my job to relieve them of their coin.”
“So that you can help the vulnerable,” she supplies. “Sounds an awful lot like another Robin Hood you mentioned.”
I hate the comparison. But at the same time, helping people like Emmaline, like Lisa, and the others- it’s the least I can do to balance the karma sheets.
“What ever happened to your dad?” she asks after a pause.
“He’s in federal prison, serving year sixteen of a thirty-year sentence.”
“Do you ever see him?”
I shake my head, the old anger and hurt flooding back. “The last time I saw him was the day he was sentenced. The judge asked me if I had anything to say. I stood, looked him straight in the eye, and told him I never wanted to see him again.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
I nod, fisting the sheets. “After what he did to mom, to us. Dying’s too good for him.”
Roxi makes a sympathetic noise. “I know how that feels. Some people need to feel pain before they get to die.” Her voice is hard. Brittle.
My curiosity is piqued, but before I can ask her what she meant by that, she slides her hand down my belly and inside my thighs. That’s all it takes for a wave of arousal to ripple through me and wake up my cock. “Hungry again?” I tease.
“Mmm.” She stretches beside me, pressing her body to mine, fingers tracing circles at the inside of my thighs until she cups my balls. “Famished.” I’m fully erect now. Hard, and hungry myself, I lift my hips, intending to flip her onto her back, but she scoots out of reach with a giggle. “Not so fast, hot stuff. It’s my turn to call the shots.”
“Think so?” I challenge, half-hoping she sasses back. I’m not disappointed.
“Yep.” She shoots me a predatory grin. “And you’re gonna take it.” She crawls over me and plants a kiss on my pec, then gives my nip a sharp little bite. The pain shoots like liquid lightning straight to my cock. I grunt with the pleasure of it.
“Think so?”
“Know so.” She’s blazing a trail with her tongue down my ribs and across my belly, sucking on the skin just below my navel, and it’s hard as fuck to concentrate on her words, and not lose myself in the sensations ripping through me. My cock is heavy and long, bobbing a breath away from where her mouth is making tortuous patterns next to my hip bone. She looks up, eyes pools of liquid amber. I forget to breathe. Every cell in my body is holding its breath in anticipation of where her mouth is landing next. “You think you’re so bad,” she says, voice husky and dark. “But I know better. I see how you help people. People who desperately need someone on their side. But who takes care of you, Danny?”
No one. I swallow, trying to rid my throat of the lump that has somehow lodged itself there.
She makes a satisfied noise, as if confirming to herself what she knows to be true. “Just this once, you’re going to let someone take care of you.” Still holding my gaze, she licks my cock from root to crown. “Completely.”
A shudder tears through me.
“Deny all you want,” she says after licking me again. “But I know better. I see you.”
I’m cracked open. Half-crazed with desire and fear. It’s like she reached through my chest and pulled out my still beating heart. “You know what happens to people who get too close to me,” I rasp, on the verge of surrender. But I have to throw up some kind of last defense before she brings me to my knees. I have to at least try. “It never ends well,” I warn. Surely, she’s smart enough to connect the dots? She knows about Anita, about my mother, that’s enough evidence to swear me off for good.
But it doesn’t deter her, not in the least. Her eyes narrow like she already has my number, and there’s no getting away from her. “They’re not me.” To prove her point, she takes me fully into her mouth, tongue sliding around the most sensitive part of me, applying just enough suction to send my eyes rolling into my head. My hips arch off the bed, my body silently begging for more. I let out a ragged sigh. “Roxi… you have no idea.”
She answers with a throaty moan that vibrates down the length of me, melting my brain. I swear she’s smiling like a goddamned Cheshire Cat while she sucks me off, humming and making all manner of delighted noises. Her hands are everywhere her mouth isn’t — scraping her fingernails along the inside of my thighs, cupping my balls, pulling on the skin behind them, stroking the part of my cock that won’t fit into her mouth. It’s too much, my brain goes on overload as a chain reaction is set off in my body, starting at the base of my spine and spiraling outward like an exploding star. I’m covered in sweat, muscles straining, and when the shockwave reaches my head, I nearly pass out from the light bursting behind my eyes. I come with a shout, emptying myself into her mouth, clutching at her hair, scrabbling for some kind of purchase as my insides are ripped out and all that remains of who I was is a shell, a husk. My eyes prickle. I can’t let myself believe she nearly brought me to tears, because I’ve vowed to never let any woman have that much power over me. I blink back the wetness once. Then again.
I caress her bright copper waves as she licks every drop of come from me, then returns to curl into the hollow of my arm. She drops her head to my chest with what can only be described as a self-satisfied sigh of pure contentment. I press a kiss to her head, marveling at the wonder of her. “Thank you,” I murmur.
I lay awake watching as her eyes flutter shut and sleep claims her, unable to shake the feeling that men like me are never this lucky. At least not for long.
Chapter Fourteen
We arrive back in Kansas City two days later, and the closer we get to home, the worse I feel. This weekend was… perfect. Otherworldly. Someone more romantic would call it a fairytale. Whatever it was, it wasn’t reality, and what happens in Napa, stays in Napa. Which means, Roxi and I must return to stolen glances, the occasional kiss for show, and long nights of frustrated sleep. How do we cross back over a line we busted through with weapons of mass destruction?
Roxi is unusually silent. I assume
that she’s consumed with similar thoughts, but at the moment, I’m too much of a coward to ask. I glance her direction as I pull the Lotus out of the parking lot at the downtown airport. “Fuck it,” I growl as we roll to a stop at the light at Broadway and 35. “I’m not ready for this to end.” I look over to her. “Can I take you to dinner?”
Her eyes warm and crinkle as that big beautiful smile spreads across her face. “I’d love that. Where to?”
I switch lanes, and take a left after the overpass, then wind us through the River Market to a little French restaurant I like in Columbus Park. It’s quiet and out of the way, and Roxi’s gonna love the food. “Just a little place I know.” In minutes, I’m pulling into another parking space and rounding the car to open her door.
“We’re eating here?” she says excitedly as she reads the small sign saying Le Fou Frog. “I’ve always wanted to try this place.”
“You’ve lived here how long, and you haven’t?” I tease.
She shrugs. “I always thought it was a place for a special occasion or a fancy date.”
“But you must have dated before?” She’s obviously no virgin, though my chest puffs at the thought there’s been no one special previously. That there are still places in Kansas City she’s yet to discover. And more importantly, that I can share them with her.
She rolls her eyes. “Yes. But you might have noticed I’m a bit of a workaholic.”
“But all work and no play…”
“Makes me horny and frustrated.”
I let go with a belly laugh and pull her close, dropping a kiss on that filthy mouth. “Good thing I know how to take care of that.”
Marcel, the owner, greets us personally. “Danny, so good to see you,” he says with a thick French accent. “Eet has been too long. And who is zis beautiful sing?”
“Roxi, meet Marcel.”
He pulls her in for kisses on both cheeks. “Enchanter, Madame. Bienvenue.” He turns to me. “And where have you been keeping zis beauty?” he asks with a droll wink.
“All to myself,” I answer with a wink back, which earns me an elbow to the ribs from Roxi.
“Ah. I see,” he says with a knowing smile. “So zee best table for you, ce soir. Follow me.” He leads us to a dimly lit corner table for two. “Stay as long as you like. I will bring zee wine as soon as you are ready.”
Roxi clears her throat, eyes twinkling. “I think we’re ready right now.” When Marcel has departed, she turns to me. “How did you find this place?”
“Vince Ferrari helped me get a job here bussing tables when I was sixteen — right after my dad… well you know. Marcel took me under his wing, made sure I stayed out of trouble.”
She cocks her head. “Vince helped you?”
I nod, unsure of what to make of her reaction. “Believe me, I’m not his biggest fan. But he helped me when I had no one to turn to.”
“Does he hold it over you? That he helped you?”
“No. He was one of the first members when I opened the Whiskey Den.”
“He’s never asked you for favors?”
“Just to set up poker games, but that’s a benefit I extend to all my members. Why the quizzing?”
Her face freezes for a split second. “Just curious,” she says, flashing me a sheepish smile. “I led a more… sheltered life. All I was allowed to do to stay out of trouble was math camp.”
I snort. “I bet you never got into trouble. I bet you were a good girl, weren’t you?”
“Who me?” She feigns an innocent look. “It’s amazing what you can get away with when people peg you for the good girl.”
I lean forward, dropping a hand to her thigh. “Admit it. You’ve been dirty since the get-go, haven’t you?”
She straightens in her seat. “A lady never kisses and tells,” she says primly, drawing another laugh from me.
I don’t recognize myself, this person who’s relaxed. Enjoying the company of a lovely woman, and not contemplating his next move, or three moves out. Not worrying about douchebags and whose ass I’m going to have to kick next, or what vulnerable person is going to need my help next. “If it meant I’d do every naughty thing to you that you asked for tonight, would you tell?”
She gives me a calculating stare, eyes growing hotter with each passing second. “Mmm, tempting.”
I slide my hand higher. “Is this tempting enough for you?”
She squirms a little in her seat and flicks her eyebrows. “Okay, I’ll play. But you go first.”
“Ask me anything.”
The words leave her mouth instantly. “Virginity.”
I grin. “Summer I was fifteen, Peter Conklin’s basement with his older sister who was nineteen.”
She purses her lips, but her eyes are sparkling. “Ooh, so naughty.”
“You?”
She pauses. “Twenty. Sophomore year. I thought I was in love.”
I can’t resist pushing. “Did he give you an orgasm?”
She snorts. “What do you think? Every college girl knows there are toys for that.”
I shake my head with a tsk. “I would have given you one.”
“Did your nineteen-year-old fuck buddy tell you how to find her clitoris? Because if not, I’m guessing it took a few tries to, er… work your magic,” she says with a smirk.
Marcel interrupts us long enough to drop a bottle of Bordeaux and fill our glasses. As soon as he’s out of earshot, I pepper her with questions. “When did you have your first orgasm?”
“With another person? Because I’m pretty sure I figured out how to give myself one when I was six years old.”
I choke on my wine.
“Don’t act so surprised. I’m sure you were pulling on your penis when you were that age.”
I’m sure I was too, but I don’t remember it. “Okay, so with someone, then.”
“Early twenties? I don’t remember the date, but I remember the man. I dated a PhD candidate my junior year who… umm… taught me a lot.”
“Including that you like spanky public shit,” I fill in for her.
She blushes furiously and nods. “I wasn’t ready to settle down, and he was looking for a wife, so I broke his heart. But, I am grateful.”
“Roxi Rickoli, heart breaker.”
She smirks. “It’s possible I’ve left a string of broken men in my wake.”
“Roxi Rickoli, egomaniac,” I add, squeezing the inside of her thigh. I change the subject. “Why the snake tattoo?”
She looks away and takes a slow sip of her wine. “How old were you when you got your pec tatt?”
“I got it after Anita died.”
She nods as if she understands, and the air between us changes from playful to serious. “I have a sister. Had a sister,” she corrects.
Tension radiates off her, and all my senses go on high alert.
“I… worshipped her,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “She was smart, funny, loving… and a total ass-kicker.” She pauses and takes another slow sip of her wine and starts to trace circles on the tablecloth. My stomach flops. She’s talking in the past tense. Instinctively, I shift closer to her.
Her mouth tilts up. “She made me feel like I could conquer the world, that I could be anything, accomplish anything. Looking back, I can see she was a raging feminist, an activist. And I’m proud that some of her passion rubbed off on me.”
“What happened? How did you lose her?”
She shuts her eyes, as if drawing up courage, strength to speak. “She was murdered. Brutally.” She speaks in a monotone. It’s not the first time she’s told the story, but I know from experience the telling of shit never gets easier, so I don’t press her for details, even though my curiosity is piqued.
“Did they find him?” I ask, voice dropping to basement levels. “Whoever he is, I hope he’s suffering. Mightily.”
She shakes her head. “Her case is still unsolved.”
Her words are like a punch to the gut.
“So the tattoo… I reme
mber her telling me about a women’s studies class she’d taken on ancient matriarchal cultures and how snakes were a sign of feminine power and healing, and how patriarchal cultures subverted that.” She sniffs, then sighs. “So on my eighteenth birthday, I went to the local tattoo artist with a design.” She shakes her head with a wry grin. “My father was furious.”
“So this,” I trace her leg where I’ve memorized the pattern. “Is a tribute to your sister.”
She nods. “Yeah. And a reminder of my own strength.”
My chest pulls so tight it’s hard to breathe. I reach for her hand and bring it to my lips. “You’re remarkable, Roxi.”
We linger over dinner, neither of us making a move to wind it up. Marcel has kindly given us space, but I can see he’s pacing by the hostess stand. I tilt my head his direction. “I think he’s ready for us to leave.”
Roxi looks over and nods in agreement. “I think you’re right.” She covers my hand with hers. “I… thank you for tonight. This has been lovely. I wasn’t ready to go home either.”
Something about the tone of her voice digs at me, gives me a little push. “What about now?”
She hesitates, and her silence speaks volumes. My chest feels heavy and tight again. What happens in Napa stays in Napa. “I don’t know how to put the genie back in the box,” she confesses. “I don’t know how to go back to the way things were.”
“Who says we have to?”
She gives me a crooked smile. “I am your employee.”
“I could fire you. I’m sure another company would snap you up in a heartbeat.” But I hate that idea with a passion. I don’t want her spending her days someplace else, so she can spend her nights with me. I’m a selfish bastard, and I fucking want it all.
She makes a face of pure disgust. “Eww. No.”
“So are you admitting you like working for me?”
“As far as bosses go, you’re pretty good.”