Not with Mo.
Two, because he didn’t like strippers.
That was clear.
He might have been diplomatic during our first talk, though he had indicated he had a problem with it.
And he was not mean to the girls at Smithie’s.
He was also not friendly.
Then of course there was that part of his outburst, the part I liked the best (not), where he’d said, Every night, you dance, and you got a huge room full of men gagging for it.
He thought I got off on it.
And okay, if I took a second to calm down and reflect (which I did not), there might be something about that.
It still wasn’t cool he threw it in my face and the way he did.
But I knew that about myself.
I liked attention.
When I was younger, I went to LA to become an actress.
I ended up Queen of the Corvette Calendar because, first, how kickass was that? And second, I sucked at acting. And last, there was an operative word in that title.
Queen.
My sister was quiet and sweet and responsible and hardworking, and everyone adored her.
But I was not any of that. Not even close.
This wasn’t sibling rivalry.
At least (if I was honest), not anymore.
And Jet didn’t get all the attention, but everyone around us made sure she (and thus I) knew how awesome she was for being sweet and responsible and hardworking.
“Oh, what a good girl she is, looking after that wild sister of hers while Nancy’s at work,” and, “Oh, it just breaks my heart Jet had to get a job so she could help her momma out with the bills.”
That said, years ago (around about the time we were in a room when bullets were flying), I’d grown up enough to see that my sister didn’t have it all that great, what with our not-so-stellar life with a deadbeat dad who kept us all on a string with fancy plans and big promises.
I also saw how responsible and hardworking she’d had to be and that she’d sacrificed a lot for me.
I appreciated it.
And I loved her for it.
I also moved on.
From that.
Not so much the fact our dad was a loser.
And I was honest enough with myself I knew that I was that girl who needed to be daddy’s little girl. Daddy’s princess. His sun and moon and stars. The girl he threatened all her boyfriends so they wouldn’t hurt her, but mostly he was working out his issues because he didn’t want to let her go. The girl he choked up about when he gave her away at her wedding.
Our dad had gotten his shit together.
But I would never fully trust it, and that was part of my plight, and his punishment.
Because all of what I’d needed when I was a little girl and growing up was lost to me.
I could never again be five and walking through the fair with my hand in my father’s and have him cry, “Gotta get some cotton candy for my best girl!” making me feel loved, treasured, safe, protected…
Special.
Okay, he’d done that when I was five.
And when he’d stopped because the poker table was more important than his wife and daughters, that was when I’d learned what missing something felt like.
And how that missing it could turn to needing it.
And how that need became seeking attention.
Not to mention how to hold a grudge.
So on Day Three with The Supreme Asshole of All Time (Mo), Sunday, one of my two days off (I had Sundays and Mondays off), Mo was still sleeping on my couch in my room. He was also still standing backstage when I danced (except the second dance, that was when he handed off to one of Smithie’s guys and took a shower and changed).
And I had absolutely no idea what was going on with the crackpot who wanted to “cleanse” me because I couldn’t ask Smithie considering he probably thought I was getting briefs from Mo and I didn’t want to tell him Mo was the Supreme Asshole of All Time.
This was due to my desire for Mo not to get fired (or reprimanded or something) after I explained why we weren’t talking, which would make Smithie do something rash, like attempt to Tase him then kick him in the balls while he was down.
Or demand Hawk fire him.
Mo was an asshole, but he was vigilant, I was still alive and safe (ish). Not trapped in a well only to be drugged and dragged up and “cleansed” repeatedly (though, according to that letter, a “cleansing” sounded a lot like rape and torture, and I wasn’t real sure how that would make a girl clean, then again, I wasn’t a crackpot).
So I decided not to rock the boat.
Mo wasn’t the only person I’d run into who had a problem with strippers.
I was used to it.
It hurt (coming from Mo).
It sucked (coming from Mo).
He was still hot as hell and I really wanted to pounce on him.
And occasionally (all right, frequently), I remembered him telling me I didn’t need the strips or the face mousse or the implants, remembering this while also remembering how nice that felt.
But…whatever.
I’d been wrong about him.
He was one of those guys.
And one day he’d be gone.
Of course, this was what I told myself.
But at night, while trying to put my body to sleep bit by bit, knowing he was right there in the room with me, and remembering how sweet it was when Mo had helped me do that, my mind often wandered. When it did, I’d end up feeling my throat close, my nose sting, and my eyes feel hot wishing I hadn’t been wrong about him.
(Another reason for the grudge.)
Now we were in his truck, Mo driving, because I’d deviated from my one-word-a-day plan and told him I had to go to the grocery store.
Therefore, we were heading to King Soopers.
He had a badass truck. Black on black Ram that had all the bells and whistles (even illuminated door sills that said Ram).
Normally I wouldn’t hesitate to wax poetic about illuminated door sills.
I was pretty sure Mo could live without knowing I dug his sills.
Silently he drove and silently I rode.
Silently he parked and silently I sat next to him while he did.
Silently we got out and silently we walked to the store while I dug out the list from my purse.
Silently I grabbed a cart and silently he followed me as we wandered through the store.
I was silently perusing the selection of Asian noodles when I heard, “Mo?”
It was hearing a woman calling his name that caught my attention.
It was feeling the wall of…something coming from Mo that made me tense.
I looked up at him to see his jaw so set, I figured if I watched long enough, a crack would form under the pressure.
I then looked to where his eyes were aimed.
A very beautiful brunette was walking our way, pushing a cart, trailed by a tall, built (but nowhere near as built as Mo), very good-looking guy.
I assessed the guy and his expensive clothes that he wore even when going to King Soopers on a Sunday.
Peacock.
Possibly small dick.
Definitely sports car.
Or at the very least a high-performance vehicle (probably BMW).
Totally up his own ass.
I then assessed the woman.
I should have done her first.
She was staring at Mo like she didn’t care sex in public was very illegal because if he gave her a nod, she’d tear her off clothes and ride him against the Asian food shelves.
My back shot straight.
Her gaze cut to me.
Her back shot straight.
Without a thought about what I was doing, I gave her my patented, He’s Mine and I’m Ready to Rumble Look.
She shot back her, We’ll See, Bitch Look.
I was this close to growling when her boyfriend spoke up.
“Who’s this, Tammy?”
&
nbsp; Since I was ready to rumble, I couldn’t but cut a quick glance at the Peacock.
He was staring at my tits.
Okay, he was with his chick and staring at my chest.
Maybe he was the Supreme Asshole of All Time.
“My ex,” she answered. “Hey, Mo.”
“Hey,” he grunted.
Mo Translation: I have zero interest in conversing with you.
Then again, he had zero interest in conversing with just about everybody as far as I could tell.
I was understanding why she was an ex when she ignored his vibe and asked, “How’s things?”
Another grunt of, “Good.”
She sliced a glance at me. “Is this your new—?”
“Yup,” I said, cutting her off before Mo could say anything, then shifting and putting my arm around his waist.
Or trying. He had a wide waist. It was trim, but it was wide.
I finally grabbed hold of the other side, barely, my fingers sliding off the slick material of his skintight compression skirt.
So I grabbed onto a beltloop of his cargos.
Her gaze dropped to my finger hooked through his beltloop, her eyes narrowed, and she didn’t seem to notice it took long moments for Mo to drop his arm around my shoulders.
I nearly crumbled to the floor.
His arm had to weigh more than my entire body.
I held steady and took the shot of acid she aimed at me from her eyes.
I shot her an acid neutralization glare and followed it up with a laser beam stare.
She blinked (yeah, my laser beam stare rocked) then tried to deflect by looking back to Mo.
“I haven’t heard from you in a while,” she remarked.
Her dude gave her a look.
Mo said nothing.
I said something.
“That happens when you break up, Tammy.”
“I’m sorry, you are?” she asked me.
“Lottie.” I grinned saccharine sweet. “Nice ta meet ya.”
“Well, Lottie,” she doused my sweet with some bitter, “we only broke up a month ago.”
Bitch Translation: It hasn’t been that long for you to be this tight with him, so I got you.
“Though you were fuckin’ him a lot longer than that, yeah, Tammy?”
I went still under the weight of Mo’s arm as these words came out of Mo’s mouth.
The “him” I assumed was the boyfriend since all the color ran out of his face.
No longer distracted by my chest, Peacock was realizing who “Mo, the ex” was.
“Let’s move on, Tam, yeah?” the boyfriend said, and I figured he did this because he had the gift of sight and this conversation had taken a turn he did not want within reaching distance of Mo.
Tammy’s eyes were full of regret when she looked up at Mo. “Mo, I—”
“You honest to fuck wanna do this in a King Soopers?” Mo asked.
“No, she doesn’t,” the boyfriend answered hurriedly.
“Well, I wanna do it in King Soopers,” I snapped.
All eyes came to me, even, I felt, Mo’s.
“Are you high?” I demanded to know from Tammy.
“Lottie,” Mo muttered, that arm around me tightening, or more like squeezing.
Even with the real danger of him dislocating my shoulder, I glared at Tammy.
“You walked right up to him and said, ‘hey,’ after you cheated on him. Who does that?” I asked.
She looked to her cart and muttered, “Maybe we should just—”
I stepped out from under Mo’s arm and stood in front of her cart, cutting her off by ordering, “No, bitch, answer me. Who does that?”
I felt Mo’s fingers curl into the back waistband of my jeans and he probably had to stoop real low because I also heard right in my ear, “Lottie—”
But I had Tammy’s attention again.
And her squinty eyes.
“Did you just call me a bitch?” she asked.
“Yeah, bitch, I called you bitch,” I answered. Then I shrieked, “You cheated on Mo!”
Yeah, I shrieked.
But what was the matter with her?
“Fucking hell,” I heard Mo murmur just as I felt my jeans get tight at the waistband since he jerked me back by using just that.
I whipped my head around then cranked it to look up at him and yelled, “Let go of me, Mo!”
“Lottie, cool it,” he commanded.
“Fuck cool!” I shouted. “She cheated on you then walked right up to you at a King Soopers and said, ‘hey!’”
“I don’t care,” Mo told me.
“I care!” I yelled.
“How can you care if I don’t care?” he asked, his face sharing genuine curiosity.
“She said ‘hey!’” I screeched.
“Is there a problem here?”
Mo turned, and since he still had his fingers in my jeans, I was pulled around to see a woman standing there wearing a King Soopers apron with a nametag on it that said Rhonda with the word Manager under it.
“Yes, Rhonda, there’s a problem,” I informed her. “She,” I swung a pointed finger to Tammy, “cheated on him,” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder to Mo, “with him.” I finished this pointing in the direction of the boyfriend.
Rhonda looked between Mo and the boyfriend, cast her judgment openly through her expression (that’s what I’m talkin’ about!) and was looking disbelievingly at Tammy when I carried on.
“Then she just strolled up to him. No! To us! Right here in the aisle and said, ‘hey.’”
Rhonda’s brows shot up at me and she looked again at Tammy.
“You said, ‘hey?’” Rhonda asked.
“We’d really just like to move along,” the boyfriend shared with Rhonda.
Rhonda again looked between Mo and the boyfriend before she told the boyfriend, “I think that’s a good idea.”
“Yeah, move along,” I called after them as the boyfriend grabbed the cart, did a tight turn, and hustled down the aisle. “And you get near Mo again, Tammy, I’ll tear your hair out.”
Tammy turned, mouthed fuck you to me…
And then it happened.
Mo was a big guy.
Normally, Mo did not move like Mikhail Baryshnikov and definitely not like Usain Bolt.
But I learned when the man wanted to move, he moved.
I knew this when one second, he was at my back, holding onto my jeans, and the next second, he was five feet down the aisle, in front of Tammy, cutting off her retreat. He was also bent at the waist, hands to his hips, right in her face.
“No,” he growled.
That was it.
Though that word rumbled down the aisle like a rock slide.
Tammy stood with her back to me, completely immobile for a second, then she did a wide side step and practically ran down the aisle.
“Keep ahold a’ that one, sistah,” Rhonda murmured to me. Then called to Mo, “We good, big man?”
“Yup,” he grunted, moseying back to me, again moving cumbersomely, each step powerfully swaying his hips in a masculine cadence that made my mouth water.
What those hips could do between my legs I could not contemplate or I’d have an orgasm in King Soopers.
Right.
It appeared it was high time to take a moment to reflect.
I’d just acted demented in a freaking King Soopers of all places.
I wasn’t fond of cheaters but that wasn’t about Tammy being a cheater.
I’d staked my claim before I even knew she was a cheater.
Hell, before I even knew she was an actual ex of Mo’s.
So that was about wanting Mo, Mo not wanting me, being in his presence twenty-four seven, sleeping with him in my room, and me letting off some steam.
A whole lot of steam.
But it had been me that pushed it.
If I’d kept my mouth shut, that whole convo would have been shut down by Mo at the get-go and the whole cheating scenario might not have b
een outed.
Something not a lot of men took a great deal of pride in (women either).
Rhonda wandered off after telling us to have a good day and thanking us for shopping at King Soopers and Mo stopped in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking up at him.
“Why?” he asked.
“I lost it with Tammy,” I reminded him.
“You did that,” he agreed.
“I should have just kept my mouth shut.”
“I don’t know. Been askin’ around about you. Heard your premiere in Denver was havin’ a wet T-shirt catfight with your sister on the floor of Fortnum’s. Was kinda hopin’ for an encore, though minus the sister, which would suck, but my guess is, you’d have won against Tammy, which would have been awesome.”
He’d asked around about me?
And was he…
Wait.
Was he teasing me?
“It didn’t start as a wet T-shirt fight with Jet. It just ended as one after Mom threw a pitcher of water on us.”
His silver eyes danced and his lips tipped slightly up.
Okay, that urge to orgasm was coming back.
“I was young then. I’m an adult now,” I babbled.
“Totally can tell. You just adulted all over the ethnic food aisle at King Soopers.”
I sure did that.
“It would take a lot to make me get in a catfight now that I’m all mature and, uh…everything,” I told him.
“Lottie, you were two seconds from taking her down by her hair in a real-life GLOW move.”
I totally was.
“Fortunately, Rhonda appeared,” I remarked.
“Depends on how you look at it,” he muttered.
He was.
He was teasing me.
He might actually be flirting with me.
Damn.
“When do you have time to ask around about me?” I asked.
“When you shower. You take really long showers.”
Ah.
Why are you asking around about me?
That question was not audible.
I couldn’t go there yet.
Perhaps Mo wanted a détente, but still, he’d said some rough things and that conversation was not for King Soopers.
However, now that we were speaking again there was one thing I wanted to know.
No.
Two.
“I’m assuming that you all aren’t close to finding that guy.”
Any remaining amusement went out of his face.
“No.”
Quiet Man: A Dream Man Novella Page 7