by Amelia Wilde
Like I would do that, anyway.
“What’s funny?”
“Just thinking about the odds of meeting somebody like you in a club.”
She laughs genuinely at that. “You don’t even know me.”
“I want to.”
Something changes in her expression then, her eyes narrowing, her smile a little more pointed. “What makes you want to know me?”
I don’t have time to make up any flirty bullshit, so I just tell her the truth. “The way you looked at me when I walked in here.”
Zelda nods a little at that, then bites again at her bottom lip, more pink coming into her cheeks. “I feel the same. I—”
Just then, her friend reappears at her elbow, her face darkening like a storm cloud, not looking at me. “I have an idea,” Ceecee shouts above the music.
Zelda tears her eyes away from mine. “What?”
“Let’s go. I know a place with a better party.”
She casts me a look, and it’s full of indecision. “I don’t know…”
Her friend gives her another meaningful look. “You’re having a good time here?”
“I am, but—”
Then the friend, Caroline, whatever, leans in, takes her by the elbow, and says something that I can’t hear into her ear. Zelda frowns, then gives her a nod, and before I can do fucking anything, they’ve got their arms linked together and they’re moving past me. I get a whiff of her scent, light and flowery and clean.
“Hey—”
She turns back over her shoulder. “I’m sorry—” I don’t hear the words because of the damn music, but I watch her until she’s gone, the sway of her hips burning into my mind, the shape of her a kick to the gut, walking out of my life.
Chapter 9
Zelda
The guy across the counter gives me a look, and I realize I’ve been staring at his dark, leather-like jacket for a beat too long instead of scanning the book he’s trying to check out.
“Sorry,” I say with a little smile. “My thoughts got away from me.”
He doesn’t look anything like Sawyer. He’s just a middle-aged man who’s trying to check out—
I flip the book over in my hands. 1001 Recipes for Beginner Bakers.
“This is a great one,” I say as I draw it over the scanner and reach for the receipt that prints out. “I used it once for the brownie recipe near the back. Really killer stuff.”
He gives me half a smile. “Thanks for your help.” Then he takes the book from my hands and hustles out of the library.
Shit.
It’s been happening all day. Somebody comes in wearing something that reminds me of Sawyer, and I’m right back in that idiotic dance club again, eyes locked on his, my entire body throbbing at the thought of touching him.
Which is stupid.
I don’t know who he is, but I know he’s not very nice, and I know he’s not the kind of guy I’d want to bring home to my parents. He’s what they’d call very risky and they’d be right about it.
I don’t want risky.
I don’t.
But that’s not what dominates my thoughts all the morning at the library. While I’m shelving books in the romance section, a cover model with dark hair catches my eye. He doesn’t have Sawyer’s blue eyes, but he does have a similar physique. At least, he has the kind of physique I think Sawyer probably has hidden underneath his clothes.
I flip to the middle of the book and scan a few pages, which lands me right in the middle of a sex scene. I can’t help rolling my eyes. This book is full of the kind of flowery language that isn’t running through my head at the moment. But the space between my legs still hums in recognition, despite my unforgiving attitude while I’m speed reading.
I slam it into the shelf as harshly as I can without causing a scene, then move on to the next title.
It’s so foolish to be thinking of some guy I met in the club and exchanged, what, ten sentences with? It’s stupid to waste my brainpower on something like this.
But I just can’t help it.
Carly was not happy with him when we left the club. I think that’s why she wanted to go, even though she only whispered in my ear that her friend Eva had scored an invite to something taking place in a more exclusive club farther into the city.
“And anyway,” she’d said into my ear, “all the guys here suck.”
I wanted to tell her to give Sawyer a second chance, but why the hell would she do that? He wasn’t exactly polite to her when he and his friend Max first stepped up to us, and Max probably didn’t impress her much, either.
In fact, I’m not sure why Carly was interested in Sawyer at all. He’s not her type. She normally goes for the kind of guy who wears something nice to the club, not a plain t-shirt under a dark jacket. The kind of guy who doesn’t radiate the scent of danger underneath the lightest spritzing of cologne.
I shelve a romance novel with a brooding man on its cover, leather jacket, arms crossed over his chest, glaring out at me from the front of the book. “Luke Killroy isn’t a good man,” I read on the back. “He’s a member of Chicago’s underbelly, a crucial player in a crime ring so vast that even the police can’t begin to control it. Until he meets Emily Singer…”
I press my thighs together and shelve the book, trying to ignore a heated new slickness forming between my legs. I don’t care about Luke Killroy and his crime syndicate in the big city. Nothing in particular turns me on about romance novels, even. The only explanation is that the guy on the front cover has dark hair like Sawyer’s, a dark jacket like Sawyer’s, muscles like…
I can’t help myself. I just can’t help myself. Carly pulling me out of that club was like the front door opening when the couple is an inch away from a kiss.
I abandon the cart of books and head toward the back of the huge collection area, past the rest of the fiction books, past the biographies, past the section of books penned by local authors, and push open the double doors.
There’s a hallway with a set of pristine bathrooms there that almost nobody ever uses, and the other side of the hallway leads to a pair of big meeting rooms. No meetings are booked for the short shift on Saturday, so there shouldn’t be anybody around.
The motion-activated light clicks on when I press open the bathroom door. Confirmed: nobody’s in here. I go to the last stall and lock the door behind me, breathing hard.
This is stupid. This is horribly, awfully stupid, and so unprofessional, but I can’t take it anymore. If I don’t do something, I think my skin is going to catch fire just from thinking about him. If I can just get this out of my system, I’ll be able to focus during the last three hours of my shift. I’ll be able to leave his face behind, in the club, in the past, where it belongs.
I press one hand against the wall and lift my navy blue dress up over my hips. I’m not wearing tights—it’s almost summer, and the dress falls just above my knees—and there’s nothing between me and core but my panties.
The rest of my muscles tense when I slip my fingers down past the waistband, my fingertips finding my clit, but on the first circular rub, my entire body relaxes.
God, I need to get laid. I need to get out of here, out of this job, out of this town…
But right now, Sawyer’s face swims up into my memory, the lights of the club illuminating it in bursts, his eyes sending sparks down my spine, the thought of his hard body making me wet, wet, wetter…
The heat between my legs grows with every movement of my hand, and I spread my legs wider, giving myself more room. Sawyer with his hands on me, Sawyer with his body pressed up against mine, Sawyer whispering filthy things into my ear while he—
I gasp. I’m so close. I just need another…few…
The main bathroom door bangs open, and I jerk my hand out of my panties and spin around, whipping them down and sitting on the toilet seat just in time for someone to walk into the next stall.
My face flames red and hot, and as they unzip, I put my head in my hands and try
to quell the twisting frustration in my stomach.
I was so close…
Chapter 10
Sawyer
The soft knock at the door blends in with my dream at first. I’m dreaming about Zelda, the woman I met at the club, which is no fucking surprise because she’s been on my mind constantly ever since she walked away from me the other night.
In the dream, we’re standing somewhere that’s dimly lit, and she’s biting at her lower lip, turning away from me a little, like she’s too shy to take off the black halter top, too shy to shimmy out of her skirt. But then she makes a decision, turns back to me with a grin that sends bolts of need down my spine and straight into my cock, and begins to lift the hem of her shirt.
When the knock comes, her eyes dart toward the door—the door that I can barely see—then she looks back at me, her eyes lit up with lust, lips slightly parted, and ignores the sound.
She’s about to reveal the luscious curves of her breasts to me when another knock comes, and this one pisses me off.
I jump up, and in three lunging steps I’m across the room and to the door, fumbling for the lock. It’s already locked. I give it another twist and go back for her. I can’t wait any longer for the shirt to come off. I slide my hands around her slim waist and she leans into me with a soft “oh…”
A third knock.
This one yanks me away from Zelda, and I’m flying upward toward consciousness, cursing under my breath.
It’s too bright in the damn bedroom, and the first thing I do is throw my arm over my eyes. “Shit.” What the hell time is it? I don’t remember what time I got back here last night, only that it was late. And for once, I don’t have a 9 a.m. call set up with Domino, so I didn’t set an alarm.
“Sawyer?”
Jesus. I’m too old for my aunt to be waking me up, but I swallow through the irritated tightness in my throat. My mouth is dry. After Zelda’s friend rejected Max—that’s what must have happened, even though he didn’t say anything about it when he came back to find me carrying two foaming beers in his hands—he decided to put the night into full throttle.
I don’t go out drinking very much because in my line of work I can’t afford to be a hungover dumbass. Now I remember why. I feel like shit warmed over.
“Sawyer, it’s Linda.”
I swallow again, trying to get a little moisture into my mouth. “I’m up.”
She takes a breath in and lets it out, a sigh so heavy I can hear it through the door. “Your sister’s here.”
I roll over and pull a pillow over my head. I do not want to have this conversation. This is not what I came to Greenville for. It’s not like I feel any pressing need to make up with my dad for all his years of bullshit.
“She’s downstairs…I’ve got some breakfast, too, if you want it.”
Aunt Linda is the only reason I’m here, and despite the fact that I’m not in the mood for my sister, I can’t quite bring myself to be a dick to her.
“Just give me a couple minutes.”
“Pardon?”
I pull the pillow off my head. “A couple minutes, Aunt Linda. I’ll be right down.”
Her footsteps retreat outside the door, muffled on the carpet. I let myself lie in the bed, on the clean sheets, for another fifteen seconds before I throw my legs over the side and stand up.
Yeah. Drinking at the bar was a smart fucking idea.
I unzip the duffle bag of clothes I brought with me and grab a clean set of clothes to put on, quickly get dressed, and then pull the door open. I can hear my sister’s voice floating up the staircase, and my aunt answers her, but I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying.
It’s three steps across the hall to the guest bathroom, and I shut the door behind me and lock it tight.
Everything is exactly how I remembered it, from the little soaps in the dish by the sink to the clean, thick towels folded in a little closet over in the corner. I take a deep breath. Being in this house is making me lose my edge.
Ten minutes later, I come down the stairs into the kitchen, where my aunt stands at the stove, tipping a pan of scrambled eggs onto a plate that’s already partly filled with toast and bacon.
“It’s almost eleven,” Jem says, crossing her arms and jutting out one hip.
She’s got my same dark hair, but instead of my dad’s blue eyes, she got my mom’s dark ones.
“Morning, Jem. It’s nice to see you after all this time.” I take a seat at the kitchen island, and my aunt shoots me a scathing look as she slides the plate over.
“What the hell are you thinking, Sawyer?”
I raise my eyebrows at her.
“Coffee?” My aunt is poised at the counter, coffee carafe in one hand, mug in the other.
“Please.”
There’s a brief silence while she pours the coffee.
“Cream?”
“Sure.”
My sister breathes out sharply through her nose while my aunt adds cream, her face now carefully neutral. When she hands the cup to me, I take my sweet time sipping from it. It’s damn perfect.
“What was your question, Jem?” Jem is four years younger than I am, and to top it off, my father’s favorite. I don’t fucking blame her for that, but she’s never seen the side of him that I have. Namely, his knuckles flying toward my face.
“What are you doing, wasting time here?”
“I just got in yesterday.”
“And you went to the bar instead of visiting Dad.”
I look at my aunt, who shrugs and turns back to the stove.
The first bite of eggs melts in my mouth, and my stomach growls painfully. I didn’t think I’d want to eat, but this food—this is sheer comfort food, and every bite wipes away some of the hangover. Without asking, my aunt is making a second helping of eggs for me in the pan.
“He’s dying, you asshole.” Jem’s face is flushed pink. Her hair looks like she threw it up into an elastic on the way here. It looks like she’s been at the hospital all night instead of in her apartment, or wherever she’s living now.
My throat goes tight, but I don’t know if it’s from anger or some kind of fucked-up sadness. I toss the fork down onto my plate and look her right in the eyes. “I’ll visit when I’m ready to visit, and not a second before. And I don’t need you to understand why. Was there anything else you wanted to say to me?”
I love my sister, but when she gets like this…
Her chin quivers then, and I notice the sheen of tears over her eyes for the first time. Despite how much I hate that bastard, she obviously loves him. And it’s not like there’s anyone left for her, aside from me and Aunt Linda.
I stand up from the island and cross the room to her, pulling her in for a side-armed hug. She stiffens for a moment, then turns toward me, wrapping her arms around me and pulling in.
For a second. Then she punches me on the arm. “Go visit him, Sawyer. And don’t be such a dick.”
Chapter 11
Zelda
My parents’ house is stifling.
Not heat-wise. They like to save money on the heating bill, so it’s perpetually sixty degrees in their house, and most of the time it’s colder than that in my basement apartment. I have a nice collection of hoodies because of it.
No, it’s not the heat that’s getting to me, unless you count the heat between my legs.
After my shift ended at the library, I came back to the house, entering through the basement entrance. My face was still hot and flushed from the stupid thing I tried to do at work. So much for taking a damn risk. Instead of getting any relief from the ache throbbing constantly between my legs, it was amplified by one hundred. I spent the rest of my shift pressing my thighs together at every opportunity, thinking of Sawyer.
It’s so stupid. I’m never going to see him again. I don’t go out with Carly to clubs like that very often, and by the looks of him, Sawyer isn’t that kind of guy either. So why can’t I stop thinking about him?
I know where t
his goes. I know where taking a chance on a tattooed guy with an air of danger leads. It doesn’t lead anywhere good, and last time I got caught up in a mess like that, it almost derailed my entire life.
But that didn’t stop me from locking the door behind me and padding quickly up the stairs to make sure the door to the main house was also locked. Once I was sure, I raced back to my bedroom.
It’s a neat space with two windows, both of them covered by sheer curtains that aren’t exactly opaque, but they screen most of the room from anybody who might be walking by. Not that many people casually walk through my parents’ yard.
I go past the bed to the dresser and pull open the top drawer.
There are several layers of folded panties and bras to dig through before I find it—the little vibrator Carly gave me for my birthday a few years ago. I tried it once or twice, then relegated it to my underwear drawer. I didn’t have much to fantasize about, I guess.
Until yesterday.
Now this purple, silicone-covered toy seems like the best solution to…
To whatever’s happening between my legs and pulsating up into my core, which has become urgent. Urgent in a way I don’t think I’ve experienced since college, if then.
I rinse the dust away in the bathroom and come back to my bed, stripping off my work dress and panties, unhooking my bra and dropping it to the floor beside the rest of the clothes. Then I slip myself between the covers and spread my legs wide, finding my clit with my fingers a second time, rubbing in slow, small circles.
The silence of the house above me tells me that my parents aren’t home, so I close my eyes and, for the first time all day, allow myself to think of Sawyer without any interruption.
His eyes on me in the club. The clean, manly scent of him when he stood close. The way he wanted to know about me. The way it made me feel just to be near him, all of my nerves alive, just from the sight of his muscles flexing underneath his shirt, the cut of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze…