by Alison Kent
What the hell had he been thinking, telling Erin the things he had about his life in lock-up. He could only hope she hadn’t believed a word he’d said, that she’d blown it all off as bunk he’d made up for her entertainment. A safety net of sorts so she could pretend she hadn’t let a virtual stranger go down on her in the middle of the bar.
He sure as hell didn’t want her coming to the ridiculous conclusion that he’d purposely pointed out the one and only chink in his armor, enabling her in finding a way in. He didn’t want her to find a way in. No matter that, in too many ways, she was already there, working to dismantle his tightly held independence. Working to convince him that he didn’t have the grasp he claimed on his gentler emotions.
He figured she’d feel better about herself if he fed her a story to chew on. He sure didn’t want her feeling bad about any of what they’d done. He wanted her to feel good. Damn good. As good as he was feeling. And that was saying a lot because he was supposed to be an expert at turning a cold shoulder and walking away. From involvement. From caring. From concern for another’s emotions as well as from his own.
Those were the tenets that had gotten him through his teenage years and had carried him into adulthood. Why would he be so asinine as to open himself up, to invite a woman into his private life after all this time? Yet, in ways and levels he couldn’t put into words, he had. And she’d accepted, both the invitation and the man he was.
He’d deny it all—the invitation, the emotional lapse—if she asked. He’d go on to tell her he’d been exercising his right to dramatic license. The story definitely fell into the realm of far-fetched. That much he figured she’d buy.
Shifting a hip onto the window, he swung his legs through to stand on the tiny fire escape ledge. The sky was awash in the first strokes of indigo and soon, very soon he’d need to turn in. The hour he now went to bed was the same hour he’d been rousted out for longer than he cared to remember.
Before spilling his guts to Erin, he’d never told another person about those years. Hell, the only person he’d even talked to at any length during that nonexistent time in his life had been Richie Kira. Richie, who’d been the closest thing Sebastian had ever had to a friend.
The sixty-year-old inmate had worked in the detention center’s library, helping the kids confined to the facility with research and reading and any other information their instructor assigned them to find. Richie had sensed Sebastian’s innate curiosity, a young boy’s thirst for knowledge dying to be quenched.
The older man had introduced him to the vastly amazing worlds found on the shelves, between the pages of the books Richie had tended like a gardener would tend a prizewinning rose bed. Or like a farmer would tend the fields of corn and wheat that provided his livelihood. The comparison wasn’t that far off the mark.
Books were Richie’s connection with a life outside prison he hadn’t seen in over forty years. But he read, and he remembered, and he told it all to Sebastian. Stories of war and women. Of football games and fights with neighborhood gangs. Of fast cars and loud music and how to kiss a girl so she never forgot your name.
He’d been the father Sebastian had never had, the mentor he’d needed, one who had advised him on the ways of the world without couching his words from a parent’s perspective. He hadn’t couched his words at all, but had instead let fly with advice straight off the street.
Advice from the prison yard, too.
Sebastian had gotten real good at watching his back and cutting his losses. He’d just never expected to have to watch his front.
Richie might’ve taught lessons in female anatomy and birth control but never in dealing with the female mind. Or explained the way a woman’s eyes had of sparkling like a beckoning finger right before landing a gut-slamming punch.
Three hours ago Sebastian had walked Erin to her front door. She’d wanted him to come in. He’d wanted to do just that, to walk into her loft and drag her off to bed. And so he’d told her goodbye there in the hallway and walked to the elevator, feeling both the heat and the uncertainty of her gaze on his back all the way.
He’d come home and poured his energy into his work in progress, well aware of his looming deadline but still unable to concentrate long enough to put more than a few words down on the page. Words that stank like week-old shit.
No matter how hard he tried to concentrate on Raleigh Slater, to get into the character’s head, to slip into his skin and feel the terror gnawing at the detective’s insides, Sebastian found his muse flirting with that other idea.
The one he’d been putting off until the right time. A story that didn’t belong to Raleigh at all. That obviously didn’t belong to Sebastian either since his muse had taken total control. The idea frightened him half to death, as did the implicit demand that he’d have to devote all his time and attention to the social order of his fictional world.
He wouldn’t have time for Erin. And that caused a strange sort of jolt to the rhythm of his heart.
He stepped back into his bedroom, his foot skating over Redrum’s back as the cat skulked toward the bed. Sebastian nearly broke an ankle, tripping across the floor, and the damn cat did nothing but jump into the center of his bed. Typical female. Sneaking up to blindside him.
Sebastian grabbed his chair and hauled it back to his desk, rolling up to his keyboard. The distraction of Erin Thatcher was beginning to make more sense. He wasn’t focused. He wasn’t concentrating. He was letting his muse have her way, giving in to her temptation, embracing the flow of creative juices and the energizing high.
That left enough of a gap in his absorption with his work for disruptions to pull him away. Now he needed to get both Erin and his non-Raleigh story idea out of his way. Erin he’d think about later.
Right now he was in the mood to write.
ERIN WOKE EARLY S ATURDAY morning, earlier than usual and extremely early for not having gotten to bed until dawn. One thing was for certain. She would never look at The Daring Duo’s table the same way again.
She was afraid, in fact, that every time she saw them sitting there she’d be tempted to pull them by the hair out of what she now considered her table. Hers and Sebastian’s.
Dealing with what they’d done last night was going to take longer than four fairly sleepless hours. She certainly hadn’t had the time or the energy to put anything into perspective once she’d arrived home. Having walked from the loft to the bar earlier in the evening, he’d accepted her offer of a lift since she was going his way.
She’d almost thought he’d decline, that he’d disappear into the city’s shadows. But the ride up in the elevator was nothing like the one they’d shared the previous night. This time he’d said goodbye to her when the doors had opened on the sixth floor. Not with a kiss or any such intimate gesture, but with nothing more than one raised hand while he leaned against the back wall of the car.
She didn’t know why she’d expected more; so what that they’d spent the past two hours engaged in mind-blowing sex? Having a Man To Do wasn’t about sharing anything but their bodies. Sebastian seemed to have a better handle on that than she’d managed to grab thus far.
The four hours she had slept seemed to have been all the recharging time her brain needed. Her body still ached and craved another eight but her mind was racing, demanding she get her butt in gear. Still, before getting out of bed to brush her teeth or take care of the rest of her bathroom business, even before stumbling to the kitchen for the coffee, she did the one thing she had to do before she did anything else.
Unload on Tess and Samantha.
She dragged her laptop into her lap and began to type.
From: Erin Thatcher
Sent:
Saturday
To: Samantha Tyler; Tess Norton
Subject: Screw Me Once? Shame On Me?
Okay, girls. I’m totally screwed. (Well, I’ve been totally screwed but that’s another subject for another letter!)
You know all my talk of keeping emotions out o
f this affair with Sebastian? Uhuh. Not happening. Too late. I won’t say I’m in love…but I’m definitely way over my head in like. So, what now?
He told me things last night. Things I’m still not certain are true. Things about his past that almost seemed to be a story made up for my benefit. To appease my curiosity, as it were, perhaps even to frighten me a bit so I’d quit wondering all the things I’ve been wondering and keep my mind and my heart from getting as involved as my body.
But the bone he threw me (ha!) totally backfired because he made me even more curious. And I couldn’t exactly ask him to stop talking so I could find out if he was bullshitting me considering I was in a rather compromising position at the time. (How compromising, your nosy selves ask?
And so my dilemma. Do I press him for the truth about what he told me? (I really do want to know!) Or do I just go with it, forget trying to figure out who he is and enjoy his company and his, uh, tongue?
But I’m afraid I’d miss Sebastian even more.
I guess I never did figure on wanting to get to know my Man To Do. (Stupid me!) There’s even a part of me that has thought about ditching the sexual fling and seeing if we’d work out as friends. I think he’d really be interesting to know. More interesting to know even than fun to…well, you get the idea.
What do I do? ::whine, whine:: Erin
Not that she necessarily expected Tess or Samantha to have the perfect solution, but even a hint of what tack to take would help. As it was, Erin’s mind might’ve been wound up into high gear, but it was a total wasteland when it came to any sort of cognizant decision-making.
Coffee. Then shower. Before anything else.
She headed to the kitchen, ground the last of her Sumatra beans, poured filtered water from the refrigerated jug into the coffeemaker and waited for the caffeine to brew. Double-size mug filled to the brim with the addition of sweetener and cream and she was on her way to being human.
She was also on her way to the shower, mug in one hand, towels in another, when her e-mail chime sounded, requiring a quick detour back to the bedroom. First things first. Waking up completely would have to wait another minute or two while she checked to see who had come through with much needed advice. Or the swift kick to the backside she deserved.
From:
Tess
Norton
Sent:
Saturday
To: Erin Thatcher; Samantha Tyler
Subject: Re: Screw Me Once? Shame On Me?
Dear
Erin:
Do exactly as I say. Do not deviate from this plan. Do this now:
1. Go to the nearest Starbucks
2. Order the Caramel Mocha Frappuccino
3. Also order the biggest chocolate brownie in the case
4. Sit down in a comfy chair to drink/eat
5. Ask yourself what’s the worst that can happen with Sebastian?
6. Ask yourself what’s the best that can happen with Sebastian?
7. Realize that NEITHER OF THOSE TWO THINGS ARE GOING TO
HAPPEN! What will really happen is something you can neither anticipate nor prepare for.
THEREFORE:
1. Enjoy your coffee and brownie
2. Enjoy your time with Sebastian
3. Be true to your inner voice
4. Honor your libido
5. Don’t play games—if you have a question, ask it
My, my, don’t I sound wise? Sort of like Dr. Phill on estrogen. All kidding aside, I think the above is true. I think the key is the voice inside, and listening to it instead of making rationalizations for the things we want to listen to instead.
Not that I do that, mind you. I’m a moron and should be watched 24/7 by a team of psychiatrists. But that’s another e-mail. I gotta run!
Love and kisses, Tess
Well, thought Erin, Tess was certainly on a roll this morning. She’d obviously been sniffing too much plant fertilizer if she thought she needed a psychiatrist. Tess had to be one of the most levelheaded women Erin had ever met—even if they’d only met in cyberspace.
She carried her mug to the shower, setting it on the ledge above the showerhead where she kept her shampoo and gel. Between the hot water and the hot coffee, she’d eventually get her body going. Curling back up in bed for another couple of hours sounded like a lot more fun than going to work. Curling back up in bed with Sebastian sounded even better.
But she had a party to plan. And no matter how much she’d rather do a half-dozen other things, including doing her Man To Do, she owed this one to Rory.
“I’VE BEEN TRYING TO GET Will to understand how Sebastian made up the story of The Daring Duo. Will thinks I’m exaggerating.” Cali pouted. “I mean, I know I didn’t hear all of what Sebastian was saying since I was working. But Will just doesn’t believe that what I did hear was as cool as it was and it’s totally pissing me off.”
Cali’s interruption of Erin’s distracted musings was not the least bit unwelcome. She’d been wishing she’d followed Tess’s advice and taken time for the Caramel Mocha Frappuccino and the brownie before coming to work, but she’d been thinking more about the party and less about her mental health.
All these hours later she was paying the price for that particular lapse in priorities. And the price tag kept getting higher. She’d think about the best thing that could happen with Sebastian then she’d think about the worst thing before starting the cycle all over again. For some reason she never could get to that place of nirvana halfway in between.
Yep. Two brownies would’ve been even better. A girl could never have too much chocolate. Whether or not she could have too much sex, or an adverse reaction to the sex she’d been having was something else altogether. Either Erin’s long dormant hormones were bubbling against the lid of a pressure cooker—or else she was on the verge of succumbing to love at first sight. In this case, love at first sex.
“Exaggerating how?” Erin glanced from Cali to Will who was loading down his tray with frosted mugs and a pitcher of beer. Will’s mouth was drawn into a tight grim line instead of into his usual boyish smile. Obviously Cali telling tales of their lover’s spat did not sit well. For once Erin was on his side, the side of the one done wrong.
“Cali seems to think Sebastian has some sort of magical storytelling gift.” Will hoisted up his tray. “I’ve been trying to convince her that there’s nothing magic about telling a story. It’s all about the elements and the way the author puts them together.”
Erin’s loyalties swung back to Cali. “Well, I don’t know about an author’s elements but I do know my granddad Rory could’ve given Hemingway a go. And Rory never put a word on paper. It was all in the way he told the tale.”
Cali looked triumphant. Will looked just plain mad before walking away. Erin shrugged, not really wanting to get into the middle of what she was afraid was a personal problem between Cali and Will and their screenplay and not at all about Sebastian’s storytelling skills.
Of course, they didn’t know about the tale he’d woven last night while he’d had her spread open across The Daring Duo’s table. The story that was giving Erin bloody hell today as she’d tried—unsuccessfully and all day long—to put what he’d said into any sort of perspective.
Or even into a context around which she could wrap either side of her brain. But logic wasn’t working. Neither was her imagination. It was too far out there, the story he’d told. Little boys and little trucks and a cupcake begged from a bakery’s back door.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Cali tossed a tray full of empties into the trash can designated for glass recycling. The bottles clattered loudly and Cali flinched before screwing up her face in apology.
“Sorry.”
Erin arched a brow. “You didn’t learn anything from me taking out my frustration on the mugs the other night?”
With Will gone, Cali had room to speak freely. “Men are so aggravating. Everything has to be their way or the highway.”
“Sometimes their way isn’t such a bad thing.” Erin glanced across the bar to the table where earlier she’d seated three female single twenty-somethings-seeking, unable to bear the thought of The Daring Duo defiling the table where she’d experienced Sebastian’s firsthand knowledge of heaven.
“If you’re being cheap and sleazy and talking about sex, then I agree. Having a man who knows what to do once he’s got your clothes off is a beautiful thing.” Before Erin could agree, Cali added, “But I hate it when they try to be an expert on everything and turn up their nose at even the hint—” she held forefinger and thumb a fraction of a millimeter apart “—the tiniest hint of a suggestion that they might be wrong. Or that another man might have the answer when they don’t.”