by Cari Quinn
I bit her ear. “I want to go out on top. Bottom’s okay too.”
“Pervert.” Her laughter quieted as Kim, ring card girl extraordinaire, climbed into the ring to announce the match.
I held her through three rounds, then four. Neither of them were tapping out. Half the rounds were freaking draws. By round five, Emerson was stumbling around like he was drunk and Giovanni was wheezing like he needed oxygen. Lily had her knuckles pressed to her mouth and the crowd was torn between screaming for their favorites—and they were pretty evenly split—and watching in shocked silence as the men pummeled each other.
Just when I was I sure they’d go another five rounds, Gio dragged Emerson into a combination that defied logic and gravity. Legs tangled, they crashed to the mat. Somehow they reversed positions, and amazingly, it was Emerson who raised his fist to deliver the final blow.
I expected the sound of bones crunching, but there was only the ref’s whistle. It was over. He’d won.
Hot damn.
The audience went wild, screaming, yelling. Boos sounded from Gio’s legion of fans, but they were drowned out by the cheering. Lily and I led the brigade. No one was going to shout or whistle louder than we would for the guy we loved.
Once Emerson headed back to the locker room, I grinned down at Lily. She was still pale, but her bright green eyes burned with excitement. “So...” I looped an arm around her shoulders and we joined the groups of people swarming for the doors. “How do you feel about a quick shower?”
But she didn’t smile. “No way.”
My smile faded. “Why not?”
We’d all been insatiable for weeks, unable to get enough of each other no matter how many times we were together. I hoped she wasn’t growing tired of our sex-a-thons, since I had a feeling I never would.
Sex with Lily and Emerson was basically the pinnacle of life as I knew it.
“It’s a long shower or nothing, pal.” She poked me in the ribs and sprinted down the hall, taking the most likely route to the locker room.
Halfway there, she turned back. “Guess who has a date tonight, by the way?”
“Hmm. It’s not you. Unless you count naked Chinese.”
“Works for me. But no, it’s not me. Try my dad.” She pumped her fist. “He’s going out with a woman who, get this, is one of Emerson’s landscaping clients. He had to give her up when he started training with Einrich, but he still tries to help her out when he can. One day he couldn’t make it, and he mentioned my dad being handy with a long lopper and—”
“Whoa. Dirty.”
She giggled. “They’re going out for steak and a movie. I’m so happy I could bust.”
I caught her around the waist and lifted her off her feet, giving her a smacking kiss. “Me too.”
“Hey you two, gonna get in here sometime soon?”
Emerson’s lazy drawl had me looking over Lily’s head to where he stood in the bathroom doorway. He wore his shorts and a telltale maroon hoodie wrapped around his waist.
Recently, he’d had some sweatshirts made that said “Lily’s Dollhouses”, and he’d taken to wearing them before fights. Lily’s business had exploded from the increased exposure. Instead of people thinking it was an old-fashioned hobby, she was doing all kinds of tricked out designs to accommodate her new clients. Her latest project was a replica boxing ring. I kept telling her she needed to include a tiny Em with a jacked up dick, but so far she hadn’t obliged me.
The shorts and hoodie wrapped around Em’s waist weren’t all he was wearing. He also sported a colorful assortment of bruises—and a let’s fuck smile.
I gave Lily a light shove. “Sounds like we have an appointment of our own, babe.”
She rushed toward Emerson and smiled at me over her shoulder. “And I think it’s going to take all night.”
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CARI QUINN
USA Today bestselling author Cari Quinn wrote her first story—a bible parable—in 2nd grade, much to the delight of the nuns at her Catholic school. Once she saw the warm reception that first tale garnered, she was hooked. Now she gets to pen sexy romances for a living and routinely counts her lucky stars. When she’s not scribbling furiously, she can usually be found watching men’s college basketball, playing her music way too loud or causing trouble. Sometimes simultaneously.
Visit her website at www.cariquinn.com
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Hot Summer Nights
By Cathy Clamp
Hot Summer Nights
Copyright © Cathy Clamp 2015
Gabriel Silva started working as a handyman at the Starlight Motel when he emigrated from Brazil a decade ago. When the owner died, he inherited half. The other half went to Sophie Greene, the man’s granddaughter. And oh, what a woman she was! Smart, fiery and gorgeous and could hammer nails as fast as him . . . maybe even faster. He could watch her climb and stretch all day, and all night too! But she wanted to turn the Starlight into a high end resort spa! Never!
It made sense that Sophie would inherit the motel, since she’d managed Grandpa Will’s string of rental properties in Texas, but the Starlight had always been a money pit. She had better get the place profitable, and quick, if she wanted to eat next month. Meeting Gabe sent shock waves through her. Not only suave and handsome, but he could handle power tools as well as her. She saw how he looked at her, his eyes raking her body as she put up roofing next to him. Maybe there were other ways to convince him to see things her way...
CHAPTER ONE
The pounding in Gabe’s head was getting worse. If he didn’t get out of the sun pretty soon, he was going to wind up with heat stroke. The buzz of cicadas in the ancient cypress trees overhead made the air feel even heavier— thick enough to cut with a knife. Even if the sun hadn’t been so unrelenting, the humidity weighed down his clothes. They hung from him like he’d been swimming in the pool. The patterned scarf covering his head was soaked with sweat and his eyes stung from the salt. But the new roof panels were up and just in time, if the dark clouds on the horizon were any indication.
“Gabe!” He looked down and saw tiny Mrs. Hernandez using her extension tongs to hold up a bottle of water from her third floor balcony. “You’re all red. Drink. Drink.”
Her age spotted hands shook as she reached the bottle as high as she could with the metal pincer contraption she always carried around. It was a nice gesture, but he honestly wasn’t sure if he could bend far enough down to grab it without falling head first onto the pavement.
He waved at her and walked down the steep slope of the roof, keeping the tie line of his safety harness at an angle so it didn’t tangle. She squinted up at him. “Obrigado, Senhora Dona Hernandez. Thank you. But I have water up here. I will take a break soon. I promise.”
She lowered the water bottle and shook her head. “You work too hard, Gabriel.” She always pronounced it as though he was French, with a soft ‘a’ and an emphasis on the ‘el’. It wasn’t correct, but he liked how she said it. “You should tell Mr. Will that you need help.”
“Mr. Will passed away, Senhora Dona. Don’t you remember? A few months ago.” And he’d just used the last supplies that the old owner had paid for. Other than the few wrappers of shingles to cover the wood and a little paint, the supply room was empty.
But he was ready. He’d saved nearly every dime he’d been paid as an employee, just like Will Green had taught him. How many nights had he slept hungry, even while there was money in the bank? When the motel was officially his, he could care for it. Mr. Will had kept track of much the shingles cost, and the same for each plate of glass, square foot of carpet and even pillows. He’d read the reports and understood th
em. I’m ready. Like I promised.
He let out a slow breath as the frail widow escaped back into her room, probably to put her face deep into the breeze from the air conditioner. The Louisiana heat was hard on the people who lived here. He had to make sure he kept their rooms in good repair. Every air conditioner worked, was top of the line. The independence of living at the Starlight Motel, not being a burden on their families, was their pride . . . and his. This wasn’t a motel. It was a community.
He opened the cooler tucked in the shade next to the television antenna, but even though he’d packed it with blocks of ice when he’d started on the roof, the bottles of Gatorade were floating in a pool of tepid water now. Still, warm was better than hot and he gratefully gulped down the salty orange fluid.
There was no way he was going to have time to get the shingles put down before the storm hit, so he started to roll out plastic sheeting to cover the bare wood. It was exterior grade, but it would still be easier to shingle tomorrow if the wood wasn’t wet.
As Gabe was lowering the bucket with his tools to the ground, he noticed a long black car pulling into the driveway. A limousine? Was it finally time? This was the wrong neighborhood for a limo, unless it was about Mr. Will’s estate.
A man in a suit that probably cost more than Gabe’s whole wardrobe stepped out of the limo, carrying a briefcase. The man was middle-aged, his hair thinning but still with color, his tie bright red, shiny enough to be silk. The suit was Italian cut, in the latest style. But it wasn’t Mr. Will’s attorney . . . at least not the one he’d been introduced to last fall. Still, he probably was a lawyer. He remembered Mr. Will’s lessons about meeting new people. Notice clothing always, Gabe. People speak through clothes. Listen to what they tell you. But remember–clothes do not make the man. Clothes are just words. The strength of the words is in the people.
“Excuse me!” He yelled the words up to be heard over the traffic and insects. “Habla Ingles? Are you Gabriel Silva?”
It made him chuckle as he unhooked his safety harness from the static line. Will Greene’s voice came into his head again. No blinks, Gabe. Be firm, meet his eyes. No matter how you are dressed at the moment. Make your clothing.
He kept his gaze locked on the other man’s, taking his measure. He shouted back in reply. “Yes, I’m Gabriel, and I speak English.” With a little Cajun accent, which he had worked hard to perfect. It was likely why people used the French pronunciation of his name. It was a long way from a being teenager who arrived as a stowaway, who couldn’t speak anything but his native tongue. “But even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t speak Spanish. I’m from Brazil. We speak Portugese.”
That made the man blink, which amused him. Dark skin didn’t automatically mean Mexican, especially in Louisiana. In fact, when he wasn’t working in the sun all the time, his skin was almost pale. While the man was deciding what to say next, Gabe tested the ladder to make sure the feet hadn’t shifted. He really should attach a ladder to the wall to reach the roof. Maybe next year.
That was when he saw the shiny black stiletto heel slide out of the limo. The leg that followed was bare of hose, but the calf muscle said the woman was a runner or at least a fitness buff.
He watched while the rest of the woman exited the vehicle. She was wearing a pair of white capri pants and a sleeveless shirt. But what drew his attention was the summer hat, broad brimmed white with a patterned black and white ribbon. A gust of wind from the coming storm hit his back, nearly blowing him off the roof. It caught the hat and tried to pull it off her head. The hair underneath was the color of beach sand. She reached up to hold it on, and looked up. Their eyes met and her lips opened. It was the same expression. The very same. Gabe’s breath stilled at the same moment his heart started to race.
It was her. The woman in the photograph.
~*~
“It’s just around the next corner, Miss Greene.”
Sophie nodded, not really listening to the lawyer, instead spending her time looking out the window to get a feel for the neighborhood. Despite his age, the man in the nice suit across from her was just an associate, and she’d only just met him. She’d expected her grandfather’s regular attorney, one of the partners in the most exclusive law firm in town, to be the one to accompany her today. She’d been a little disappointed that he’d pushed the meeting off on someone else—especially since she’d made an appointment. Well, okay, that was a lie. She wasn’t a little disappointed, she was a lot pissed.
“I still don’t understand why we have to drive to the location before signing the paperwork, Mr. Bandy. I’ve seen pictures and my grandfather told me the motel was well maintained. I’m also a little confused why Seth wasn’t in the office for our appointment.”
The attorney gave an apologetic shrug and tapped one finger on the armrest of the broad seat. She couldn’t tell whether the gesture was from impatience or nervousness. “His trial yesterday ran over. The Judge insisted on another day to finish. He had to cancel all appointments. But since you were coming from out of town, he asked me to fill in. Visiting the site beforehand was requested by your grandfather. We’re simply ensuring his instructions are complied with.”
Really? That was interesting. Well, Grandpa Will did tend toward the dramatic. He liked to put on a show. Okay, I’ll let this play out. See what he wanted me to see. “Very well. Thank you for following his wishes, then.”
He dipped his head and nodded, just as the car turned and bounced over a curb. She looked out the heavily tinted windows. The Starlight Motel apparently hadn’t changed much from when it was built, likely in the late sixties. The tall sign bore a striking resemblance to the old Stardust Casino sign in Las Vegas. The hotel was painted the same shade of blue as the bottom of public swimming pools. It wasn’t a bad color for the building style. The white trim was clean and she didn’t spot a single bit of rust staining around the soffets or drain pipes. She’d have to check the room interiors, but so far, she was liking what she saw. A little dated, but that was easily fixed. I’ll have to keep on the maintenance people after I take title to the property.
When the limo came to a stop, Mr. Bandy stepped out and called to a person on the roof. The words were muffled from the soundproofing of the limo and Sophie couldn’t see who he was speaking to from her angle inside the wide back seat. She scooted to the door and put out one leg. Walking in heels didn’t come naturally to her. So she had to test the ground with her foot before she was willing to put her weight on it. Man what she wouldn’t give to be back in her work boots. But the law office appointment demanded certain social norms. The capris were at least pants, but of the upper-class-acceptable kind that Grandpa’s attorney was accustomed to seeing. Sophie had to at least pretend she was part of the Greene empire, that she fit into the family she was born to, even though she’d always felt like an outsider. As far as her siblings were concerned, she might as well have been adopted as an adult. She shared nothing in common with Beatrice (Bunny to her friends) or Trevor or Milton. She worked with her—ugh!—hands, and had no servants to speak of. Only Grandpa connected with her. Only he got who she really was.
She missed him terribly.
Whatever the man had said took Mr. Bandy by surprise. He was trying to come up with a response. She looked up and caught the eyes of the man standing there. One muscled arm was holding onto the top of an extension ladder and the sun glinted off the hardware on his safety belt. His pale blue eyes drilled through her. Holy mother of all that was good. He was real. The man in the photograph from Grandpa’s office wasn’t an image from the past, as she’d long believed. He was a living, breathing man. The wind from the coming storm pulled at his sweat-soaked work shirt, as though even the elements wanted to free the rippling muscles she knew lay underneath.
Oh, that picture. Two years ago that it had appeared on Grandpa Will’s shelf next to his desk. She’d been drawn to it immediately. Grandpa Will was a skilled photographer. He changed out his photos often, so she looked around each time she vi
sited. The way he managed to catch light and shadows was nothing short of mastery. He could take an old homeless woman sitting outside a grocery store and turn her into a goddess of a by-gone era that people would pay money to see.
It had been such a simple photo—just an ordinary workman taking a break. But the light in the black and white print caught the water in the bottle he had to his lips, touched the hammer held loosely, comfortably, in his other hand. Made them shine like divine instruments. His eyes were closed, taking in the sheer pleasure of cool water, while sweat left his body in rivulets down his bare chest. She’d had to touch the photo to prove that the drips of sweat weren’t really moving. “Who is he?” she remembered asking Grandpa.
Grandpa Will had just smiled, sitting behind his desk in his tailored suit, looking every inch the billionaire he was. “That’s the man who taught me everything I know about what’s real and important.”
Sophie had imagined he was someone from Grandpa’s youth, a fellow entrepreneur who had started out an empire working long summer days in the hot sun. Grandpa had noticed when she couldn’t take her eyes off the picture. He’d offered it to her to take home and she’d agreed. It was just a small snapshot, so he sent her the image by email and she’d had it blown up to a twenty by forty and framed it. She imagined him to be the workman of the Greek gods—Hephaestus’s younger, sexier brother. Any number of visitors to the motel she managed in Texas for her Grandpa had offer to purchase it for the art that it was. But she couldn’t sell it. In her mind, it would taint it somehow. The beauty, the power, couldn’t be owned . . . or controlled.
She blinked and realized she was watching his body. What would he think of her for staring so long? This wasn’t a photo. It was a person. But her staring had made him smile. His eyes raked her body from high above. Knowing; raw. It startled her and her eyes dropped to the ground, suddenly uncomfortable.
Sophie felt abruptly overheated and heavy in the still air. The wind had stopped completely, as though waiting, ready to pounce. Even Mr. Bandy noticed. “Are you feeling well?”