Skin Deep

by Evans, Anna J.

  Your soul, your broken heart. God. You’re right. You need to do whatever it takes to get this girl out of your system so you can stop being such a fucking pussy.

  “Are you laughing?” Christian asked, obviously as surprised by the phenomenon as Jackson himself.

  “Yeah.” He smiled and downed the last of his soda. “I was thinking about Delilah and her pussy lecture.”

  “The one about the power of the pussy to give life and pleasure and how we shouldn’t use the sacred name of her holy vajay jay as an insult?” Christian asked, his contempt for their Vegas office manager’s feminist rants clear in his voice, though his expression softened perceptibly.

  No matter how often his partner insisted his decision to transfer Delilah to the new Miami location with them was purely good business, Jackson suspected Christian had a thing for Dee and would gladly cut off a finger or two to get into her holy vajay jay. Too bad Delilah couldn’t see through Christian’s machismo bullshit to the extremely decent guy inside.

  She actually seemed to have a thing for Jackson, and had asked him for drinks on more than one occasion. He’d always declined. Jackson didn’t mix business with pleasure. And even if he did, he didn’t feel anything but friendship for the magenta-haired manager. He’d never felt anything but friendship, or lust, for any woman . . . but one.

  And it was high time he did whatever it took to get her out of his system. He was nearly thirty, for god’s sake. It was time to get the hell over his high school crush, and that wasn’t going to happen while they still shared the same ink. He’d tried everything he could think of to stop thinking about Nicky and their matching tattoos—hell, he’d even gone to see a therapist a few times—but nothing helped. Something had to be done. He was on the fast track to having everything he’d ever wanted and he wasn’t going to waste another eight years of his life fixated on the one that got away.

  “Yep. That’s the one. Speaking of the power of the pussy, I think it’s time for me to head back to the hotel, see if I can snag a starlet or two at the bar,” Christian said. The two men got out of the truck, slamming the doors behind them. “You sure you won’t come back with me?”

  “Nope. See you in a few days.”

  “Or a few minutes, if she turns you down.” Christian paused at the door to his BMW roadster. “You know what, I think I’ll come in and watch this go down. See what she has to say—”

  “No, you can’t come in. I don’t want to be recognized.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re giant Jack Bledsoe. People are going to—”

  “You think people at a bar like this watch Brava?” Jackson asked, happier than ever that their reality show hadn’t been on one of the major networks. A certain degree of celebrity he could contend with, but being recognized everywhere he went would have driven him insane. “Besides, I’m undercover.” He pulled his hat lower on his face and tugged down the arms of his black sweater, concealing his full-sleeve tattoos.

  Without them, he was a fairly average-looking guy with short dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and unremarkable features. Not ugly by any means, but his wasn’t the face that had kept female viewers glued to the screen for the three seasons of Sin City Ink. Christian was the pretty boy. If anyone was going to be recognized, it would be him. Jack doubted even Nicky would be able to guess his own identity, at least not right away. He’d shot up three more inches and gained about sixty pounds of pure muscle since the last time she’d seen him. Unless, of course, she watched the show . . . and had seen the kind of man he’d grown into.

  Jack hadn’t allowed himself to think much about that, to imagine she might be sufficiently interested to follow his life. Thinking like that was a great way to let this situation get out of hand. He wasn’t here to make nice with an old friend—he was here to right a wrong and move on with his life. End of story.

  “I’ll have my cell if you need me,” Jackson said, a grim smile on his face as he stood and shoved his wallet in his pocket.

  “I’ll be in Miami by tomorrow afternoon, man. I won’t need anything.” Christian slammed the door to his roadster and rolled down the window. “Call me if you come to your senses and want to be on the flight tomorrow morning.”

  Jack waited until Christian’s car was out of sight before walking around to the front entrance of the Hard Way. There was no longer a doorman on duty and the crowd inside had thinned considerably since ten o’clock. As he strode across the plank floors, the bartender with long black hair announced last call, but the clutch of men surrounding the bar looked far from ready to call it a night.

  But then why would they, when Nicky was holding court on top of the bar and kept getting more and more daring with her dancing? No matter that state regulations expressly forbid the bartenders from stripping, Jack expected clothes to start coming off any second, an expectation obviously shared by the men surrounding her like a pack of dogs.

  His hands tightened into fists on their own accord, his body itching to defend Nick the way he had when they were kids. Back then she’d been an innocent fourteen-year-old attracting the wrong kind of attention from the senior boys at school. They’d known she was a foster kid and had no one to look out for her. She’d been cornered behind the gym within three days of transferring to Carson City High.

  Jackson had earned himself two weeks of detention for beating the shit out of the three football players who had decided it would be fun to pass around the new girl, but it had been worth it. No one messed with his foster sister again. He wouldn’t even allow himself to touch her until she turned sixteen, though she’d made her interest abundantly clear. But Jack had been nearly two years older and hadn’t wanted to take advantage, no matter how many nights he had lain awake with a raging hard-on, fantasizing about the girl sleeping in the next room.

  Apparently she still had the power to inspire a similar reaction in him and just about any other member of the penis-possessing segment of the population. Jackson was going to have to watch his step. Pulling Nicky away from her pack of horny and delusional admirers was likely to make tempers flare. He couldn’t afford to attract that kind of attention. He needed to get Nicky out of here without anyone taking notice.

  That meant he’d have to stay back in the shadows and watch, bide his time until she was finished with her performance, no matter how torturous a part of him found it to see Nicky bumping and grinding for a bunch of horny drunks.

  Or how arousing the other part of him found it.

  Damn, but she was even sexier than he remembered. The way she tossed her long hair over her shoulder, flashing those big eyes in a way that seemed to promise untold pleasure to every man in the room, made his entire body ache. It was going to be hellish to be trapped in a cabin with her for three days without being able to touch her, kiss her, be buried deep inside the only woman who had ever—

  Who ever ruined your life. Focus, Bledsoe.

  His inner voice was right. He had to focus because there was no turning back now. Soon he would be leaving Pasadena with Nicky by his side, either as his passenger or his captive. At least that choice would be hers.

  Five more bucks from her regular Carl, three from the thirty-something Latino guy, and two from his girlfriend. Combined with the twenty she’d lifted from the frat boy too drunk to see what he was fishing from his wallet, the money she’d made in the past ten minutes brought Nicky up to an even four hundred for the night. It made it worth the anxiety she felt every time she took her turn on top of the bar. And it was more than enough to pay for an entire hour of very expensive attorney time . . . if she ever got the guts to hire the woman she’d met with last week.

  She knew Derrick expected her to sign the divorce decree as it stood without a word of protest. He would probably bust a blood vessel if he learned she was even considering hiring representation to fight him in court. Her soon-to-be ex-husband was that certain of his ability to scare her absolutely shitless. But then, he had every reason to be sure of himself. She had rarely dared to stand
up to him during their three-year relationship. Back in the beginning, however, there hadn’t been so very much at stake. . . .

  But she couldn’t think about that now. Right now she had to concentrate on raking it in, doing whatever it took to part the men surrounding her from the last of their cash before her shift ended. And if that included getting a little creative, so be it. She didn’t particularly enjoy having some stranger suck a body shot out of her belly button, but what she enjoyed didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore except reclaiming her life from the man who held it hostage.

  “Time for a shot!” Nicky forced a naughty smile onto her face as she pulled her shirt a little higher, baring more of her midriff. The little white schoolgirl top tied at the waist, combined with the shortest kilt she could find, was always a recipe for big tips. Cliché as it might be, dirty old men still went crazy for a schoolgirl uniform, especially if you were willing to lie down and let one of them suck alcohol off your stomach while wearing it.

  “Pick me, Angel!” someone drunkenly called from the opposite end of the bar as she poured the cinnamon liqueur into the well of her navel.

  “Not tonight, gentlemen,” she said, winking at the Latino guy’s girlfriend. “I’m in the mood for a softer touch.” A new song came over the sound system and Nicky clapped along as the blushing girl sidled up to the bar.

  The roar of the men cheering as the petite woman held back her dark curls and suckled the Goldschlager from Nicky’s stomach was too loud for her to tell for certain, but the song sounded like vintage Rolling Stones. One of her favorite bands of all time. Hell, she might actually be enjoying herself right now if she were just getting a little wild on a Friday night, not playing the tart for a crowd.

  It had been so long since she’d been able to just go dancing, to hit a club or a bar for fun with some girlfriends. Not that dancing at the Hard Way was torture. She’d never been particularly shy about her body, and her time as a celebrity lingerie model for Good and Trashy Lingerie had made her even less so. Still, she wished she didn’t have to be on display every night. At least not right now, not when she still felt so vulnerable.

  Screw it. Suck it up and give the customers what they want.

  Nicky hopped back to her feet and finished out the song with her usual flair, fueling just enough naughty into her moves to keep the men panting, but keeping it clean enough that the crowd didn’t get out of hand. It was somewhat of an art, but one she’d perfected in the past month. She worked up and down the length of the bar one last time, collecting another twenty bucks before the closing bell sounded.

  “Happy Trails to You,” the bar’s signature closing song, began to play. Nicky stopped dancing, drawing sounds of protest from several of the drunker patrons. “See you tomorrow, gentlemen,” she said with a grin and a flutter of her fingers.

  Always leave them wanting more.

  “Hey, Angel, can you clean up the well?” Cassandra shouted from where she was loading the last batch of glasses into the dishwasher behind the bar. “I’ve got everything else ready to close.”

  “Sure thing,” Nicky said, already feeling the familiar exhaustion that washed over her at the end of the night, once the adrenaline rush was over.

  She pulled her shirt down and was preparing to leap from her perch when a large hand closed gently around her ankle. Her first instinct when customers tried to take looking at the goods to the next level was usually a slap on the wrist and then a kick somewhere more painful if they didn’t wise up fast. But for some reason, the feel of this hand was different, intriguing, electric.

  Then she heard the voice that went with the hand and dry panties were a thing of the past. “Nice tattoo.” Damn. A voice like that, so deep it practically had its own reverb, was nearly enough to make her forget she’d sworn off men for at least the next ten years. Or twenty, depending on the day and how much time she’d had to think about Derrick.

  “Thanks. It’s what made me famous,” she said, smiling down into the shadowed face of one of the biggest men she’d ever seen in real life.

  He was six and a half feet tall, at least, and the way his arms and chest stretched out his sweater left no doubt he was strong enough to snap her in half without breaking a sweat. The very thought of something like that should have been enough to cool her rapidly heating blood, but it wasn’t. She was freaking hopeless when it came to big, strong, domineering men.

  Even after three years with a dom who had made her life a living hell and taken away everything that meant something to her, a part of Nicky still fantasized about finding someone man enough to take control of her the way a real dominant would. The way she’d seen some of the men at the clubs treat their subs. With respect. Like they were people to be treasured, protected, and valued, not lower life-forms as interchangeable as sheets of Kleenex.

  “Doubt it. I think you’ve got a few other things going for you.” His thumb flicked gently across the inside of her ankle, sending a sizzle of awareness racing up her leg. God, she’d never been so glad she chose heels instead of her fuck-me boots.

  Though those could have been good, too. She could already see herself pulling this man into her tiny studio in South Pasadena and taking off everything but her boots. Then she’d turn around, lean over the bed, and show him how wet she was, how ready to take whatever he was packing in those black jeans. He wouldn’t say a word, or maybe he’d just tell her to spread her legs a little wider. Then he’d be behind her, large hands gripping her hips, thick cock spearing inside where she was—

  “Hey, we’ve got to close up,” Nicky said, her voice betraying exactly where her thoughts had been headed. “But I know a diner not too far from here. We could get a coffee.”

  “I’d love a coffee. My car is in the back lot,” her mystery man said, reaching a hand up to help her off the bar. “I could give you a ride.”

  Oh, dear, she just bet he could give her a ride.

  She hadn’t even seen his face, but he practically radiated sex. Controlling, demanding, completely-dominating-the-woman-he-was-fucking sex. The kind she’d been craving for nearly two years during her Derrick-imposed celibacy. Two years without even the comfort of another warm, human body, let alone the fucking she craved.

  A good fucking—not lovemaking, not even gentle sex—that’s what she wanted. What she needed. Nicky was a carnal person, always had been. She needed it rough, hot, and primal, and it was past time for her to scratch her itch. Tomorrow she would be back here, working another double shift. But tonight was for her.

  Or even better yet, for him. There was nothing she enjoyed as much as bringing a big man like this to his knees with pure, unbridled lust.

  Nicky smiled, wishing she had the guts to skip coffee and head straight back to her apartment with a total stranger, but even two years of celibacy hadn’t made her that daring. Of course, she could at least clue this guy in on what she was hoping they would get around to doing after coffee.

  Ignoring the hand he held out, she leapt straight into the big guy’s arms, looping her hands around his neck and her long legs around his thick waist. Hot damn. It looked like this guy was as big below the belt as he was everywhere else. And he was hard, hot, and ready, so erect she could feel him throbbing against her even through his jeans and her damp panties.

  “Looks like we’re on the same page,” she said, breath coming faster as she flexed the muscles in her legs, urging her clit into even tighter contact with his cock. “And I really hope you—”

  Oh . . . god. Why hadn’t she made sure she got a good look at his face before she started humping him like a nympho on roofies?

  “Something wrong, Nick?” he asked, even as he set her down on the ground. Several seconds passed in awkward silence before she could remember how to form words.

  And once she did, only one word came to mind.

  Shit.

  Shitshitshitshitshitshit!

  Of course the first man she’d decided to sleep with since her breakup would be the one man sh
e never thought she’d see again. It was Jack. And whoa if he hadn’t grown up in all the right places. Back in high school he’d been sweet, lovable, and sexy, but now he was . . .

  “Why don’t we get out of here, Nicky? We can go for a drive, catch up. Get your things,” he said, his tone revealing there would be no argument.

  Trouble. That’s what he was, trouble.

  And damn her if that didn’t make her panties even wetter.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Jack,” she said, moving slowly behind the bar and concentrating on capping the well liquor no matter how much a part of her wanted to hasten to obey him. But then, she supposed some sub tendencies died hard. “We haven’t—I mean it’s been years and—I’ve just got a lot going on right now, and I—”

  “It’s just a ride. And talk.”

  “That’s not what it felt like a few seconds ago.” She blushed, cursing the shot of Jack Daniel’s she’d tossed back before her last turn on the bar. This was all the whiskey’s fault. She never would have jumped into a stranger’s arms and started rubbing herself all over him like a cat in heat without it.

  She might have wanted to, but she wouldn’t have actually done it.

  “That was a few seconds ago.” He smiled, and she caught a flash of the skinny boy who’d appointed himself her protector from the second they met, making her wonder how much he had really changed. “I came here to talk old times, not re-create them. Though I wouldn’t put up a fight if you decided you wanted more than talk. Seems we’ve still got the same chemistry.”

  “Seems like it,” she said, finding it easier to return his grin. She capped the last of the well drinks and eased out from behind the bar, highly conscious of Cassandra’s eyes on her and Jackson. The other bartender had been giving her shit for weeks, begging Nicky to let her set her up with an eligible screw or two. Now Nicky could practically feel the “go for it” vibes surging toward her from across the room. Unfortunately, Jackson wasn’t any more her idea of eligible than the ex-porn star crowd Cassandra hung with. “But that’s probably not a good idea.”