When he reaches my side of the pool again he grabs my feet, slowly walking his hands up my legs as he comes up for air.
“Was there something you wanted?” he asks, like he doesn’t know his touch just melted my brain into a gooey mess, making it almost impossible for my mouth to form words.
He removes his hands from my legs, putting them on the edge of the pool next to me as he bobs up and down in the deep water.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a man to put his hands back on me as much as I do this very second. I usually don’t want a man’s hands on me at all, but it’s always been a means to an end. A way to thwart a brutal beating from my mother. A way to get a roof over my head. A way to forget reality.
“Uh . . .” I scramble for a reason to have interrupted his swim. Other than the obvious fact that I’m acting like an adolescent with a schoolgirl crush on a man who considers me off limits. “I just wanted to know what’s taking so long. I mean, how hard could it be to find a few people? What the hell am I paying you for anyway?”
“Seriously?” His expression turns stern, making me further regret the off-the-cuff words I spoke. “First off, it’s not just a few people, Charlie. It’s a dozen.”
I wince knowing all too well how many names are on the list. And I scowl at his use of my first name. It’s all work and no play whenever he uses it. I guess I can’t blame him. I did all but call him a bad P.I.
“Second, do you know how many John Taylors and Steve Smiths there are in New York? Even more if we expand the search. It takes time to sift through all of them to find out which ones had a connection to your mom. And third, you haven’t paid me yet.”
I lower my head to my chest, feeling about two inches tall after the scolding he just gave me. “Sorry. I guess I’m just getting impatient. You don’t have anything for me?”
“We’ve only found a few of them,” he says.
“Can I get what you have or do you need a payment first? I don’t get a paycheck until next week.”
“It’s fine. If you need the information that badly, I’ll get it to you. Can you swing by the office on Monday?”
“Monday?” Now that I know he has some of what I need, I don’t want to wait that long. “Couldn’t we do it sooner?”
“I suppose I could bring it to you. Do you work tomorrow?”
“From ten to two,” I say.
“How about I come in for a late lunch at two? I’ll bring what I have so far. But don’t expect much at this point.”
I put my hands on either side of my legs, my upper arms squeezing my boobs together as I lean forward exposing even more cleavage. “Great. It’s a date.”
He gapes at my chest. He’s a guy—of course he does. But the warming sensation I feel from the heat of his stare is short-lived when he rips his eyes away. “No, Charlie, it’s not. I don’t date clients.”
Feeling rejected, I quip, “Right, you only fuck them.”
He sighs. “No, I don’t fuck them. I fucked you. Before you were a client I might add.”
I lean back, removing my chest from his face. “Well, how long do you think it will be before I’m not a client?”
He laughs a deep resounding chuckle. Pushing off the wall, he says, “See you at two o’clock tomorrow, Tate.”
So now it’s Tate.
I stand up, shaking my head at the thought of the perplexing man swimming away from me.
Game on, Stone.
Chapter Eight
I didn’t sleep much last night. And now I’m mindlessly going through the motions of my job. What will I do with the information I’m going to have at my fingertips later today? I know he said he didn’t have much. But he has something.
God, it felt good to deck that Dewey creep. But is that all I want to do, I wonder? What if these lowlifes are doing that shit to other girls? What if they have families? I make a mental note to ask Ethan to find out for me.
Jarod has the day off and Piper is only filling in as needed now that I’m full-time. It makes for a boring shift. Mindy is here though. And while it’s not the same as having my BFF here, I can’t say it’s not entertaining to watch her flirt with every heterosexual guy under forty that walks in—and maybe some gay ones too.
Mindy is Skylar’s best friend and former roommate. She reminds me a lot of myself, only older. She doesn’t take shit from anyone. And I admire the fact that even though she comes from money, she’s working to put herself through school to become a physical therapist.
She’s cool though, and our group of six girls that also includes Baylor and her bestie, Jenna, plans to have a girls’ night tomorrow.
I’m not a big fan of girls’ night but I agreed under Skylar’s threat of working me every Saturday night for a month. I’ve never been one to get along with other women. Women tend to pretty much hate me. I get that the hair and the face intimidate them because of who my mother was. I get that I never really gave them a second thought other than what I could get out of their boyfriends or husbands. I get that I’m pretty much the opposite of what any girl wants to call a friend.
The Mitchells—they never gave a rat’s ass what I looked like or who my mother was. But I think they were the only ones who didn’t.
Maybe I could get along with Mindy and Jenna. Mindy doesn’t seem to mind me that much and, while I’ve not met Jenna yet, I’ve heard great things about her.
As my shift is coming to an end, I stop by one of my tables where two guys are finishing their lunch. I’m surprised they haven’t hit the bathroom yet; they’ve asked me to refill their drinks at least five times, flirting with me more and more each time I visit their table. I flirt back. Of course I do. Flirting equals great tips. They are both good looking. Not in a rugged-yet-clean-cut Ethan Stone kind of way, but head-turners none the less. And maybe a few weeks ago, I’d have taken it further. But now . . . everything has changed. I no longer have to wonder where my next meal is coming from. I no longer need someone else to provide a roof over my head.
That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the reason I’m not carving notches on the bedpost that came from Baylor’s guest room.
I shake off the thought and ask the decently-hot guys, “Is there anything else I can get you?”
The one with dark hair and bedroom eyes says, “How about your phone number?”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? You New York guys have got to work on your pick-up lines.”
“Who says we’re from New York?” he quips. “And if I come up with something better, do you think I’ll have a shot?”
“I don’t know. It’ll take me about sixty seconds to bring your check, so that’s all the time you have.” I walk away feeling slightly guilty that I gave the poor guy any sliver of hope.
I cash out another table along the way and when I return, Bedroom Eyes nods to something on the table in front of him. “Fifth row,” he says. “We will probably be able to feel the sweat dripping off them as they play.”
I look closely to see tickets for White Poison, a wildly famous band. Tickets that I know must’ve sold out within minutes. I’m not that into the concert scene, but even I have to admit, part of me would love to see them live.
His friend kicks him under the table. “Dude, Drew will kill you if you give his ticket away.”
Bedroom Eyes flinches and rubs his shin “Shut up, Chris. Besides, I’m sure he’ll forgive me when he sees why. I mean any man would be crazy not to do everything in his power for a date with” —he looks at my nametag— “Charlie.”
I put their check on the table, next to the concert tickets, eyeing the face value on them. “You’d be willing to spend two hundred and fifty dollars on a woman you don’t even know?”
I think back over the past five years. I’ve taken much more from strangers without a single thought. But then again, something was always expected in return. Suddenly, a sick feeling washes over me as I recall some of the journal entries I’ve read that were penned by my mother. And as if a freight train had hit me, I fin
ally get it. I have pretty much become the daughter my mother raised me to be. Instead of her selling me for whatever she needed, I was selling myself for whatever I needed. I wasn’t technically a whore, but I might as well have been. Just as my mom wasn’t technically a pimp, but what she did to me certainly fell under the broad definition.
A familiar head of dirty-blonde hair scoots out of the booth behind this one. With a scowl on his face, Ethan leans over the table, pushing the tickets back to the man whose name I still haven’t learned. “Sorry. She’s already going, and with tickets far better than these.”
He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me tightly against him, like he’s claiming me as his. Like he’s marking his territory against these would-be predators. Like he’s the hot alpha male who fucked me quick and hard on his office desk.
I want to be mad at him, but I can’t. When I turn to look up at him, he’s brooding. And it’s damn adorable.
He knows I’m new to the city. Is he just trying to keep me safe? Or is he jealous? Nobody has ever been jealous over me—is this what it looks like? This strong man, puffing out his chest to appear even larger than he is, staring down the schoolyard bullies that tried to take his lunch money.
I think back to last night, him warning me to stay away from Devon and then the way he ignored me after. Jealousy or protection? The signals he’s sending are clear as fucking mud. One minute, he’s shooing guys away, the next he’s telling me he can’t date me. Maybe it comes from being a private investigator. I’ll bet he digs up some pretty twisted shit about people. People who seem normal on the outside but have major skeletons in their closet.
Fuck! What if he digs up shit about me? I mean, I just gave him carte blanche at the guys who all know the worst things about me. What if Ethan finds out?
I realize three pairs of eyes are staring at me, waiting on me to say something. I look back at Ethan, sweeping my gaze quickly up and down his body. It may be Saturday, but he’s still wearing his usual linen slacks and crisp, clean dress shirt, although today he’s minus the tie. Kind of a shame. He looks killer in a tie. I tighten my thighs just thinking about what he could do to me with one of his ties.
I look up into dark eyes that silently beg me to play along.
“Sorry.” I shrug at the guys in the booth. “I guess I’m busy that night.”
My would-be suitor’s hand falls onto the tickets, sliding them across the table towards his wallet before he begrudgingly puts them in it. “Some other time maybe,” he says, ignoring Ethan’s punishing stare.
“Charlie’s pretty busy these days,” Ethan says, pulling me even tighter against him. He gives the guy a look. That guy look that says ‘hands off.’
Bedroom Eyes holds up his hands in surrender and whips a couple of twenties out of his wallet. “No harm, no foul, man. We’ll just be on our way then.”
We move aside so the two men can slip out of the booth. When they walk out the front entrance, I realize Ethan still has a grip on me. And his thumb is rubbing circles on the side of my ribs, burning a hole through the thin material of my shirt. I try to ignore the intensity of feeling shooting through me from that little, seemingly insignificant touch.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, prying my body away from his.
“Rule number four” —his eyes dart to the door and back— “don’t play with fire if you don’t want to get burned.”
“Come again?”
“I heard you flirting with them, Charlie.” He moves his neck from side to side, eliciting a cracking sound.
“I flirt with lots of customers, Ethan. You do realize I make a living off tips.”
“Fire,” he says. “Eventually you’ll get burned.”
“I’m a big girl, you know. I can take care of myself.”
He stares at me thoughtfully, chocolate eyes carefully scanning every feature of my face as if he’s memorizing it for future recall. He sighs, clearly wanting to get into it with me, but wisely choosing not to. “You look like a librarian,” he says. “A goddamn sexy one.”
I laugh. I’ve gotten so used to wearing the glasses and the bun, that I sometimes forget about the way I look.
I stop laughing when I see the intensity of his stare. Air crackles between us. The crowded restaurant falls silent to my ears that can only hear the pounding of my heartbeat under his heated gaze. As we stare into each other’s eyes, something happens. Something I can’t explain. It’s like we can read each other’s minds; extrapolate each other’s thoughts.
He wants me. I want him. And it’s written all over us.
“Charlie?” Mindy pokes me from behind. “Can you please finish up your tables before the eye-fucking going on here turns into a full-on porn show?”
Ethan rips his eyes from mine and I blow out a slow controlled breath. “Sit,” I tell him, not able to look back into his eyes lest I be burned by the aforementioned fire. “Give me ten minutes.”
I head to the kitchen wondering what the hell just happened. The way he looked at me, it was more intense than the sex we had on his desk. Another minute of that and I might have orgasmed in the middle of Mitchell’s.
I wet a towel and run it over my face, hoping to tamp down the temperature of my scalding skin.
“Who on God’s earth is that and how do I get one?” Mindy asks, brushing past me to pick up a food order.
“Don’t you know him? That’s Jarod’s cousin. I thought he came in here all the time.”
She raises her eyebrow, giving me a look. “Believe me, I’d know it if he came in all the time.”
“But this is his fourth time here since I started the job.”
“Well, there you go. Mystery solved. It’s not the food he’s coming in for, Charlie.” She walks out of the kitchen with her tray piled high.
Chapter Nine
Standing stunned in the kitchen, I think about what Mindy said.
Not the food. Not Jarod. But he doesn’t date clients. He’s made that perfectly clear many times.
Ten minutes later, I sit down across from Ethan, placing a Reuben with a side of fries and water sans lemon in front of him.
He eyes it skeptically and then his gaze shifts to the empty spot on the table before me. “You’re not eating?”
It takes me a second to catch on. “Oh, right.” I shake my head in amusement. “Rule number two, if I remember correctly. But this isn’t a date. You said so yourself.”
His brow furrows into a scowl. “That doesn’t mean we can’t eat together, Charlie. You must be hungry after your shift.”
I look at his food and realize he’s right. It’s after two o’clock and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I shrug. “I guess I could eat.” I take my napkin and spread it out on the table in front of me. Then I grab half his sandwich and put it on the napkin.
A grin tugs at the edges of his mouth as he nods to his plate. “You want fries with that?” he asks like a seasoned waiter.
“That’s my line,” I say before taking a bite of my—uh, his—lunch.
I eye the folder on the table and almost lose my appetite remembering why he’s here in the first place. “Is that for me?”
He puts a hand on it, holding it firmly to the table as if wanting to keep it from me. Then he opens it, retrieving the papers inside.
I remember the thought I had earlier of him finding out everything and it turns my stomach over. I quickly ask, “You didn’t contact them, did you?”
“Of course not. You hired me to locate them, not contact them. We’ve found half of them so far.” He hands me three pieces of paper, each one with a different name at the top. Addresses, phone numbers and other pertinent information line the pages. “Obviously the three who are celebrities have been easy to pin down. But none of them currently reside in New York. One still has a place in the city that he lives in part time, however, he’s filming overseas for the next few months. The other two live in Los Angeles most of the year. You’ll see their home addresses listed, but these are not places yo
u can simply walk up to. You’ll have to go through security to get in. It’s also nearly impossible to get private numbers of these people. And they change often, so what we found may be outdated. Best to try and get in touch with them through their agents, whom I’ve listed for each of them. I’m sure if you tell them who you are and why you want to see them, it won’t be a problem.”
I almost choke on the corned beef in my mouth. If their agents knew why I wanted to contact them, they wouldn’t roll out the red carpet, they’d secure a restraining order.
He pulls out another piece of paper. “This one, Peter Elliot, he’s a small-time indie film producer. He lives locally, and although his address is confirmed, you won’t find him there. He’s in the hospital. Car versus pedestrian accident. The car won and he’s been laid up in the intensive care unit at the hospital for six weeks now. You may want to wait on that one. I’m not even sure the guy can talk or have visitors.”
I have to press my lips together to suppress a smile. Serves the bastard right.
“This one, Nick Dewey, as far as we can tell, he doesn’t have a home address. He used to work for Grandiose Production Company as a camera operator, but lost his job almost a decade ago and hasn’t surfaced since. If I find out anything else on the guy, I’ll let you know.”
Dewey. I remember how good it felt to hurt him at my mother’s funeral. I know I didn’t really need his information, but I thought, what the hell, I might want to send out a group text one day.
“The last one we’ve found so far is Milo McClintock, otherwise known as Clint. I’m not exactly sure of the connection between him and your mom, but because of the unusual name, and the fact he’s local, he’s most likely the one.”
He scrubs a hand over his chin. “But, Charlie, call the guy if you need to talk to him. Don’t go to his residence, it’s not in a good part of town. We couldn’t find a place of employment, either.”
That’s because he’s a drug dealer.
Stone Rules (A Mitchell Sisters/Stone Brothers Novel) Page 6