by P. Dangelico
“Can’t she stay with us?” That’s Cal. His deep baritone is unmistakable.
“No. She’s my responsibility now. It shouldn’t take longer than three months anyway.”
Three months? Groan.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like anything,” replies my lawyer. Can’t say I don’t agree with him there.
“Do I have to warn you to keep your hands to yourself?”
Then, a raspy masculine chuckle. “You think I’d jeopardize my career over a hump? I could get disbarred if there’s so much as a whisper of impropriety.”
A hump? Okay, that stings. As much as I’d like to say otherwise, it kind of stings. Just a little. Which makes me hate myself. I should be immune to such nonsense. I have less than zero interest in this man, not even as a hump, not even as desperate as I am and I’ve got desperation written all over me.
I know I’m not his type. I’m sure he dates supermodels or supercelebrities or some such shit. And God knows he isn’t my type. And yet, hearing that I’m not even good enough for a hump still stings…a teensy bit. And I have to live with him––for three months. If there’s any justice in this world whomever he’s humping will give him pube fleas.
“Under normal circumstances, I’d say no, but––”
“But what?”
Enough. I’ve had enough. I walk around the corner and all conversation ceases. “Ready?” I say, my game face on, the one devoid of any evidence that I’ve overheard them discussing me as if I’m nothing more than a hot burden to be tossed back and forth between them.
There’s nothing I loath more than depending on other people. I’ve always been self-sufficient, having learned that useful skill decades ago when Eileen, also known as the slacker who gave birth to me, decided that she would simply pawn me off on my grandparents and start fresh with Dan.
Now I’m at the mercy of these two heroes. Bile rises up at the mere thought of it. Welcome to my life. Some people have cheerful, happy-go lucky ones. Some have solemn, purposeful ones. Mine’s got chronic bitch face interrupted by fleeting moments of mild amusement. This is not one of those moments.
It took another twenty minutes for me to be released, for Vaughn to make arrangements for my bail to be paid. They gave me back my purse, the only personal item the police confiscated when I was brought in, my coat and other shoe lost in the chaos of my arrest.
“I’ll go get the car.” Vaughn stalks away, his long legs eating up ground as he exits out the door and across the empty parking lot.
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I mumble in a listless voice. I get a bunch of grumbled words from Cal, and an equal amount of, “You don’t have to thank us,” from Camilla.
Through the glass door, the three of us watch Vaughn’s broad back disappear into the moonless night. As soon as he’s out of sight, Cal faces me and exhales tiredly. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and shrugs up his massive shoulders.
“I need to say somethin’––” Reaching up, he rubs his scruff covered jaw. He seems unsure, as if he’s searching for the right words.
“Spit it out, Calvin. I know you’re dying to let me have it. Let’s get it over with.”
“Do me a favor, don’t screw with him, okay. Just…go easy.”
Huh? It takes me a minute to grasp what he means and about whom. He’s worried about his friend? His wealthy, gorgeous friend whose major life issues probably include how to get on the waiting list for the next limited edition Porsche, which he probably pronounces Porscha ‘cause he’s cool like that.
No. Just no. I’ve had the single worst night of my life. I’ve been conned, manhandled, falsely accused, arrested, and insulted. At the very least, it’s making the top two. So is it any wonder that somewhere inside of me a fuse is lit that quickly grows into burning outrage. It really shouldn’t be. And that’s when Bad Amber takes over, punting reason and good sense to the curb.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be suuuper gentle when I breach his virgin anus for the first time. Can’t make any promises about the second time, though.”
Cal blinks twice, his mouth gapes open. Then he shuts it and his eyes narrow. “See, this is what I mean.” He turns to Cam, whose eyes are as large as dinner plates, and says, “This is exactly what I mean.” Head shaking, he blasts me with that icy, gray gaze he’s famous for on Sundays. “Not funny.”
Shrugging, I glance at Cam. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, desperately trying not to laugh while she attempts to pet her husband into a better mood. Besties 4 eva. Cal plants his hands on his hips and tips his head back.
“Relax, Calvin,” I half-grunt, tired and generally pissed off. “Your sweet boy prince is safe from my evil sorcery. He’s the only chance I have of staying out of jail. Besides, you can’t go poking around there willy-nilly. You need to prep the area––”
“I can’t listen to this,” Cal mutters to his wife.
“She’s kidding, Boo.” The heavy petting continues. “Amber, tell him you’re kidding.”
Vaughn’s pimped out Audi A8 pulls up to the curb. Black tinted windows, black hubcaps, black paint. Wild guess: he likes black. He gets out holding a man’s winter puffer jacket. Wait for it, it’s black. Ripping open the door, he walks up to us without a word and throws it around my bare shoulders. His moves are impersonal, brisk and efficient. He’s a man on a mission, and the mission it seems is to swaddle me.
“What are you doing?”
My question goes ignored. The jacket is as large as a sleeping bag, my head and bare feet the only parts of my anatomy sticking out. My eyes cut to Cal and Cam who are equally silent. This time I direct my question at the two stiffs standing next to me.
“What is he doing?”
My best friend’s puzzled frown matches mine. Before I have a chance to argue, Vaughn picks me up, kicks the door open, and carries me to the car.
Being arrested in front of a hundred people because the owner of the house is screaming, “fire starter!” at the top of her lungs while pointing at me didn’t do it. Losing a shoe as I was being manhandled into the back of a squad car didn’t do it. Not even having my mug shot taken did it. However, being carried like I’m a small child by this man has managed to crush into dust what’s left of my dignity.
Outside it’s close to ten degrees, the concrete frozen over, and though I’m far from bummed that my bare feet do not have to touch the ground, I still can’t hide my discomfort. My body is corpse-like in his secure hold while I stare straight ahead.
“Call me,” Camilla shouts.
I turn to nod and notice Cassandra coming out of the door. Having been released, she heads for a waiting yellow cab. She’s about to get in when she spots me. Punching her fists in the air, she shouts, “Cinder! Luv you, girl.”
“Friend of yours?” the weirdo carrying me says. The note of amusement in his voice compels me to look at him. His lips quiver, on the verge of a smile that he eventually disciplines.
I tug my arm out of the jacket and wave at Cassandra. “She is now.” As he gently places me in the passenger seat of the car, I force myself to look up at him.
“Thank you for helping her.”
His eyes hold mine longer than I deem necessary. It feels like he’s peering into my soul and judging me as damaged goods. It makes me excruciatingly uncomfortable, a state of being I’m accustomed to. My heart rate picks up speed. I’m dying to look away. However, I learned a long time ago not to backdown from a challenge. That’s why I stare back until he finally shuts the door.
The car ride back to the city is about as much fun as getting a Brazilian wax job, painful and seems to last an eternity. For a full hour Vaughn stares ahead with a blank expression. The few minutes of understanding we may have shared back at the courthouse have long been wiped away as if they never happened. He wants to do quiet. I can do quiet. This is a battle of wills I don’t intend to lose.
“I trust you understand the importance of not contacting Gregory in any
way, shape, or form. Not on social media. Not anywhere.”
That tone. That tone is nails on a chalkboard to my ears.
Lips thinning, I decide to nip this in the bud. “Look…umm…” Mister? Nope. That sounds weird. I start again. “Vaughn––”
My address prompts a slow turn of his head in my direction. His lids grow heavy and his mouth twists into a cynical smirk. I’ve never addressed him formally. It’s usually Fancy McButterpants, or Fancy Pants––his chosen nick name by yours truly after I determined His Holy Fanciness needed to be taken down a notch, or two. But never Mr. Vaughn, and never ever by his first name. For some absurd reason calling him by his first name feels too intimate. It suggests ease, a friendliness that does not exist between us. Hence, I’ve never used it. Not once. Weird, I know. It is what it is.
“I don’t intend to speak to that son of a filthy sow ever again, but someone needs to. He was there. He knows it was an accident.”
Parker may be an insecure, passive aggressive man/child, but he’s not going to have me wrongfully imprisoned for an accident.
“David Pitt will be handling the case. He’ll know how best to proceed.”
“David who?”
“A colleague of mine. Practices criminal law––I refer all my clients to him.”
“I can’t afford him! As it is, it’ll take me forever to pay you back.”
“You don’t have to pay anyone back. Calvin’s taking care of it.”
“I’m not a charity case. How much do you charge? Three hundred an hour?”
The dark humor on his face says one thing only––he might as well have called me a dumbass. There’s that itchy feeling again.
Breathing out a tired sigh, I try again. “Five hundred.”
“You can’t afford me.”
“A thousand? Are you kidding me? What the hell have I been doing with my time? I should’ve gone to law school.” This is the part of the program where I close my eyes and bang my head against the window. It will take me forever to dig myself out of this stink hole.
“I don’t charge by the hour, Jones. I’m a business manager. I’m paid in percentages.”
I glance at moneybags. Lost in thought, he’s wearing a subtle smile. What does he have to smile about? Probably the karmic retribution I’m currently experiencing.
“Finding this hilarious, are you?”
“Not at all,” he answers without hesitation. Our eyes meet briefly and I can see that he means it.
“I want to know exactly what this is going to cost me because if it takes me holding up a bank, I’m paying back every cent.”
“I think we’ve established that you’re not cut out for a life of crime. Besides, Calvin’s already paid up.”
“Then I’ll pay Calvin back. I want the exact amount.”
I get a long-suffering sigh, coupled with a raised eyebrow. “The amount is zero.”
The stretch of silence that follows leaves me drained, whatever energy I have left leeching out of me. What’s the point of fighting it? Really? It doesn’t make a lick of difference anyway. Way too often it seems my life is on a fixed track headed nowhere I want to go.
I steal another glance at my new roommate. He did nothing to deserve this. This is nobody’s fault but my own. Time to embrace the fact that I will be at this man’s mercy for the next three months. And God knows I could’ve done a heck of a lot worse than living with Fancy McButterpants in what is sure to be a fancy apartment. Best to start off on the right foot.
“Look, Vaughn, I get that I’m not your favorite person. I don’t know what kind of favor you owe Cal that would require you to volunteer as tribute, but here we are, stuck with each other for the next…what is it that you said?” Arching a dramatic eyebrow, I add, “The next three months. I think we can manage to stay out of each other’s hair for three months.” I make a show of staring at his perfectly styled dark brown hair. “Even though you use a ghastly amount of hair product.”
Frowning, he squirms in his seat. “I do not use hair product.”
“Agree to disagree. Anywho, this should be easy enough. You work days. I work nights. We’ll hardly see each other. Absolutely no danger of anyone accidental humping.”
His reaction comes swiftly. His head whips around, guilt and surprise splashed across his supermodel worthy features. Finally––a genuine show of emotion. Score one for team Jones. Satisfaction turns the corners of my mouth up. No doubt about it, my life is a dumpster fire if this is the highlight of my evening.
His attention slides back to the road ahead. Three long minutes of heavy silence follow. “I didn’t mean––”
“Easy there, counselor.” The last thing I want is a long, awkward apology from him. “No harm, no foul. Hurting my feelings would require that I care what you, or any man thinks, and I assure you I don’t. Quite frankly, after tonight, I am this close to moving to the Isle of Lesbos. All I need is your legal expertise and a bed to sleep in for the next three months.”
He blows out a deep breath, his body relaxing while his hands tighten on the burl wood steering wheel. “You have it.”
I turn in my seat to face him. I want him to see how sincere I am when I say this, “And I appreciate it. I know this sucks for you, too.”
Holding my steady gaze, he gives me a curt nod.
Chapter Four
It’s four a.m. by the time we reach my fifth floor walk up in Greenwich Village. Vaughn insisted we grab some of my things before we head to his place. Every reason I had for him to wait in the car was rebutted with vigor. The futility of debating with a lawyer only hit me after I’d already wasted a pile of time. This is how that went––
Me: “You don’t have to come up.”
Him: “It’ll go faster if I do.”
Me: “I’d rather you didn’t.”
Him: “I’m coming with you.”
Me: What the f––“Mmno, you’re not.”
Him: “Yeah, I am.”
Me: “Let–me–hand–you–a–dictionary–so–you–can–understand–what–I–am–saying. You are not coming up.”
Without warning, he yanked me out of the passenger seat and into his arms. After that, he proceeded to stalk into the narrow entrance of the building––which I didn’t mind so much seeing as my shoe situation hadn’t improved––and deposited me on my feet. Our eyeballs battled for supreme dominance of the galaxy. This ended in a draw. Then, without another word, he stepped past me and jogged up the stairs.
I mean, stubborn is putting it lightly. I don’t want him in my apartment. One, it’s as big as a matchstick box. And two, it’s a mess. I haven’t had time to clean or do laundry in a week, couple that with the diminutive size of the space and you get a perfect disaster. I didn’t want Mr. Perfect seeing it like this.
And now he’s standing in my bedroom. Hands stuffed into his tuxedo pants pockets, he’s looking around. What the hell is he doing in my bedroom? Damn, this is awkward. He’s taking up way too much space, sucking up all the oxygen. I can’t think with him in here.
“I’ll help you pack.”
Yeah, not happening, but I’m too tired to argue with him. Glancing around, his eyes fall on my unmade bed––and stay there.
“Are you here to do a health inspection or help?”
That snaps him out of whatever is going on in his head. I get down on all fours, my attention momentarily diverted as I grab my suitcase from under the bed. Bad move. Real bad. Because when I glance up, I find him in the process of opening the top drawer of my dresser.
“No! Not that one!” I screech.
Too late. Too freaking late. Vaughn is staring at the contents of the drawer, his expression frozen. Until I see his lips move. He’s counting them. Oh dear, he’s counting them. His eyes grow a little wider. He finally reaches seven and stops. Little does he know that eight is in the Amazon box near the front door.
“Don’t touch,” I say, with an exaggerated smirk.
A quick scowl darkens the perfection t
hat is his face. “I wasn’t planning to.” His attention returns to the contents of the drawer. When he starts to close it, I decide to double down because it’s that kind of night.
“Might as well leave it open. I have to pack those.”
That perfectly styled head slowly turns in my direction. I get a blank, assessing stare. He thinks I’m messing with him, but I’m not. When I continue to stare back in silence, he blinks twice and rubs his face.
“You’re bringing all of these?” he says more than asks, his tone reeking of disbelief. His doubt earns him a one shoulder shrug.
“I can’t bring Jamie and leave Wes. Those two are an item. Sometimes I’m in the mood for Gabriel, sometimes Garrett. And Zeke has abandonment issues. He’ll get upset if I leave him behind.”
Guilty as charged. I name my vibrators after my book boyfriends. If you have a problem with it, get on your high horse and go file a complaint with the Bureau of I Don’t Give A Stinking Shit.
He briefly squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, sighs deeply. “I’ll be on the couch while you finish this up.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve grabbed enough clothes for the week, packed each and every one of my book boyfriends, and swapped my busted Cinderella dress for a sweater and jeans. I walk into the living room to find Vaughn sitting upright on my couch with his head resting on the back pillow. He’s sleeping so peacefully I almost feel bad waking him.
Watching him with unfettered access takes me back to the day we met. Not only is the godforsaken memory annoyingly preserved in high definition, it’s also taken up way too much space in my brain––space that could otherwise be used for good.
It was the start of football season. Minutes before I was to be picked up by Calvin’s manager who, Camilla explained, also lived in the city and had offered to give me a ride to the stadium, my toilet backed up. True story. The dumb twats that live upstairs apparently like to play Russian roulette by flushing tampons. Which means everyone in the building suffered the consequences of their stupidity thanks to the ancient New York City plumbing. Hence, when the doorbell rang, I was expecting Eddie, my middle-aged building superintendent. What I was not expecting when I opened the door to my apartment was the standard-bearer of masculine perfection in a custom made suit. What I was not expecting was to get sucker punched in the cooter by a pair of big brown eyes framed with impossibly thick lashes.