Scorpio

by Lauren Landish

  He steps over and takes the broom from my hand, bending down to sweep up a little pile of hair. He looks up from the floor in front of me and I’m struck by the intimacy of the position even if he is a foot away. If my skirt were just a little higher, he’d be able to see quite a bit more than I normally show men I’m not interested in. “Never heard of her. Tell me.”

  I hear a little bit of command in his voice and I’m surprised. Well, well, well. Maybe Mr. Politico-Nice Guy has a little fire after all. It’s probably wrong that it makes me like him just a smidgen more, but honestly, it does.

  “Well, you said Bettie Page, right? Think of Dita like the woman who sort of picked up Bettie’s ball and ran with it. She’s a fashion icon, known for her vintage style, mostly 30s and 40s. She models, designs, and dances too. I’ve always been inspired by her flair for classic drama, but I have to mix a bit of rockabilly in for myself too. I’m too wild to be that traditional.”

  Jaxson laughs. “Did you just say you’re a hillbilly? No offense, but we’ve got some pretty country folk around here. No hillbillies though.”

  I laugh back. “No, rockabilly, kinda rock-n-roll with a little country mixed in. Think 50s Pink Ladies meets sexy-sass and given a twenty-first-century twist.”

  Jaxson smiles, tilting his head as he leans on the broom and looks me up and down, obvious in his appraisal.

  I freeze and can’t decide if I feel good or bad about his attentions. I should be able to tell, but I just can’t get a read on him and that makes me nervous. While I normally go for rougher types, there’s a little something in his overall vibe that leaves me questioning just how vanilla he really is.

  Jaxson breaks the tension after a moment, pursing his lips and humming. “Well, whatever you call it, it works for you.” His face stays serious for a moment, waiting for my reaction, but I stay quiet for a change. Talking is the easiest way to drag this out, and I just want to turn in.

  Brad would be fucking proud of me for keeping my big mouth shut because that’s a rare reaction for me. I’ve got a bad habit of talking my way into problems and sometimes not being able to back out without shit going down. Actually, one of the first times Brad and I worked together, that was the case.

  Jaxson, not hearing the ‘thank you’ he’s expecting, changes tack and smiles again. “Hey, you had dinner yet? We could grab something to eat?”

  He looks like an earnest little boy, and I’m about to snatch his new favorite toy away . . . me. But I’m not the kind to be treated as anyone’s little plaything. That’s probably part of the reason I have such a problem with the bad boys. I can get on for the ride, but eventually, I want to take the wheel sometimes too. Jaxson strikes me as the type to want a sweet little woman who does what he says, definitely not the kind to let me run full-throttle on occasion, and that more than anything makes up my mind for me. “Thanks, Jaxson. But I’m beat. I just need a little down time to recover from the crazy week and get ready to do it all again.”

  His face falls in disappointment, but with a breath, he rallies. “Sure, I understand. Maybe some other time?”

  I hum noncommittally and walk him toward the door, a clear indication that I’m dismissing him. He relents and follows me, stepping outside as I pull the door open. He pauses, looking down at me just as we’re nearly pressed against each other while he slides his way through the door. Suddenly, I’m aware of how much bigger than me he is. I’m not a tiny woman—well, not that tiny—but even in my five-inch platforms, he’s got at least six inches of height on me. But where I’m curvy and full-chested, he’s slender and wiry.

  As I look up, I don’t want to back up. I don’t want to give him the impression that he’s got rights in my own store, but I do lean back in an attempt to get some personal space. This is my bubble, and that is your bubble, dude.

  His eyes are flickering, but I don’t feel heat. His eyes are stone cold as he looks at me, not like a man looks at a woman, not even like a human being looks at another human being, but like someone would look at a bug, or maybe a bauble in the store that you want to buy only to throw away later.

  I feel the decrease in space on a visceral level as he leans in, turning my face away as he kisses my cheek. His lips are dry, papery thin as he holds them against my cheek for a split second that feels like an eternity.

  I press against his chest, cringing away, desperate to get him the fuck out of here. “Look, uh . . . Jaxson, one of my faults is I’m blunt as fuck, so I’m just gonna say this. I’m new to town and not looking for anything romantic. Friends, sure, but nothing more. I appreciate your help with the city council stuff, but that’s it.”

  Jaxson smiles at me. “Sure, I get it. But you won’t be new to town forever. Just trying to get to know the new girl in town.”

  It sounds reasonable but makes me narrow my eyes at him anyway. I may not be new in town forever, but after what I just felt, if hell froze over and Satan himself knocked on the door asking for a date, I might be more interested in the Prince of Darkness than this man. “I understand. Please, I need to get cleaned up.”

  He steps further out and begins to walk away, turning to offer a two-finger wave. “I’ll see you later, McKayla.”

  I watch as he gets further away. Nothing he just said was off, but still, there’s something about him that gives me pause. I look up and down the dark sidewalk, noting how alone we are.

  I still haven’t gotten used to how things are so quiet around here. Except for certain nights, it’s one of those towns that rolls up the sidewalks when the sun goes down, a hell of a long way from LA with a quiet time of three thirty in the morning . . . sometimes.

  If Jaxson had nefarious intentions, he damn sure would’ve had an opportunity.

  With a sigh, I shake my head, telling myself that I’m not in LA, and every nice guy that chats me up isn’t a boogieman I need to be wary of. Right before I turn inside, a red light twinkles across the street and I squint to get a better view.

  The red cherry of a cigarette. Evan. Yeah, Evan’s his name.

  Evan

  I’m a watcher. I can’t help it. Ever since I got back from my last deployment, where I spent days in hiding, frozen in mountainside caves or rooftops or wherever the fuck they sent me, staring at the world around me through a scope, I have kept the same habits.

  Don’t engage, don’t draw attention, just lie low and observe and you’ll know more about everyone and everything than you thought possible. I’ve relaxed a bit in the time since I’ve been home, made a few friends who can put up with me running hot and cold, and bought a big ass bike that draws attention but turns people off from the dirty biker, but I still watch.

  Mostly, though, I watch because I still don’t feel like I belong. Sure, TJ puts up with my ass and old Earl holds out hope for me, but when I walk around town or when I go to the supermarket, the people I pass just don’t seem like the same species as me. They’re smiling in that sort of pleasant smartphone-induced haze that’s filled with Facebook updates, manufactured outrage over some people you don’t really give two shits about, and kitten pictures.

  Part of me remembers the time I was about the same. Just a softer, carefree kid coming home to a working-class house with parents too busy to pay any attention to me and TJ unless the school was calling again. I just kinda skated by, passed my classes, hung out with buddies, and just coasted through days without much thought.

  Quiet and shadowed against the front of my building, I’ve downed two Monsters while peering into the salon across from me, still caught in my reflections. Why did I join the Army? It wasn’t out of any great desire to wrap myself in the flag and go play soldier boy. I remember that. I’d seen the JROTC crew sweating it out in the parking lot, twirling their rifles and shining their helmets while my friends and I sat on tailgates in the school lot, just goofing off. I thought they looked like idiots.

  So why did I join? I guess the answer’s simple—it was something to do to get me out of here and grow up. I saw friends gett
ing more and more lost, trying drugs and working dead-end jobs, and at some point, I realized I wanted more than that. I figured the military might make a man out of me. How was I supposed to anticipate spending most of my time outside of basic training in a godforsaken desert? How could I have known what I would see . . . what I would have to do?

  I watch Brad leave, and my eyes tick back to McKayla, who is sweeping up, bending over in a skirt that hugs her every curve like it was custom-made for her. She may be a Pretty Pink Princess, but she’s built like a pin-up queen.

  Hell, I don’t know. She’s a Hollywood girl. Maybe it was made for her curvy measurements. She hasn’t made a big deal of her background. I think she’s left that in Brad’s hands, but the rumors have gotten around, and a few people have Googled her. Supposedly, she’s done some pretty famous shit, not that they advertise who cuts the hair on summer blockbusters.

  I’m about to go inside for the evening when I see that prick, Jaxson, striding down the sidewalk, and I shrink even farther into the shadows so he won’t see me. I stand there, hidden except for the wisps of smoke from the cigarette I’m just holding as a cover while I stand there not moving, watching for twenty minutes while he chats up McKayla, obviously trying to lay the mac down on her. He even tries sweeping like a dutiful servant before she ushers him out the front door. I have to smirk . . . I may not know a lot about McKayla, but it’s not the way to impress that woman. She’s the kind who I bet loves to get treated like a queen, but only from a man strong enough.

  My fist tightens against my thigh when I see him lean in to kiss her, but I damn near guffaw out loud when I see her bob and duck away from his advance. Damn, last time I saw moves like that was when Ali was making people look like fools in a boxing ring on YouTube.

  Good girl. Smart girl, I think. You don’t want to let him in even an inch.

  He walks away, turning back for one more wave, but she stays outside, glancing along the street for a moment. I predict when her gaze will hit the front of the garage and take my first drag on my cancer stick, lighting up the cherry, and like a moth to a flame, I feel it when her eyes latch on to my location.

  It’s not what I should do, intentionally drawing her attention like that, and honestly, I don’t even know why I do it. I just want her to know I’m here. She squints for a moment, making sure her eyes aren’t playing tricks on her. I toss my can to the side, where it rattles as it makes its way into the trash barrel that TJ insists on keeping right outside the office door . . . probably because of my damn cans.

  I’m smiling, knowing McKayla’s about to hairflip away again and stomp inside. I’m already focused on her hips, ready for the quick view of her ass in that leopard skirt, when I realize that she’s not turning to go inside and instead, those curvy hips are getting closer as she struts across the street toward me. As she gets close, I look her up and down. “So, wanting to see the bike again?”

  She’s not amused. “Hey, asshole, you just perving out over here now? Get an eyeful?”

  I smile, but it’s a small consolation. “Evan.”

  Her thunder stolen, she stares at me, confused. “Huh?”

  I raise an eyebrow, “You called me asshole. My name’s Evan.” Patting my chest in a mocking thump, then pointing at her, “Me Evan, You Princess. Just thought you’d want to know who you’re bitching at. Continue.” I wave my hand in a come on gesture, since while I know I’ve knocked her back a little, she’s not the kind to stay that way for long.

  She smirks, continuing. “I said . . . Evan, a.k.a. Pervy McPerverson, maybe you should take a picture. It’d last longer.” She eyes me like saying my name is asking her to chug a lima bean juice frappe.

  I smile, and it’s a real one, a rare occurrence these days, as I’m struck with a thought. Curious, I ask her, “Maybe one of you trespassing on my bike? How’d that turn out, anyway? Get what you needed?”

  It’s the longest string of speech I’ve offered her yet, and judging by the shock on her face, she realizes that too. Her sails deflate, and while it takes a little bit out of the fiery sexiness she’s got, it also makes her cuter in a lot of ways. “Yeah, about that. I really am sorry. I did try to ask, and when nobody answered, I meant to just stand in front of it and not touch. I got carried away. I’d say it won’t happen again, but that’d be a lie. My whole life is pretty much me getting carried away by crazy ideas and wild adventures.”

  I huff out a laugh at her honest admission. “So tell me, what’s the craziest idea, the wildest adventure you’ve ever been carried away on?”

  She looks up to the sky like there’s an answer written in the sparks of the stars, humming as she searches her memory. Considering how long it’s taking, either she’s going to lie her ass off or she actually has gotten into some crazy shit. I’m kinda hoping it’s the second.

  Finally, looking me in the eye, she starts. “Well, I’d say the time I dared to touch a guy’s bike without permission, but maybe that’s not so crazy after all. How about ditching Hollywood and moving to a new town to start a new business when I only know one person in the whole town? Meh, you know that too. Let’s see . . .”

  She taps her lips with black painted nails that glitter in the street lights, and I feel a long forgotten tingle in my jeans. It’s not that the equipment doesn’t work, but usually, the demons are running around too much for me to do anything about it. “Well?” I ask, trying not to laugh. “Let me guess, you went to a club and Leonardo DiCaprio walked in . . . and walked out ten minutes later with you and every other woman in the club in tow.”

  “Leo?” she asks. “Gimme some credit, it’d take him more than five minutes for me alone. Six, at least. Anyway, ah . . . yep, craziest adventure. I once hitchhiked across the state line to Nevada, just a backpack of snacks and a hundred bucks to my name. Rode with a truck driver on the way there and a group of bikers on the way back. In hindsight, they might’ve been a motorcycle club, but I didn’t care at the time. They were just going in the right direction.”

  My eyes go wide. That’s a bit wilder than I’d thought. Maybe even bordering on stupid. “What was in Nevada? Hitting the slots with that hundred?”

  McKayla leans in to whisper like she doesn’t want anyone to hear, even though we’re alone on the darkened street. “I went to a Prince concert.”

  I realize how close she is and my heartbeat picks up as I look at her. “All that for a concert? Must’ve been some show.”

  She leans back, eyes meeting mine, and grins. “That’s not the crazy part. The crazy part is that I hitchhiked with a trucker and a biker gang to Vegas and back for a Prince concert alone . . .” She pauses for dramatic effect. “when I was sixteen. And lived to tell the tale. It was fun and I was damn lucky.”

  All right, not bordering on stupid, but about three days past the line of stupid. At least she seems to recognize how insane it was. “That’s a dangerous adventure. Hope you’re a little smarter about your escapades now.”

  She smirks at me, tilting her head in a way that sends another tingle down my spine. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. You only live once, so I’m going for it, balls to the wall. Speaking of, come on.” She grabs at my hand like she’s ready to lead me somewhere, lifting her chin toward her salon. “Let me show you something.”

  I’m a little stunned. Nobody willingly touches me these days. Everyone’s too scared of the growling, ticking time bomb that I am to even approach me. I’m surprised some people don’t ask to see my rabies tag.

  But she just takes my hand like it’s no big deal. Crazy and wild, indeed. I’m curious what she’s up to, so I follow, prowling across the street with her. She pulls open the salon doors, leading me inside, and walks up to a wall in the reception area. “Well, you wanted to see it. There you go.”

  I can’t really see this angle from my shop-front, so I look around and see what she’s talking about. The photo of her posed leaning over my bike looks like something that you’d find on one of those old motorcycle calendars, Miss July be
cause she’s so damn hot. But whoever did the filtering and printing did a lot to up the class level a notch, making it classy and not trashy. The black and white coloring gives it a vintage feel, highlighting the curves of her body and my bike.

  I instantly memorize it because it’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen and I know I’ll be jacking off to that image later tonight.

  I turn toward McKayla, giving her a low whistle. “I don’t wanna sound rude, but you look sexy as fuck in this picture. Maybe I should’ve let you take a few more with my bike before running you off.”

  If I thought she’d be turned off by my lack of finesse, I’m dead wrong because she moves in close, rising up to her tiptoes in those damn high heels to press her lips to mine.

  It’s sultry and heated, even as her lips simply move against mine, not begging entry, just enjoying the moment. She breaks contact, leaving my lips burning, and looks into my eyes. “Well, Evan? You going to be rude some more?”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I grab her around the waist, kissing her back forcefully, pulling her body in tight to press against mine, her glorious mix of soft curves and firm flats making my heart race. My cock lets loose a battle cry that I haven’t felt in a long time, raging to full hardness in my jeans as I reach down to knead her ass.

  She lets out a whimpering sigh of delight, and I take advantage, slipping my tongue in to tangle with hers. It feels like sparks are flicking against my skin everywhere we touch as our lips work at each other. She slips a hand up to my hair, threading the strands through her fingers and gently pulling me even deeper.

  Her other hand claws at my back, those manicured nails scratching my shoulder blade deeply. The flash of pain wakes me up, and I pull back, resting my forehead against hers, my breath coming in pants as I try to recover. McKayla’s breathing is even heavier, her eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”