by Lili Valente
I have to do whatever it takes to convince Cat that Bash can help her end this thing with Nico. I’ll pin her down and sit on her until she listens to reason if I have to. Her life is too precious to do anything less.
CHAPTER SIX
Outside in the early morning heat, I search the sidewalk in both directions, but there’s no sign of a woman with silky auburn hair. Cat is gone, vanished into the crush of people bustling around the West Village, and I have no idea where to start looking for her.
I tug my phone from my jeans pocket, intending to call Bash and get her address, but before I can dial, I catch a flash of green out of the corner of my eye. It’s Red, hurrying back toward the restaurant, her chin tucked, shoulders hunched, and hair falling around her face.
Her gaze is glued to the sidewalk in front of her, and her fingers are clutching the strap of her purse so hard her knuckles have gone white. She looks like she’s trying to avoid attracting attention, but she’s easily the most stunning woman on the street. Even if I hadn’t been looking for her, she would have drawn my eye.
There’s something about Cat that makes you want to take a second look and then a third. There always has been. She’s not stereotypically beautiful—her face is a little too narrow, her mouth too wide, and back when she was younger there were times when she was all elbows and knees—but she stands out in a crowd. It’s like the light inside of her has been cranked up a notch brighter than everyone else’s.
And I’m not the only one who has noticed.
A moment after I catch sight of Red, my gaze is drawn to a dark-haired man behind her. He’s about a block and a half away, wearing reflective sunglasses and a gray suit that fits his long, broad frame like nothing off the rack ever could. Walking with a brisk, confident stride, he doesn’t appear to be in a rush, but he’s steadily closing the distance between him and Red, and there’s no doubt she’s the reason he jogs to get across the street seconds before a taxi roars around the corner, nearly mowing him down.
I can’t see his eyes behind his glasses, but I can tell he’s looking at her. It’s like there are laser beams shooting out of his forehead to dance between her shoulder blades. He’s got a bead on her, and she’s hauling ass away from him as fast as she can without breaking into a run.
Which means that this fuck in the thousand-dollar suit must be Nico, the man who won’t take for no for an answer, the man who insists that he and Red are in it to win it, and who experiences temporary hearing loss every time she tells him the thrill is gone. The man who has scared the shit out of a woman I know for a fact doesn’t scare easily.
I was there at the Death Valley marathon when Red kicked a rattlesnake out of the trail and then, when the thing had the poor judgment to slither back for round two, took it out with a rock to the head. I was there when a section of our usual trail gave way after a week of hard rain, and Red and another freshman went sliding down into a ravine. By the time we got a crew down to drag them out of the mud, the other newbie was hyperventilating and had to be carried back to his dorm room.
Not Red. She was pale and filthy, but after a drink of water and a minute to squeeze the mud out of her hair, she ran the trail and stayed up until midnight drinking beer with the rest of us. If she hadn’t already been dubbed Polka Dot Panties, on that day she would have earned a much more badass trail name.
She’s a tough cookie, but this arrogant, entitled, stalking sociopath has her on the run. He’s the one responsible for the fear in her eyes, and he’s so fucking crazy he’s tailed her to a brunch meeting she insisted she would do her best to keep top secret.
The second I make the connection, everything changes. Now that I’ve laid eyes on Nico, there’s no way I can turn Cat’s case over to Bash.
Even from a block away, I can tell this guy is more than Bash can handle. My best friend thinks he’s a stone cold bad ass, but deep down he believes that most of the people in the world are on the better side of okay. He expects a certain baseline of common decency and would be unprepared for a man like Nico. A man who thinks it’s acceptable to treat an independent, intelligent, accomplished woman like an animal he bought at a pet store.
Or worse. I’ve known men like Nico before. They’ll backhand their wives without a second thought, but most of them wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on one of their dogs.
The thought of this douchebag laying a hand on Red makes me see the same color. Before I’ve had time to think it through, I move into her path, stopping her with an arm around her waist and pulling her against me.
Her lips part, and her palms press against my chest, but when she sees my face she stops fighting.
“Look at me, nowhere else,” I say, driving a hand into her silky hair. “Let’s give that sack of amputated goat anuses a show he won’t forget.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bracing my free hand against the side of a long, black car parked by the curb, I lean Cat back against the sun-warmed metal and bend my face closer to hers.
“That’s right,” I whisper inches from her lips as I leverage one leg between hers, forcing her skirt higher on her thighs. I run a hand from her hip to mold around her ribs, just beneath her breast, feeling the heavy beat of her heart beneath my fingers. “Look at me. Focus on the sound of my voice while I tell you a story about all the things I’m going to do you as soon as we’re alone.”
“What kinds of things?” she asks, chest rising and falling faster.
I’m pretty sure it’s fear of the approaching psycho that’s making her breathless, but it doesn’t matter. Arousal makes your breath come faster, too, and I’m going to do my best to ensure Nico buys that we’re hot for each other—hook, line, and sinker.
“First, I’m going to kiss your lips. Slowly, thoroughly, thoughtfully, to prove how much I love taking my time with you.” My thumb drifts back and forth, lightly caressing the under curve of her breast through her dress, watching her eyes darken as I hold her gaze. “And then I’m going to kiss you hard and deep. Give you a taste of what I’m going to do to you when we get home.”
“What are you going to do?” Her tongue slips out to dampen her lips. “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”
“I’m going to own your pussy.” The hair at the back of my neck lifts, some instinctive part of me warning that a predator is getting close even as my cock thickens inside my jeans. “I’m going to fuck you until you know who you belong to, and then I’ll fuck you again just for the pure joy of watching you fall apart when you come.”
I lean in, pressing my hips to hers, pinning her against the car. Despite the awareness of our audience, I’m rock hard, and I know there’s no way Cat is going to miss it. Still, the moment her breath catches and her pelvis rocks against mine sends a bolt of lust surging through me. It’s intense, mind-blowing, and powerful enough to make my knees weak.
I’m grateful for the support of the car as I bring my mouth to hers and murmur against her lips. “I’ll fuck you until you can’t stand and I have to carry you up to the roof for round three. And then I’ll have you up there, while the stars come out, and make you call my name so loud people three blocks over will hear you screaming when you go again.”
“I want that.” Her palms skim down my back to cup my ass, making my cock swell even thicker. “I want you. I want you so much I wish you could take me right here. Right now. Just turn me around, lift up my—”
I silence her with a kiss, and not the soft, sensual one I promised. This kiss goes from zero-to-sixty in three seconds flat. One moment we’re two people standing close, the next my tongue is in her mouth, and her leg is hooked around my calf and the hand I’ve been careful to keep beneath her breast lifts high enough to brush her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress.
She moans into my mouth and arches into my hand while her fingers smooth across my body, exploring with a feverish appreciation that makes me even harder. By the time soft laughter sounds behind us, I’ve almost forgotten that this is all for the benefit of someo
ne else.
But that laughter—low, deep, and seemingly sincerely amused—is like a bucket of ice water poured down my back. Or something worse. A bucket of week-old squid, maybe. Or a bucket of circus peanuts with razorblades hidden inside.
It’s a laugh that says we’re not fooling anyone with our hot kiss, and I can tell Cat hears it by the way she stiffens beneath my touch, but I’m not about to give up that easily. I keep kissing her, stroking my tongue against hers, waiting until the bastard standing behind us has the balls to do something other than laugh.
I don’t have to wait long. A few seconds later Douchebag speaks up in a rich, lightly accented voice that it pains me to admit is nice to listen to.
“Imagine seeing you here, Catherine,” he says. “What an unexpected surprise.”
I turn to face Nico, who has removed his glasses—the better to glance condescendingly from Cat to me and back again—and curse silently. I’m not one of those men who pretends he can’t tell when another guy is attractive, and this turd burglar is a damned good-looking guy. And a damned dangerous looking one.
I twine my fingers more tightly through Cat’s, silently offering my support.
It’s best if she takes point right now. I don’t know enough about the situation to make a judgment call on whether Nico will take the message that she’s finished with him more seriously if it’s coming from her or from me. But judging from the way his dark eyes are fixed on her face, I’m betting her voice is the one that matters most.
“What are you doing here, Nico?” Cat’s tone is cool, but not cold, which is odd considering I know she has no interest in communicating with this man.
But then she’s probably making an effort not to offend him, which is a good idea, though I hate that she’s being forced to pander to a big, scary, fuck stick. And damn, but the creep is even bigger and scarier up close.
Nearly as tall as my six-five, Nico is every bit as broad through the shoulders and chest, though more slender everywhere else. Still, there’s no doubt in my mind that he would be a bad man to meet in a dark alley. He holds himself with the grace and ease of the prizefighters I’ve known. I’m bigger, but he would be faster and meaner. No fucking doubt about the meaner part.
Looking into his dark brown eyes is enough to give me frost burn. He’s smiling, but there is nothing amused in his expression, and there’s nothing at all in his eyes. He’s empty, soulless, all the way down to the core, one of those people born without any conscience to go with their consciousness.
Red was right. This dude is riding the crazy train all the way to the last stop. Thank God she had the sense to get off, and to seek help from someone who will make sure she doesn’t get yanked down onto the tracks.
“A better question is why you’re kissing another man against my car,” Nico asks, his smile never faltering.
Cat glances over her shoulder before turning back to her ex with saucer-round eyes. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I never meant—”
“It’s all right.” He angles his body closer to hers, making it clear he doesn’t consider me a part of this equation. “I know you, Catherine. I know who you are, and the way you behave when you’re being true to yourself. I’m not worried.”
Cat pales, swallowing hard. “Please, Nico. I just want to move on. Aidan and I have been friends for a long time and now it’s, um…it’s turned to something more.” She leans into me until her ribs jab into my side, as if to prove that we’re literally inseparable. “I’m sorry if that hurts you. I never intended to rub your nose in our relationship. I honestly didn’t realize this was your car until you—”
“There is no relationship.” Nico still refuses to look at me, even when I wrap my arm tight around Cat’s waist and glare down at him. “You can fuck every man in this city, but in your heart, your soul, you belong to me, and you always will. Nothing you say or do will ever change that.”
“Her heart and soul belong to her,” I snap, deciding Cat needs backup. Stat. “And no means no, friend. She has no interest in you. It’s time to move on and leave her the hell alone.”
“We’ll talk more later.” Nico ignores me, but the muscle in his jaw tightens, proving he heard every word I said. “When you’re alone and not covered in another man’s sweat.”
“You won’t be talking to her later and especially not alone.” I drop the pretense of civility, allowing the threat of violence to creep into my tone. “You will lose her number and forget her name.”
“Please shower as soon as you get home,” he continues, “I don’t want to catch the smell of him on your skin.” Nico’s eyes narrow, and I can feel how hard it is for him to keep from shifting his glare my way. “The stink is incredible.”
I laugh; I can’t help it. “Did you really just insult me by saying I smell? What is this, the third grade?”
“Take care, love,” he says in a clipped voice. “I’d hate it if anything happened to you while you were keeping bad company.”
“I can take a shower,” I continue mildly. “A bad smell washes off. Crazy is a lot harder to get rid of, I hear.”
Cat pinches my side in a silent warning, but I don’t look down at her. I keep my eyes on Nico, ready to meet his Psycho with my Badass Motherfucker when he finally achieves eye contact, but he glances over his shoulder, instead. “Let’s head uptown, Petey. I need to be at the office no later than noon. Take care, Catherine. We’ll talk soon,” he tosses over his shoulder as he circles around Cat and steps off the curb.
I turn, Cat still held close, to see a beefy guy who tops out at about five six, wearing a dark suit and standing on the other side of the car, which I now realize is a limo. That explains the short guy’s chauffer cap, but not the look of hatred on his face. The man shoots me a glare that makes it clear he’d like to pull my guts out through my nose and then shifts his attention to Cat, who he clearly has no love for, either.
If anything, his rage level seems to increase when his gaze lands on her face, and by the time he shuts Nico’s door behind him and opens his own, his cheeks are red and his beady brown eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his face.
“Nico’s cousin Petey,” Cat whispers through clenched teeth. “I’m pretty sure he’s in charge of disappearing people who piss Nico off.”
“Small, but feisty, then.”
“Small, but deadly,” she corrects.
I nod slowly, knowing further discussion of Petey’s “disappearing” skills have to wait until we’re alone, but inside I’m putting together the pieces of this puzzle to make an ugly picture. Cat hasn’t just gotten on the wrong side of one very bad man. She’s gotten on the wrong side of one very bad man, his very bad friends, and maybe even a very bad branch of very organized fucking crime.
Though, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
Cat never did do things halfway. Why should her psycho-ex-lover situation be any different?
CHAPTER EIGHT
From the collected notes of Curved for her Pleasure
and Polka Dot Panties
Dear Curve,
I hesitated to write this because I know you’re not into the touchy feely stuff, but then I had another beer and decided what the hell? You only live once!
So I’m writing to thank you for shutting down that whiny little shit Marty this afternoon. As you know, I take great pride in winning races fair and square, with a combination of superior skill and keen intellect.
To be accused of kissing you where you pee in order to get the specs of the trails ahead of time was insulting, not only to me, but to my entire gender. That freshman dick’s assumption that the only way a girl can win as often as I do is if she’s getting preferential treatment from the man in charge is a huge steaming pile of bullshit.
If you hadn’t set him straight, I would have had to kick his ass, and that would have sucked because I’m committed to nonviolent conflict resolution since that time I almost killed a man in Kathmandu.
So basically, you’re aweso
me, and I respect the shit out of you for making a club that could have become a big, fat, unwelcoming-to-girls-and-other-decent-people testosterone fest an enjoyable place to be for folks of all sexes, races, and sexual orientations.
Rock on with your bad self,
PDP
Dear PDP,
The phrase “kiss you where you pee” is probably the cutest thing I’ve ever read. I debated the wisdom of telling you that you’re cute because I know you’re probably a super-soldier sleeper spy who’s going to lose your shit in a flashback someday and take out anyone who ever reminded you that you’re also an adorable redhead, but I couldn’t help myself.
I’ve had a few beers, too.
Related: drunk-note-writing is a lot more work than drunk-dialing.
Maybe we should exchange numbers so I can text you when you’re being cute? Let me know. I would like to experience in real time your irritated responses to things I write.
Will keep rocking on with my bad self,
Curve
P.S. No worries about shutting down that dirt-surfing snot goblin. No one fucks with you on my watch, kid.
Dear Curve,
Several things:
One: I am not a kid. I am two years younger than you and I’m going to be able to buy my own beer in less than a year so you should respect my near full adultness.
Two: I am not a super-solider sleeper spy. (Or maybe that’s just what I have to say to preserve my cover. Boom. Just blew your mind.)
Three: I’m not sure it’s kosher to exchange numbers. Aren’t we supposed to respect the sanctity of the hole? It’s right there in the rulebook: all Dasher communications outside of running hours shall be conducted via notes stuffed in the Union Soldier statue’s secret hole. Respect the hole.
Four: I am not cute or adorable, but it’s cute and adorable that you think I am. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that beneath your tough, take-no-prisoners façade you’re basically composed of raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and old lady face lotion.