Daring Devlin (Lost Boys Book 1)

by Jessica Lemmon

  I wished I’d had a drink right then because my throat was parched. Being liked by Devlin carried with it a truckload of responsibility.

  “Need a ride,” he repeated. “My place.”

  He hadn’t asked, but I nodded my yes.

  I drove his black SUV while he cranked the radio. The lyrics of a Snow Patrol song—one of my favorites—made my arms chill even in the warm car. The phrase “just say yes” seemed to be my theme song when it came to Devlin Calvary.

  “Here.” He pointed at the glass-windowed brick playhouse in the center of downtown. The Schantz Theater. A block away there were pawn shops and knock-off fast food restaurants and a crumbling bus station. Outside of the theater was an adjacent parking garage, sidewalks lined with potted poinsettias and black iron street lamps wrapped with festive holiday lights and pine garland.

  I should start Christmas shopping soon. This season had sneaked up on me. It struck me, sitting next to Devlin, that I hadn’t had a boyfriend during the holidays in ages. Not that I had one now, either. No matter what Melinda said.

  He instructed me to drive to the top of the garage, where I parked in a numbered space. I stepped out of the SUV and the wind whipped my hair. Before I could tame the flyaway strands, he captured my gloved hand in his. Together we peeked over the edge and down at the theater several stories below.

  A black limo idled on the curb, and what looked like a wedding party filed out onto the street. The women were wrapped in thick coats, matching bright red skirts sticking out of the bottoms as they jumped up and down to keep warm. Men in tuxes were huddled, shoulders under their ears. Probably just as cold as the women but unwilling to show it.

  I smiled as a woman in a flowing white gown stepped outside, and muted applause rode the wind to where we stood. Before I thought, I muttered, “I love weddings.”

  Devlin, his hair kicking in the wind, screwed his face into a scowl.

  “I didn’t realize the Schantz allowed wedding parties,” I said to cover my gaffe.

  He looked back down at the limo. “They rent reception rooms.”

  “I’m assuming we’re not here to crash the party.” I knew there were thirty-two luxury condominiums attached to the playhouse. When it’d been erected a year ago, I’d looked into renting one. If the seven-month waiting list hadn’t stopped me from pursuing a humble abode, the six-hundred-thousand-dollar price tag would have.

  “No, baby,” he said as he waggled a half-empty bottle of bourbon he’d carried from the car. “We’re making our own party.”

  He led me to an elevator just off the parking garage, which was still cold since it was practically outdoors. I huddled against the back wall, fantasies of him pushing me against the frigid walls and ravishing me playing in my head like a movie reel. He only leaned in the corner, staring down at the bottle in his hand, a contemplative frown on his face.

  The elevator dinged and we stepped out three floors below where we’d parked. He held the doors open and pointed the neck of the bottle at a door across the hall: 103. Elegant sconces lit patterned goldenrod wallpaper over matching carpet. Live potted plants stood beneath each window, three in total. Outside, the city lights winked.

  “Nice view.”

  “Wait’ll you see inside,” he murmured as he unlocked his front door. I’d wondered before where he lived, what his home looked like. A ritzy condo in the Schantz hadn’t made the list.

  I stepped into the short foyer and was greeted by an open living room and attached kitchen. A black leather couch dominated the space, a trendy, exposed brick wall standing between the living room and I assumed a bedroom.

  And the view. I walked past the couch to a dining room table—way too big for just him—and admired the tall buildings and their lit windows against a navy-blue night sky. “Wow. Ridgeway’s pretty from up here.”

  “Told you,” was all he said as he slipped my coat from my arms.

  A painting of a woman in an elegant red dress riding a bicycle hung on one wall, and a large piece of pottery sat on the floor beneath it. Devlin owned art. Huh.

  “You have great taste,” I said as I ran my fingers over the leather couch. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall across from it.

  “Sonny,” he said

  “Is this his place?” A remote was wedged between two of the sofa cushions. I noticed a pair of shoes under the coffee table. Okay, so Devlin wasn’t a neat freak. He just wasn’t a slob.

  “He owns it.” Devlin poured bourbon into two glasses and then held up one of them for me.

  “I don’t drink hard liquor. How about a light beer?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  He dumped the contents of my glass into his and yanked open the fridge. “I don’t have light. Regular?”

  “That’s fine.”

  He carried the bottle of bourbon and our drinks to the living room. I followed. When he sat and offered me the beer bottle, I took it and perched on the edge of the cushion, suddenly uncomfortable. I wasn’t exactly sure why I was here. Of all the things we’d done together, “hanging out” hadn’t been one of them.

  I curled my bottle into my chest. He leaned his elbows on his knees and peered down at his glass.

  “Devlin?”

  He blinked over at me. I guessed he wasn’t sober, but he didn’t seem completely drunk, either. Like he was in that buzzed state: loose and relaxed.

  “Why am I here?” I asked. There had to be a reason.

  “Because”—he shifted his gaze to his glass again—“I don’t want to be alone.”

  Stunned, I felt my eyebrows crawl up my forehead. I wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d taken me downstairs to the wedding party and invited me to do the Chicken Dance.

  “You need someone to talk to?” I offered.

  He let out a dry laugh. “No.”

  He set his glass on the coffee table, took my beer from my hands, and reached for me.

  “You’re hot.”

  I regarded the not-sexy ensemble of my server’s uniform: a pressed white shirt and black pants. “You’re drunk.”

  “Just a little.” He cupped the back of my neck and pulled my lips to his. I let him, enjoying the warm firmness of his mouth.

  One bourbon-flavored kiss later, he let me go. “Not fair.”

  “What’s not fair?”

  He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead onto mine, his thumb brushing my cheek. “All I want to do is kiss you.” Abruptly, he pulled away from me. “And then fold you over the kitchen counter. Take you in the shower. Lay you down on that rug.”

  My chest rose and fell with each quickening breath. I wanted that, too. All of it.

  “Sounds fair to me,” I croaked.

  “You don’t want me, Rena.” He shook his head, his mouth pulling at the corners.

  “Au contraire, Devlin.” I unbuttoned a button on my shirt and his eyes zoomed in on my fingers. Then I unbuttoned another, and one after that. When I revealed a beige cotton bra, his focus sharpened, his eyes zooming in on my chest. “This making you feel better?”

  He answered by leaning forward and setting his lips to my neck. Nipping and licking, he traveled up the side of my throat, leaving my skin damp. I arched to give him better access, goose bumps popping up on my arms. He slipped my bra straps from my shoulders, took one breast in his hot mouth and then the other. As he suckled my nipple his fingers traveled to the button of my pants.

  My mind blanked, my body shrouded in the gauzy haze of lust. He was as lost as I was, every breath coming faster and shorter. Low moans of pleasure came from his throat as I stripped him of his sweater and pants. As we kicked off our shoes.

  We didn’t make it to the rug. He rolled me to my back on the couch and then rolled on a condom. His hands tightened on my hips as he slid to the hilt, and then entered me over and over. Arms overhead, I braced myself on the arm of the couch, each thrust rutting me deeper into the leather. I cried out when I came, holding onto him with a vise grip as hi
s release took him. His face pinched, his teeth clamped. He was a beautiful, devastating mess. A second later, he collapsed onto me, his weight heavy.

  “That,” he said against my ear. “That was what I needed.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed with a smile.

  My hands were in his hair, his cheek against my shoulder as he dragged his thumb along the underside of my breast. I shuddered. He lazily toyed with my nipple, and my hips rose. I tugged his hair, twining my fingers into the silky strands. My pulse pounded between my legs. I wanted him again. Already.

  “I have a brother.” That snapped me back to the present with a sudden sting. I’d been so focused on his talented fingers, I didn’t think I’d heard him right.

  “And you didn’t… before today?” I half joked.

  “Yes, but I didn’t know about him.” He sat up, tugging his jeans over his legs as he went. I admired the curve of his butt and the pair of dimples at his lower back. He grabbed his glass and offered me my beer.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m not drinking alone, and I’m not going to cry on your shoulder.”

  Fury danced in his eyes. This was the Devlin I was more familiar with. I took the beer but I didn’t drink it. He kept his eyes on me while he downed an inch of the amber liquor, then seemed to debate.

  “Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s tell all our shit.” He pointed at me with his glass. “Worst thing you’ve ever done in your life.”

  My eyes widened. I busied myself propping my back against the arm of the sofa and tugging a blanket from the back of it and covering my naked body. Stalling.

  “What’d you do, Rena?” he asked. “Steal paperclips from work? Tell a friend you didn’t like her haircut?”

  He was being mean. So I told him the cold, hard truth. “I killed my boyfriend when I was eighteen years old.”

  His dark eyebrows shot for his hairline, his throat worked as he swallowed. “Holy shit. Am I in trouble?”

  I had to smile. “It was my fault he died.”

  “Damn. Guess you win that round.” Devlin clinked his glass against my bottle in macabre cheers. I drank several long swallows, the carbonation burning my throat. He gestured for me to continue.

  I shook my head, but continued anyway. “It’s a cautionary tale of underage drinking and distracted driving.” Then I added the part I never told anyone about. “The story of how the bad girl led her saintly boyfriend to his untimely death.”

  “You? A bad girl?” The edge of his mouth lifted with one eyebrow.

  “All things being relative.” I waited for him to pity me. To apologize. He did neither.

  “Was your boyfriend really a saint?”

  I shrugged. “When you die at eighteen, no one seems to remember anything bad about you.”

  Long, thick lashes swept over his blue eyes. “And they didn’t remember anything bad about you, either.”

  “Nope.” He got it. Just like that. No pseudo-sympathizing. No judgment. Nothing but an assessment that happened to be spot-on.

  He hugged my knees and dropped his chin on his arm. “Did you want to keep being bad?”

  I nodded.

  “Instead you were forced to be the mourning girlfriend. Go to a shrink. Talk through your problems.”

  He was right on all counts.

  “What did you do after that? Only date guys who were in seminary?”

  I picked at the frayed ends of the blanket. “I… didn’t date anyone.”

  He let go of my legs and sagged against the back of the couch. “Don’t say until me.”

  “Okay. I won’t say it.”

  His chest expanded to take in a deep breath.

  “It’s a burden isn’t it? Knowing you’re the guy who came after I dated the perfect guy? Why do you think I stayed single for four years?” I tipped the beer bottle and guzzled, feeling Devlin’s eyes on me. I poked his leg with my toe. “Your turn.”

  He faced me and a shock of hair fell over his forehead. “My worst thing can’t touch yours.”

  I believed it. Death had the final say.

  “I don’t want to know your worst thing. I want to know the story behind your learning you had a brother.” I wasn’t sure he would tell me. Then he did.

  “My dad’s best friend, Paul, who I’ve been trying to help out of a tight spot, apparently had an affair with my mom behind my dad’s back. Years ago. Mom split and didn’t tell Dad she was pregnant with Cade. Dad’s dead now, so…”

  Sounded like he had me on the worst tale after all. I’d miss my parents if they weren’t around. I felt my brows pull in sympathy.

  He didn’t see my expression because his head was down and he was talking to his bourbon. “Paul’s son, as it turns out, is my half brother. Mom took off when I was, like, two. That left me with Dad, who managed to lose nearly everything—including his life—by the time I was eighteen.”

  It was the first time he’d talked about family. About anything personal, actually. I really didn’t know Devlin. Our bodies knew each other, and I’d believed that was enough. I didn’t know if I still believed it was enough, but that idea frightened me. Knowing more about him would only make it harder when he left. And he would leave. On some instinctive level I knew Melinda was right about him. He would hurt me. Not physically. Physically, he could only delight me. But there wasn’t a doubt in my mind he’d stomp my delicate heart into sawdust when he was through with me.

  I wrapped my own arms around my knees. “Sorry about your dad. How’d he die?”

  “Jumped off a bridge into the river.”

  I winced, the visual hitting me hard.

  “Cade’s dad, Paul, took me in. Out of the goodness of his heart.” He refilled his glass, splashing bourbon on the coffee table. He slammed the bottle down so hard, I was surprised when the glass table didn’t crack.

  “Did you learn how to gamble from your dad?”

  He nodded, drank, and poured some more.

  The bottle was almost empty. “Maybe you should stop drinking.”

  “Maybe you should go home.” His sharp glare sliced me in two.

  “You invited me to come here.”

  “I got what I wanted. You can go now.”

  My limbs tingled as adrenaline washed through my bloodstream. I’d never known anyone more mercurial. I’d been giving him the benefit of the doubt, but he’d pushed me too far with that barb. He could wallow alone.

  I put my feet on the floor and wrapped the blanket around me like a sarong. He wanted me to leave and leave mad. No problem. I snatched the liquor bottle, unwilling to go quietly into the good night.

  “Hey!” He stood and followed me.

  “Does this usually work for you?” I asked as I backed into the kitchen.

  “Rena,” he warned.

  “This whole ‘no one loves me’ routine?”

  “Thin ice.” Another warning I happily ignored.

  “If you want me to leave, you’ll have to throw me into the hallway wearing only this blanket.”

  “Oh, you think I won’t?” He advanced another step, scarily serious.

  “I dare you.” I held the liquor bottle over the sink in the kitchen island and watched his face turn an impressive shade of red. “You’re cut off.”

  I upended the bottle. The contents glugged down the drain. He swore and rushed me, grabbing my biceps with a firm hold. I met his wild gaze in challenge. I wasn’t afraid of him. I refused to be.

  Teeth pulled into a grimace, he growled, “Get out.”

  The blanket loosened and fluttered to the floor. For a scant second his gaze jerked down to my naked body. He was weak. For me. His hold on me was firm, but he wasn’t hurting me.

  I shook my head left then right, then left again. A slow-motion No.

  The flex of his fingers and flaring nostrils told me I might end up in front of Schantz Theater wearing only a blanket. I elevated my chin, daring him. He wanted a taste of the bad girl? Here she was.

  Our standoff lasted through the coun
t of twenty. During that time I came to the realization that I didn’t want to fight to stay with him. Not when he was being an asshole. It just so happened I’d gotten what I wanted tonight, too.

  “Fine. I’ll go.” I grabbed the blanket and walked to the living room, not bothering to cover up. I hated conceding. I hated more that Devlin was being a coward. Moments after the only real conversation we’d ever had, he’d been as cowardly as if he’d taken the first available lifeboat off the Titanic.

  What a wimp.

  I snatched up my clothes and pulled them on, not caring if he watched. Halfway through buttoning my shirt, he said my name.

  “Rena. Hang on.” His expression was almost pained.

  “I’ve been here too long already,” I snapped.

  Gently, much too gently, he laid his hand over mine. Then he finished what I’d started, sliding button after button through the holes of my work shirt until he reached my neck. He flipped my hair from my collar and let it fall over my shoulders.

  “I’ll give you money for a cab.”

  His words were like a slap. He was actually sending me home? My shoulders drooped, my body heavy. This was what being with Devlin was like. In all its agonizing glory.

  “I can’t, Rena.” His voice was soft. I tried to guard against that softness. Tried to be glad he was hurting almost as much as I was. That was the most honest thing he’d said to me… second to him admitting he didn’t want to be alone.

  “What can’t you do?” I whispered, unable to keep from asking. This was gentle Devlin, and I wanted to hang onto him as long as possible. I didn’t like the angry, emotionless guy I’d stolen a bottle of liquor from moments ago. I wanted this one—vulnerable, real. He straightened my shirt collar, and spoke quieter than before. “I can’t make love to you, and hold you all night, and tell you how much I care about you.”

  Every heartbeat had barbed hooks that sliced into my chest. Why couldn’t he do that? I wanted that. More than I’d wanted anything in a long, long time. The silence stretched between us while I waited for him to change his mind.

  “I can’t.” Heavy lids closed over the honesty in his eyes.

  “Just fuck me,” I heard myself say. Despite the bitter taste of resentment filling my mouth and the pain slicing my chest, I wanted him still. I wanted what he’d give me. I would take what I could get. I kissed him, softly, sweetly. Then I palmed his face and looked directly into his eyes and said, “Fuck me and leave me alone in bed and don’t say a goddamned thing.”