Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2)

by Lavender Parker

  “No, I'm fine.” Shay ran her hands over the soft bedspread. “I think I'm just fine.”

  “Alright,” Gina said, backing out of the room, giving her niece space. “Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone,” Gina added.

  “Okay,” Shay said, laying back on the pillow.

  “I'll be back,” Gina said with a grin and then disappeared into the hallway. Shay shook her head and let out a low breath, her eyes dropping to the manila envelope further down the bed. She popped her knuckles, debating whether she should open it or shove it back in the drawer and pretend it wasn't there. A low siren whined outside the window, the sounds of the city seeping into the quiet room. The constant low hum of the city was going to take some getting used to. She wondered if it was going to be hard for her to sleep that night. No, she decided. She was going to sleep just fine. In fact, she was going to sleep better than she had her whole life.

  “I told you I loved you right?” Gina said, popping her head back into the room and startling Shay out of her thoughts. “Because I do.”

  “I love you too,” Shay said with laugh. “Now get out of here before you get a ticket for double parking.”

  “Yes ma'am,” Gina said, disappearing again. Her laughter echoed down the hallway. Finally, Shay heard the door open and close, and she knew she was alone. Alone, truly alone, for the first time in forever. Rolling over, she pressed her face into the pillow and inhaled. It smelled like her aunt – like sandalwood cologne and fresh laundry detergent and the peach scented candles she favored. She took a minute to tell herself it was real. She was really free.

  Then she took a deep breath and screamed.

  She screamed out the last six years. She screamed out all the anger and frustration and fear and pain. She screamed until she was hoarse and out of breath. Then she sat up and grabbed the two envelopes on the bed. First, she opened the one from the prison, dumping the contents onto the bed in front of her. She picked up her mother's ring and slid it on her left hand. She brought her hand up to her mouth and gave the stone a quick kiss. Then she moved on to the manila envelope. She hesitated for a minute before breaking the seal, knowing that once she opened it, she'd be doing exactly what he wanted her to do. Her father had left her the envelope to make himself feel better. It really didn't have much to do with her, she knew. If he really cared, he would have come to visit. He would have written. He would have done something, anything. The envelope was his way of apologizing, but she wasn't sure she was ready to forgive him.

  Finally, after battling it out in her mind, curiosity got the better of her. She slid her finger along the flap of the envelope and then turned it upside down over the comforter. Four thick stacks of cash tumbled out. A note, written on a yellow legal pad, fluttered out of the envelope as well. She picked up one stack and ran her thumb down the crisp edge. All twenties. She tossed it back down, annoyance flaring up in her. Twenty grand, she guessed, give or take. Twenty grand for six years of her life. Snorting out a bitter laugh and shaking her head, she grabbed the note and unfolded it.

  “Welcome home,” was all it said.

  Chapter Three

  Tate Grayson was in hell. A hell of his own personal making, but hell nonetheless. He should have known to never to listen to Austin when it came to dating. The two friends were so far from each other when it came to their approaches to women that they might as well have been on different planets. Austin was effortless when it came to women. He didn't even have to try. His looks, his money, his charm, or any combination of those magic three usually got the job done.

  Tate didn't have any of those things; thus, he always had to try.

  Unfortunately for suckers like him, effortless confidence was attractive. Aggressively not caring was attractive. Trying hard to be attractive was not attractive. There were things that Tate was confident in, surely. He was confident at his job. He knew for a fact he was a damn good member of the NYPD. He was a crack shot and a decent boxer as well , if he did say so himself. He was good at things that didn't require him to smile at the right times and tell funny jokes and be charming. He was good at things that didn't require finesse and a gentle touch. Charisma was not his strong suit. As his brother Hector would say, he had no game.

  For years, his lack of game hadn't been a problem. Getting pussy on the regular had never been that big of a deal to him. When he was climbing up the walls with frustration, he would go to the gym and work it out in the ring or on the bag. He would go to the shooting range and pop off a few rounds, or find a good book to occupy his mind. He knew it wasn't normal for a man his age, especially in New York City, which was a virtual sex buffet, but he'd learned how to deal. He figured his best plan was to wait. Wait for the one woman who would magically make up for everything he lacked. The one woman who wouldn't mind long silences and the demands of his job and the uniqueness of his adopted family.

  Unfortunately, that plan had recently been shot to hell.

  He supposed he could blame it on Gennifer. Ever since his naturally abrasive and terminally alone sister had run off and eloped in Las Vegas a month before, Tate just couldn't shake the idea that he wanted what she had. When he saw Genny and her husband, Mikhail, at House of Pain or at their parents' house on the weekend, he would have to be blind to not notice the way they practically glowed with happiness. They shared secret smiles. They touched each other constantly. They laughed and kissed and looked at each other across rooms like they could read each others' minds. Tate had never felt more lonely than after being around them. Working twelve hour days and going home only to his cat had never felt more pathetic. He wasn't interested in becoming a goddamn monk. So he'd made a decision. If there was hope for Genny, there was hope for him, dammit.

  Hence, the current hell he found himself in, more commonly known as a blind date. He didn't know what sick motherfucker had come up with the concept, but it was torture. The woman Austin had set him up with hadn't even shown up yet and he was already considering bailing. The bar where she'd suggested they meet was loud with the white collar after-work crowd. It was far outside of his comfort zone. He tended to stick in upper Manhattan with the unwashed, authentic masses, and avoid the trendy, moneyed transplants in lower Manhattan like the plague. He didn't have anything against them, per se, but they weren't his people. He didn't have anything in common with a pendejo who sat at a comfy desk all day and drank white wine at night. Austin was one such pendejo, but for whatever reason, Tate got along with him despite everything. Of course, if they hadn't met across the ring at House of Pain, they never would have been friends in the first place.

  Sad to say, his friendship with Austin was the only thing keeping his ass on the bar stool. He'd promised his friend that he would give the blind date a shot. Leah was her name. Leah who worked at an architectural firm and lived in Midtown and came from Portland. She was slightly older than him, thirty-one, and on the phone she'd sounded smooth and confident. Hearing her voice had made him feel like he might be out of his league. He wasn't sure how to be other than himself. Austin would be smooth and act like he owned the room. Hector would make her laugh and play the sweet boy next door. Tate had no such tricks up his sleeve. His goal was simply to survive the night and not fuck up too badly.

  He took a drink of his Corona, glancing up at the candles that lined the shelves of booze behind the bar. The atmosphere was intimate, despite the room being stuffed with people. He glanced at his watch. She was late. He told himself he was going to give her another five minutes, enough time to finish his beer, before he skipped out.

  Then he felt a light hand on his shoulder.

  “Tate?” a familiar feminine voice said. He let out a slow breath and turned in his seat. Leah. Yup, she looked just about as he'd figured, based on her voice. An elegant looking woman with a round face and a bright smile. She had short, straight black hair and almond-shaped eyes. He guessed she was at least part-Chinese, but he had no intentions of asking. He personally knew how annoying it was when someone asked 'Wha
t are you?' She slid into the seat next to him, smoothing her sensible grey skirt down over her thighs. Then she glanced up at him, expectantly, her eyes reflecting the candlelight.

  “What do you want to drink?” he asked, holding his hand up to catch the bartender's attention.

  “Oh, maybe just some wine,” she said, turning to the bartender who appeared. “A glass of pinot grigio, please.” The bartender nodded.

  “And another for me,” Tate said, holding up his empty beer bottle. When the drinks were dispersed, silence draped over them. Leah took a sip of her wine, her eyes on him.

  “So,” she said after a moment, setting her glass softly down on the bar. “Austin told me you're with the NYPD.” Tate nodded, flicking at the label on his beer bottle absentmindedly. “That sounds dangerous,” she said with a light laugh.

  “It can be,” he said. “Mostly it's a lot of paperwork. Not a lot of flying bullets.”

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes widening. She stared at him, expectantly, but he didn't know what else to say. “So it's not like Law & Order?” she said after a minute. He shook his head no, busying himself by taking a drink of his beer. She stared at him for awhile, then shifted on her stool. “Well, I don't like that show anyway.” She smiled and leaned her elbow on the edge of the bar, inching closer to him. For the first time, he let his eyes drift over her. She wasn't skin and bones and he liked that. She had hips on her and her calves were round and shapely. Her black blouse was open at the throat, revealing a delicate gold necklace and a sliver of bare skin.

  “How...” he trailed off, then began again. “How do you know Austin?”

  “Oh! He knows a friend of mine from college. We met at a wedding last year,” she said. “He can be a real piece of work, but we run in some of the same circles.” She took another sip of her drink, running her eyes down Tate's front. Tate didn't miss the small gesture. A strange thought came over him. Maybe the night wasn't going so badly after all. He didn't know if he had it in him to hope. “And how do you know Austin?” she said, flicking her eyes back up to meet his.

  “I punched him in the face,” Tate said, without thinking. She laughed for real then, throwing her head back and slapping her knee. His heart jumped in his chest. He made a mental note to hug Austin the next time he saw him. Shit, he might even kiss him.

  “I imagine a lot of people have wanted to do that,” she said, her smile wide. “He can be...”

  “A tool,” Tate supplied, leaning forward involuntarily. He matched her posture, putting his elbow on the bar as well. “But he's one of my good friends, so I'm allowed to say that.”

  “Right,” she nodded. A moment of silence passed between them, but this time, it wasn't tense. It felt... different. She ran her fingers up the stem of her glass, her eyes on his. “So why did you hit him?”

  “We were sparring,” he said. “He put his guard down and I hit him in the face.”

  “Sparring?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “Boxing,” he replied vaguely. She had freckles on her nose, he realized. “We box together at the same gym, so we spar in the ring together sometimes. To keep our skills sharp.”

  “Wow.” She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “That sounds painful.”

  “It can be,” he said. “But it can also be fun.”

  “Fun. That's what I meant to say.” She rolled her eyes and laughed again.

  “And it keeps me in shape,” he said.

  “I can see that.” She dragged her eyes over his chest again, but this time, she didn't bother trying to hide it. Then she grabbed her glass of wine and downed the rest of it in several quick sips.

  “You want another?” he asked, picking up his own beer and taking a long drink. His throat was suddenly extremely dry.

  “I think I'll have a beer,” she said, running her hand through her hair. He called the bartender back over and she shifted on the bar stool again. “Are you hungry? I'm kind of hungry.”

  “I could eat,” Tate said.

  “Can we have menus please?” Leah asked the bartender. “And two beers.” She turned back to Tate. “You wanted another one, right?” He nodded in response, feeling cautiously optimistic. He didn't really have a type, but Leah seemed to tick a lot of the boxes. She was independent, obviously. She didn't seem to mind taking control of the conversation. She didn't seem to want permission from him for some unknowable request. And she had a nice laugh.

  “Good.” She smiled again and he dipped his head, feeling a flush creep up his neck. The hint—the possibility—of sex and intimacy was in the air. Tate could feel it. It would be so easy to fuck it up or to say the wrong thing. But he had to try. He wasn't going to give up before he'd at least given himself a fighting chance. He owed himself that much. He owed it to his to his future. And he owed it to his dick. Besides, he was having fun, he realized. Possibly. He was still cautious, but he was also out on a date on a Friday night with a pretty woman and, more importantly, she was smiling. Things were starting to look up.

  “So Tate,” she said, leaning in again. “Tell me about boxing.”

  “No,” he said. Her mouth dropped open and she blinked at his bluntness. “I want to know about you,” he added after a minute.

  “Me?” Her face softened again. “But you're way more interesting, Mr. Law & Order.”

  “I don't think so,” he said with a shrug. The bartender returned with their beers and menus and they had a brief break in the conversation. She turned over the menu on the bar and gave it a quick glance. Then she turned back to Tate.

  “The first thing you should know about me is that I think I'm going to order a burger,” she said and he couldn't help it.

  He smiled.

  ***

  Shay ran her finger over the many colorful bottles of polish, trying to pick a color. It was extremely difficult. After years of no nail polish at all, she had to pick one color out of hundreds. There were too many damn choices, she thought, pouting out her bottom lip. She tapped her fingernail on a glass bottle containing a peacock blue, remembering the clerk's two-toned nails at the jail. She wanted all the colors, but she supposed she could settle on two or three. She wanted a fancy-ass design, something that said she was finally free to do whatever the hell she wanted with herself. She didn't care if it was over the top. She didn't care what other people would think. So she grabbed the peacock blue, a bright pink and a neon yellow.

  Hell yes, she was going to make it colorful.

  “I want these,” she said, plopping them down on the pink laminated table in front of Thalia, her aunt's girlfriend. Thalia wasn't exactly what she'd imagined. A half-Jamaican from the Bronx with long golden-blond braids and purple painted lips, she was as tall as her aunt was short and as sweet as her aunt was rude and loud. She laughed easily and could wrap Gina around her little finger with a bat of her long fake eyelashes. Despite her original misgivings, Shay couldn't help but like Thalia immediately.

  “I do'em up right for you,” Thalia said with a big smile. “Every time you look down at your hands, girl, you're going to see sunshine and rainbows.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Shay said, sliding into the plastic chair in front of Thalia's nail station. She glanced up and found her aunt staring at her from the front desk. “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Gina said, stepping out from behind the desk. “I was just thinking that after you get them nails done, we're going to do something about that hair.” She crossed the salon and put her hand on Shay's shoulder. “Can't have you working here and looking like something the rat dragged up out of the subway.”

  “Hey!” Shay exclaimed, craning her neck to glare up at her aunt. “I don't look that bad.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Gina murmured vaguely, running her hands through Shay's hair. “We'll get you some color and some length. Then we'll get you Andre.”

  “What?” Shay asked, as Thalia grabbed her hands and splayed her fingers out on the workstation. “Who the hell is Andre?”

  “The de
livery man,” Thalia supplied, smiling as she held up a long acrylic nail to Shay's index finger.

  “Christ!” Shay shook her head, a shiver of something going through her. She didn't know if it was fear or excitement. Maybe a bit of both, actually. She hadn't dated in so long it didn't seem possible. It was foreign, the thought of a man looking at her and smiling and flirting. “I want long pointed tips. Like claws,” she said, changing the subject quickly. Thalia nodded and dug around in her drawer for the right nails. Shay then turned back to her aunt, trying to think of the best excuse to give. “I don't need to be thinking about any Andre right now,” was all she came up with.

  “We'll see,” Gina said with a chuckle. “You're going to talk to him everyday when you're working the front desk. Might as well be friendly.”

  “But I hate being friendly,” Shay said, puffing out her bottom lip in a faux pout.

  “Well I get a tax write-off for employing a convicted felon, so you're just going to have to grin and bear it,” Gina said, tugging on the ends of Shay's hair lightly. “We're going to get you all fixed up.”

  Three hours later, she had long rainbow colored nails and soft, straight, blown-out hair with three inches of length sewn in. The tips were dyed purple at her request and curled softly over her shoulders. Her eyebrows still needed to be threaded, but otherwise, she looked damn good and she wasn't afraid to admit it. She ran her nails through her hair lightly, feeling more and more like her old self the longer she looked in the mirror.

  As the day had gone on, the salon had grown loud with customers and stylists, all chatting and laughing and having fun. Kids ran around the front, playing while their mothers got their hair done. Music played in the background, loud enough to sing along to. Shay was used to a lot of people in her personal space; she was used to loudness. What she wasn't used to was feeling like an actual person. A unique person with her own, autonomous self. She was no longer just a prisoner and a number. She was Shay again. She had on new jeans that fit her like a glove, a new green hoodie over a leopard print top, and a new pair of purple Converses. She looked like any normal almost twenty-five year old.