by Strong, Mimi
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Are you saying the video of the curvy blonde at the tattoo shop isn’t you? Because it sure looks like you. I only watched it once, but the video’s up to a couple million views.”
My mouth dropped open.
Thunder rumbled outside, the rain picking up fury.
A lightning bolt punctuated my sudden realization.
The person who revealed Dalton Deangelo’s secret past was me. I’d been worried about this. It must have happened during the night I couldn’t remember clearly. My friend Mitchell wouldn’t have betrayed me, so it must have been one of the model guys we were out with who’d recorded me on his phone. Then again, maybe Mitchell had betrayed me. People did that. After all, I had betrayed Dalton.
“I didn’t know,” I said, looking down at my shoes, away from his cold expression. “This is the first I’ve… oh, Dalton. I’m so sorry. I could literally die right here from how sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you.”
“You haven’t seen the video?”
“No! I didn’t want to read all those terrible things people were saying about you. All those horrible people on the internet. I mean, I looked once, but just for a few minutes.”
He sighed, and his tone softened a bit. “To be fair, you didn’t say everything, but you dropped some huge hints, and that reporter, Brooke Summer, put the clues together and figured out where to look.”
“This is all Brooke’s fault.” I still couldn’t look up at him. Please let him agree it’s Brooke’s fault.
“Peaches, look at me.”
“I can’t. I’m too ashamed.”
“Brooke Summers didn’t sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement, but you did.”
My mouth went dry. “You’re going to sue me?” I glanced up, meeting his gaze. To my surprise, he looked amused, like he was making fun of me. My guilt morphed quickly into anger. “Good luck suing me, especially since I don’t have anything. Not compared to you.”
“You didn’t read the NDA before you signed it, did you?”
“Why?” I crossed my arms.
Dalton pulled out his wallet, put some bills on the counter, and tucked the book under his arm. “I should get on my way. It’s getting stormy out there.”
He turned and walked toward the door, but slowly, like he wanted to be stopped.
I called out, “What do you want from me?”
He stopped at the door, his back to me. “Dinner on Wednesday?”
“I might have plans.”
He grinned. “Bulldoodle.”
I nearly cracked at the silly word, but I wasn’t about to be thrown off by him so easily.
I said, “I might be able to see you Wednesday, but you’re not the boss of me.”
“I have a notarized document that says otherwise.”
“WHAT?”
He opened the door to the rumbling storm. He transferred the book to the interior of his leather jacket. “Vern will pick you up at your house at seven.”
“Wait, Dalton. Enough of your mysterious crap! I’m really sorry about what I said, but this is my town, and this is my bookstore. Stop coming into my life and fucking shit up. I demand a copy of that stupid thing I signed!”
Bells jingled. The door closed behind him as he disappeared up the street in the rain. He probably hadn’t heard a word after “wait.”
After picking my jaw up off the floor, I phoned Shayla and told her everything.
“Plot twist,” was her reply.
“That’s all you’ve got? Never mind. Why am I talking to you? I’m pissed at you for not telling me I was the one who blabbed Dalton’s secrets. You could have warned me.”
“You made me promise to keep you from reading terrible things about you online. After that bombshell dropped, half your rabid fan base turned against you. It’s like World War Three on the Team Peaches forums.”
“Shit.” I hadn’t considered how Dalton’s bad press would spray back onto me. My heart sunk as I connected all the shitty dots to a shitty future where the underwear line with my name on it would lose so much money they would sue me rather than paying licensing royalties.
“Still there?” Shayla asked, her voice tiny. I’d dropped the phone away from my ear, as though a few inches would lessen the pain of the news.
“Just having a fuck-my-life moment.”
“Why don’t you see what Dalton has planned? Maybe you guys can salvage both of your reputations.”
“You’re good at this stuff, Shay. You’re more sensible than me.”
She sighed. “Fine. You beat it out of me. I’m fucking the dish washer.”
“What?”
“I’m fucking the dish washer.”
“I don’t understand. The dishwasher? You renamed your vibrator, or are you actually going after bigger appliances? Shayla, be honest. What exactly happened with our old refrigerator?”
“Not the dishwasher appliance. The person. From work.”
“Wait. The funny high school kid?”
She giggled. “He just graduated, silly.”
“Holy feathered duck fucks! Is that even legal?”
“He’s eighteen.”
“Are you guys dating, or what?”
“His parents are very strict. Please don’t tell anyone, or they’ll pull his college tuition. He’s already working at the restaurant as punishment for getting caught with some pot.”
“That seems ironic, considering the people you work with. No offense.”
She giggled. “I think it’s their way of teaching him a valuable life lesson. Showing him where people who party end up.”
“The horrors.” The door jingled as a customer came in with most of her body, shaking her umbrella outside the doorway. “Thanks for the chat,” I said, wrapping it up.
“Wait, are you seeing Adrian tonight?”
“You tell me. What have you heard?” Curiosity took hold of me.
“Nothing much,” Shayla said.
The woman approached the counter, her chin up in the manner of someone wanting to ask me a question. (It’s funny how women will make that face, with the chin and eyebrows up, mouth slightly open, whereas men will hold their heads level and give you the stare, commanding you with their eyes, slightly amused that you’d be stupidly talking on your pink cell phone when they need you.)
I said goodbye to Shayla and got to work helping the woman. My job had to take precedent over my love life during retail hours, or else every aspect of my life would be a disaster.
Outside of the Christmas season, people don’t require that much help with their shopping in a bookstore. I like to help, because it means talking about books, but sometimes I feel guilty about all the books I haven’t read, especially when customers act shocked and say I “simply must” read some book that changed their life. Now, I have an open mind, but if I open a book and see a perfect rectangle of text with no paragraph breaks, that’s not a book I’ll be reading, no matter how life-changing.
Maybe if I was in prison.
Then I would read those heavy books.
I don’t know about you, but I do daydream sometimes about being in prison and catching up on my reading. I’d also go to the gym a lot and get really ripped. Not that I want to go to prison…
Maybe one of those rehab places celebrities go? I’d love a fixed routine and dorm-style living, for a bit.
Obviously, instead of booze or drugs, I would check myself in for sex addiction.
Yep.
My addiction was sex with ultra hot guys.
All those chiseled abs and bulging biceps… the hot, urgent kisses… the licking and sucking, flesh against flesh… the first step is admitting you have a problem.
CHAPTER 9
As I locked the door Tuesday night, my throat tightened with a hint of nostalgia. The store’s days at this location were numbered. I turned around and looked at Java Jones, across the street. After the move to the former Black Sheep Books location, I’d have to get my lunch from a new place
, where the staff didn’t know my usual order.
I crossed the street and went in to get a mocha—to get one while I still could!
Kirsten gave me a knowing look as she steamed the milk. Did she know that Golden and I were both dating Adrian Storm? And that Dalton was back in town? She sure looked like she was thinking about something. If the rumors were to be believed, she’d gone to sex rehab herself once. It hadn’t cured her, though, which meant there was probably no hope for me and my inability to resist a bumpy man chest paired with a few compliments.
“What’s new since lunchtime?” she asked.
“I don’t know. What have you heard?”
“You’d better not forget about us, or I’ll have hurt feelings.”
“What?” I took the mocha, smiling at the perfect chocolate curls resting atop the foam.
“After you move the bookstore,” she said. “I won’t get to see your face twice a day. I don’t know how long I’ll last here without your funny stories.”
My cheeks warmed as I fidgeted with the lid. How ridiculous was I to suspect everybody was so fascinated with my private love life?
“I promise I won’t disappear,” I said.
She came out from behind the counter and gave me a hug, squeezing me tight. “Get out of here before I get really emotional,” she said.
As I walked back out with my mocha, my head felt like a helium-filled balloon, barely attached to my body. I’d always thought of Kirsten’s friendliness toward me as professional courtesy, and nothing more. The idea I was more than a customer to her was humbling.
I hit the end of the block. Shit. Did I lock the door?
Once you ask yourself that question, you have to turn back and check.
The door was unlocked, which was a first. Even worse, someone was inside the bookstore. My heart started to pound.
The lights were off, but I could see movement.
I yanked open the door to find a familiar face.
“Adrian!” I yelled. “You scared me.”
He was measuring the counter with a yellow measuring tape, and he wore black jeans and one of his old black band T-shirts, so he’d been nearly invisible with the interior lights out.
“The store’s closed, ma’am. You’ll have to try the library,” he said, grinning.
“And get those disgusting library book cooties? With the grocery lists and curly hairs tucked between the pages?”
He chuckled. “I’m going to tell my aunt, the librarian, about your slanderous comments.”
“It’s not slander if it’s true.” I set my purse on the counter and peered down at the notes he was making with a carpenter’s pencil. “How is your aunt?”
“Dating a hairdresser. He’s a badass with tattoos, and a widower, too.”
“Wow. Good for her.” I looked around, noting that beyond the beaded curtains, the bathroom door was closed. Was Golden there with Adrian? Was that why he’d waited until we were closed and I was gone?
“I’m alone,” he said, picking up on the unspoken question.
“Are you okay? You didn’t tell me what happened with the rat.”
“Peaches, I’d rather not talk about it, because I can’t win. Either I’m a savage monster who murdered an innocent rat, or I’m a pussy who didn’t have the nerve to take care of a problem. Either way, you’ll never look at me the same again.”
I stared at his face for clues, but he had his poker face on. “You’re so weird sometimes, Adrian.”
He finished measuring the countertop. Looking down at his notes, he said, “Want to catch a movie with me tomorrow night?”
“I’ve got other commitments.”
He looked up, catching me with his blue eyes. “You’re seeing… him?”
“That’s okay, right?” I rubbed my arms, feeling a chill suddenly. “This is all so complicated. Maybe I’ll just cancel.”
“No, you should see him.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re enjoying yourself, dating two cute girls at the same time.”
He grinned. “Blondes, too.”
I reached up, standing on my tiptoes, and ruffled his hair, which was even lighter than mine. He grabbed my hand and stuck my thumb in his mouth.
I groaned as my knees buckled, a thunderbolt of lust shooting down my back.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked around my thumb.
“Nothing.” (Nothing but getting his jeans off.)
“What’s that in the little paper cup?” He released my thumb and grabbed my drink.
“Mocha. And you’re not licking it off my body. I don’t share my mocha.”
He took a sip without asking. “Sweet.” He took a look at the label with the coffee house’s logo. “How late is Java Jones open? I’m going to be here late, working out the moving plan.”
Adrian was still working his weekend shifts at the bookstore, but he’d quit working at the pie shop. Gordon was paying him full-time hours to orchestrate the whole move and grand re-opening. I would have been stressed more over the move, but Adrian was so organized… and capable… and adorable.
I slipped my purse off my shoulder and set it on the counter between us, next to the coffee. “Then I’ll be here late, too.”
“You’re off the clock.”
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s mostly going to be me staring straight ahead while the slow gears in my head grind away.”
“That sounds fun! Where do we start?” I grabbed the bent metal tip of the measuring tape and started looking around.
“You should go home and rest up for tomorrow. People will be coming in looking for bargains because word’s getting out about the move. Gordon wants to put all the greeting cards on sale.”
“Those things are twenty years old! They’re all thumbed through, and should go in the dumpster.” I shifted back and forth, aware that my feet were sore from being there all day. “Adrian Storm, are you trying to get rid of me?”
“How much work do you think I’ll get done if you’re here?”
“You don’t think we make a great team?”
“For some things, yes. You’re really fun, but you’re not exactly open to other people’s ideas.”
“That’s not fair. You can’t hold stuff against me from high school, and all those arguments over autograph pages. We’re not kids anymore.”
Smirking, he reached under the counter and pulled out a red binder. My handwriting was on the cover in black ink, and the book had initially been titled Peachtree Books Do’s and Don’ts. That title had been crossed out, replaced with the more appropriate title, Adrian, Study This or Death Will Befall You.
“That’s a joke,” I said. “Wait, are you mad?”
“Not mad. I just have a lot to do tonight, and I won’t be able to focus if I’m slobbering over your delicious peaches, now, will I?”
“Hmm.” I pulled my purse back onto my shoulder. “You may have a point, for once.”
“Does it ever get any easier with you?”
“Easy is boring.”
I backed toward the door. “You have your keys?”
“That’s how I got in.”
“Adrian, a simple yes or no would suffice. Ever consider you’re the difficult one?”
Before he could answer, I rushed out the door, jubilant in getting the last word. Take that, Mr. Smarty Pants Adrian.
~
I arrived home to discover we had company. Someone was giggling in the kitchen, so I went back to investigate.
When I reached the doorway, I heard a sound I should have recognized, but didn’t. If I hadn’t been thinking about my own sex life, I might have recognized the sound of a satisfied customer who’d successfully deployed The Assassin, or a regular human, for a job that needed doing.
I’ve heard Shayla’s O-sound, but I’d never seen her O-face. Until that Tuesday night. Completely naked, she sat spread-legged on the peninsula of the kitchen counter, with a shaggy head of hair (thankfully) between me and Shayl
a’s taco stand. The head was attached to a guy, fully clothed and taking his job very seriously.
Stopped in my tracks, I stood there, dumbfounded. You know how sometimes you’re so full of different emotions and thoughts, your mind just overloads and takes a few seconds to reboot? No? Try walking in on your roommate having sex on your kitchen counter, and you’ll see what I mean.
What probably had the biggest impact on me was the emotion on her face. I’d seen Shayla enjoy a four-cheese pizza, and I thought that was her O-face. But this was like pizza and Christmas morning and getting a raise, all at once. With her cheeks flushed and eyelashes fluttering, she was beautiful and real, a woman with curves and folds, and not a glossy magazine image. I’d never seen anything like it.
I was still standing there, probably with my mouth open and looking like a tourist in Las Vegas, when the guy between her legs turned around and said, “You must be Peaches.”
“Oops,” Shayla said, crossing one tanned leg over the other for modesty.
“I haven’t been standing here for long,” I said.
He stood and extended his hand to me. “I’m Troy, and I’m learning about the value of a college education.”
Even though I had a pretty good idea about whose taco his hand had just been stuffing, I shook it anyway.
“I’m a college drop-out,” I replied. “Consider me an example of what not to do.”
He grinned, his smile making him seem more attractive. Troy had medium brown hair, brown eyes, and an average build—average for people, not actors and models. He actually looked like one of those young comedians who loses a few pounds and gets cast as a love interest opposite a hot blonde way out of his league.
Shayla had pulled a pack of cigarettes from somewhere and lit one, the tobacco sizzling in the otherwise quiet kitchen.
“Shay, not in the house!” I crossed over to the window and opened it all the way. She usually smoked on the porch. Actually, she usually snuck out under the pretense of taking out the garbage and puffed away over the Ninja Turtles ashtray, where she thought I couldn’t see her.
“Can I mix you a drink?” Troy asked me, holding a fresh tumbler under the new refrigerator’s ice dispenser.
“I could use a drink,” I said, setting my purse on the wood table inside the small room. “Is that sushi?”