1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Fourteen

by Kristen Ashley

  I opened my mouth to speak but froze when his lips brushed mine and stayed there.

  “Shut up,” he said even though I didn’t speak a word. “Bacon’s laying in its grease and the eggs aren’t going to make themselves. So pour yourself a goddamned cup of coffee and relax. We’ll have breakfast and then we’ll dance more of this dance later. Right now, I’m hungry.”

  Marcus was hungry.

  Hearing that, the fight just left me and I whispered, “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he whispered back, brushed his lips against mine again, staring into my eyes this close, his blue ones warm and sweet and twinkling.

  Then he let me go and went back to the bacon.

  * * * *

  Marcus made me put a robe on before he took my hand and walked me to the door.

  We stood in it like we’d done last Saturday night, except he was a lot closer.

  Someone was in the mood to be pushy.

  “We’re having dinner tonight,” he announced.

  I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.

  When I’d rolled them back, his hand was cupping my jaw and his face was even closer.

  And his damned eyes were twinkling.

  “You are beautiful,” he declared out of the blue. “You’re funny. You’re challenging, and by that I mean stubborn, and even if it can be aggravating, I still like it. I very much like your choice of nightwear. I also like your legs, breasts, hair, and eyes. I’d commit murder to hear your laugh again, and I intend to, not a figure of speech, being real. Last but very much not least, I more than like the fact that when I gave you an out, you didn’t take it, even if it’s maddening you don’t realize what you not taking it means. But even with all of that, darling, you are a serious pain in the ass.”

  Well!

  “I didn’t take that out because I didn’t want you to think I was judgey,” I retorted (and lied, but I wasn’t going there even in my head).

  “You didn’t take that out because you like me,” he fired back, shifting his hand so it slid to curl around the back of my neck as he curved his other arm around me. “You know every step of your life was leading you right here. You’re the woman for me, which means, darling, I’m the man for you. And you didn’t tell me to leave because you know that just the same as me.”

  “Now you’re bein’ cocky, which isn’t real attractive, honey bunch.”

  Another lie, dammit.

  He grinned. “More bullshit. More of a pain in my ass.”

  “You could leave,” I suggested.

  He didn’t leave.

  His hand at my neck moved up to cup my scalp, his head came down, and he kissed me.

  Soft, sweet, the tip of his tongue traced the crease of my lips, and just when I was about to open them for him (the thought didn’t even cross my mind to pull away, and I wasn’t going there either), he lifted his head.

  I opened eyes I hadn’t even realized I’d closed.

  “Now,” he whispered, his grin even more cocky than he’d just been, his gaze roaming my face and doing it with satisfaction so I knew exactly what I was exposing, damn him all to hell, “I’ll leave. Dinner tonight, honey. I’ll be here at seven.”

  “And I’ll be in Timbuktu.”

  “Book into a five-star, darling. I’ll meet you there and I’ll pay.”

  Damn.

  He had a comeback for everything!

  I rolled my eyes again.

  I heard him chuckle, felt his lips touch my nose then his hold leave me, and I watched him walk down the hall.

  He stopped halfway and turned back to me.

  Then he tore something from me. Something that had been fixed to me. Something I didn’t ask for. Something I didn’t deserve. Something I didn’t want.

  Something I didn’t know how to get rid of that was so heavy, it was a miracle it hadn’t crushed me.

  And the only reason it hadn’t crushed me was that I had help keeping it buoyed up with an apartment full of daisies.

  He did that by stating, “If you think your lip gloss is important, it is. You were correct. You have every right in every way in everything to do what you wish to do, go where you wish to go, be what you wish to be. No one has the right to take that away. It isn’t the lip gloss. It isn’t the man at Smithie’s who left his post. It’s the fact an animal was loose that night. A monster. And he caught you in the dark. No one is to blame but him. No one should shoulder that but him. And no one will. But him.”

  I stood staring at Marcus, breathing heavily, having had to put my hand up and hold on to the edge of the door while his words sheared a burden the size of a mountain from me.

  “Do you understand that, darling?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Tonight, Daisy, seven. And if you need anything before then, you know how to contact me or just come down to my man watching your apartment and ask. I don’t give a fuck you’re about out of coffee. He’ll send someone to get it for you.”

  Oh.

  My.

  Lord.

  “Now do you understand that?” he pressed, and that question was important. More important than it seemed. So important, my answer was going to change my life.

  I knew it. I knew it better than I knew the best ways to rat my hair to give it maximum volume.

  And in that moment, I had no choice in the answer I gave.

  I nodded.

  “Good,” he whispered, his blue eyes warming me from six feet away to the point my toes curled in, I was just that toasty.

  Then he was gone.

  Chapter Six

  Patch of Light

  Daisy

  “If you’re feelin’ the love for rock ’n’ roll, tonight at Herman’s Hideaway, hit up a new band that’s made the scene, Stella and The Blue Moon Gypsies. The lead singer has been rockin’ clubs in Denver for a while. But she’s found her groove with the Gypsies. Trust me, I caught them as an opening act at the Gothic last weekend and they blew the roof off. To get you into the feel, I’ll play a song Stella and her crew kill when they cover it. La Grange, by ZZ Top.”

  The radio was playing while I was getting ready for Marcus to take me out to dinner.

  I was a Southern girl, which meant I was a country girl. I could kick back to the sound of Patsy, Loretta, Barbara, Tammy, Emmylou, Shania, Wynonna, Trisha, Reba, and the best of all time, Dolly.

  But there were times in my life when I had to switch to something else with deep Southern roots.

  That’s when I hit up my rock ’n’ roll.

  And in my getup, it was a rock ’n’ roll night sure as certain.

  Obviously, I’d decided to go out with Marcus.

  He wanted to convince me we were meant to be together, he’d been kind enough to me he’d earned that shot.

  But he was going to know what he was getting.

  To this end, I was wearing my leopard print (or one of them). A skintight mini-dress that only went down to there. The back was scooped all the way out and the front was scooped to maximum cleavage potential (and with the maximums of my cleavage, this might be awe-inspiring to some; heck, it was my cleavage and it was still that to me).

  I was going to pair this with my sky-high platform sandals with the black patent across the balls of my feet, open toes to show off the new fire-engine-red pedicure I’d given myself (along with the same in a manicure, but on my long talons, I’d added a curve of amber rhinestones all along one side of the outer edge of each ring finger). The platform and heel of the shoes were covered in leopard.

  My hair was even more sky-high than my platforms. Teased to mammoth proportions at the top and sides, I’d smoothed that back and then curled the hell out of the rest of my tresses so they fell in soft, defined swirls from a high-rise at the crown all the way down my back (the bangs were blown out straight and brushing my forehead).

  My makeup was how I’d do it if I was stripping, which was how I’d do it when I wasn’t stripping. My eyes weren’t smoky. They were smoke. My skin bron
zed. The sides of my nose and under my cheekbones shaded. My cheeks a dewy tangerine. My lips a nude-y, super-glossed, glittering peach.

  I had in bronze chandelier earrings that nearly swept my shoulders and were liberally dosed with black and amber beads. A bronze statement necklace practically covered my upper chest and I had so many dangly bracelets on, if Marcus got through the night without the noise of them tinkling driving him to murder me, he’d definitely pass an important test.

  I thought I looked divine. I had a cute little body, fantastic bosoms, a whole lot of thick hair, and skin to die for, and everything I’d done to augment it only made it that much better.

  I also knew that not a lot of people agreed with me.

  But Miss Annamae had told me to embrace my style when I found it (and boy had I found it) and not to let anyone cut me down.

  Personally, I thought every woman should have at least one leopard print item in her closet. I didn’t care if it was just a clutch and I also didn’t care if that woman usually wore oxford shirts and loafers. She still needed leopard.

  If someone didn’t agree with me on that, or my platforms, my big hair, and my heavy hand with eyeliner, they could go fuck themselves.

  This was my thought as I leaned over the basin, whisking on one last coat of lip gloss and listening to ZZ Top when I heard, “Daisy.”

  I jumped a mile, whirled, and cried, “Lord!”

  I also saw Marcus lounging in the doorway to my bathroom.

  “You scared the dickens out of me!” I snapped loudly, shoving the wand of the gloss back in the tube.

  He sauntered in, reached out to my portable, and turned down the music.

  He then leaned a hip against my bathroom counter like it was his bathroom counter, crossed his arms on his chest and stated, “I knocked. For five minutes. To ascertain if I needed to purchase a ticket to Timbuktu, I let myself in. Not easy for you to hear a knock over that music, honey.”

  “It isn’t seven yet,” I retorted.

  “It’s twelve past.”

  I didn’t have a clock in the bathroom and I wasn’t wearing a watch, and further, there was no reason for him to lie. So I just did the only option available to me.

  I formed my mouth into a pout.

  He grinned at me.

  “If it’s twelve past and you knocked for five minutes, either you’re shit at pickin’ a lock or you’re late,” I noted.

  His grin became a smile I felt in my coochie.

  God!

  “Just something to know about me,” he began, “I’m not shit at picking a lock.”

  “I’ll file that away,” I replied but didn’t stop speaking. “Just something to know in order to just know it, it ain’t polite to sneak up on a woman and it really ain’t polite to interrupt her gettin’ ready for your date.”

  His eyes did a sweep of me.

  I felt that in my nipples (and my coochie).

  “You’re not ready?”

  I was.

  I just needed to put my shoes on.

  “I don’t have my shoes on.”

  “Not sure shoes can make all that better,” he said low. “But I bet if anyone could manage that, it’d be you.”

  I tried to remain annoyed; I just couldn’t.

  “You’ve messed up the opportunity to see the full show,” I pointed out.

  “Trust me, darling, when I get it, it won’t be unappreciated.”

  With his response, I finally took him in.

  He was wearing a blue suit, a crisp light-blue shirt, and a silk tie in a blue that was three shades darker than the suit and had a matching pocket square. His dark hair was thick. The cut gave him fullness at the top without it looking overly styled, short but not buzzed at the sides and back, and unlike that morning, when it was messy and falling over his forehead, it was now swept back from his handsome face.

  He looked GQ.

  I looked like Dolly Parton impossibly created a love child with Peg Bundy (no, I rocked that look).

  But suddenly, my stomach felt like it was sinking.

  “Daisy?”

  My focus returned to him.

  He’d sensed the feeling I had.

  How had he done that?

  No. No. Marcus Sloan being scarily adept at tuning himself to me was something I was not going to think about. Not then. Not anytime soon. Maybe not ever.

  “Daisy,” he prompted gently.

  “We don’t match,” I said quietly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re GQ. I’m Peg Bundy.”

  He gave one nod, declaring, “Yes, and lose the cigarette, Peg Bundy was gorgeous.”

  I stared.

  Then I asked, “Are you being serious with me?”

  His brows drew together. “Are you being serious asking that question?”

  I nodded my head and felt my hair go with it.

  Marcus watched my hair. His lips quirked then he looked at me.

  “She was supposed to be funny, she was in a sitcom,” he reminded me.

  “Right,” I whispered.

  “That didn’t make her any less beautiful.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I mumbled, wondering if he was real or if I’d slipped into a coma after that jackass raped me.

  Maybe I’d slammed my head against the asphalt. I didn’t feel it happen but then I wouldn’t. I’d have been in a coma.

  “I prefer blondes, though,” he stated.

  Lord, help me.

  “You of course know,” he began informatively, “that one of the most attractive things a woman can be is knowing exactly who she is, embracing that entirely, and not giving that first fuck what anyone thinks about it.”

  “You’re freakin’ me out,” I informed him right back.

  “Freak out in the car,” he ordered, leaning into me, grabbing my hand, and dragging me out of the bathroom. “I skipped lunch. I’m starved.”

  I yanked on my hand when we were in my bedroom but he didn’t let it go.

  Though he did stop.

  “You skipped lunch?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “You shouldn’t skip a meal, sugar. Your body and brain need nourishing regularly to take on the day. My guess, your line of business, you need to stay sharp. Losin’ focus due to hunger pains don’t say sharp.”

  Bizarrely, his reply came in a growl.

  “You need to put your shoes on, get your bag, and get in my car, Daisy.”

  I again stared at him, doing it this time asking, “Pardon?”

  “I’m trying to take this slow,” he answered. “You being sweet is not conducive to me taking this slow.”

  Yep.

  Right in the coochie.

  “Oh,” I mumbled.

  “Yes. Oh. Get your shoes, your bag, and I’ll meet you in the living room.”

  My head (and hair) nodded.

  “Fuck me,” he muttered, watching my hair move.

  He squeezed my hand, let it go, and sauntered out of the room.

  I got my shoes on, dropped my lip gloss in my bag, and met him there.

  * * * *

  “Tell me something good.”

  I was shifting the stem of the glass of my vodka martini this way and that with my red-tipped fingers.

  We were at The Broker.

  I’d been hither and yon since leaving home, all in the west, but I’d been in Denver for five years. The instant I hit the city limits, the Front Range spread out across the west as far as the eye could see, I knew it was the place where I’d die.

  I’d always wanted to go to The Broker but I’d never been.

  It was a date place. A special occasion place. A pricey place. A historic place. A place you went on a night you wanted to remember.

  I didn’t have many of those.

  And there I was, sitting next to the handsomest man I’d ever seen, the kindest, the gentlest, and the most gentlemanly.

  This last part in the last half hour Marcus had exercised greatly.

  After we’d
left my apartment, he’d opened the door of his black Mercedes for me (Ronald was not in attendance that evening; neither was Brady).

  He’d opened it again to let me out of his Mercedes.

  He’d also done the same when he’d let us in the building and he’d escorted me down the stairs and to our booth with his hand at the small of my back, light, warm, gallant.

  He’d let me slide in first on the side I wanted, sliding in right beside me, and he’d asked me what I wanted to drink so he could order it for me when the waiter arrived.

  He’d done the same with my meal.

  I couldn’t hack this.

  I didn’t know what to do with this.

  It wasn’t that this was a surprise.

  It was just with what happened in that parking lot melting to take its place into a past with a lot of other stuff that wasn’t all that great, precisely how it felt was only now hitting me.

  And what that was, was the fact that Miss Annamae would adore Marcus Sloan.

  She might look askance at whatever he did to be able to buy his Mercedes. But I had a feeling she’d overlook that simply with the way he’d murmured sweetly, “Watch your feet, darling,” as I’d lifted them into his car.

  “Daisy.”

  I turned my gaze from my glass to him.

  He was watching me closely. “Are you all right?”

  No.

  And hell yes.

  I didn’t give him either of those answers.

  I told him, “I’ve never been here.”

  “Excellent steaks,” he murmured, still watching me closely.

  “It’s very nice.”

  Marcus made no reply.

  “Did you, uh…” I tipped my head to the side, “ask me something?”

  He turned more fully to me, shifting his bourbon and branch closer to the edge of the table in my direction, his long-fingered hand wrapped around it.

  “I’d like you to tell me something good,” he said.

  “Okay,” I replied readily and launched in. “You look real nice in that suit, sugar. And you got a good haircut. I like it.”

  His lips curled up. “Thank you, honey, but what I meant was, about you.”