by Rie Warren
That was the right tactic because he launched into a tale of all the crap Ma had already done—including a trip to Target capped off with a “gween shushy”—which I’d have to unlearn him from when I got home.
“And then Jamma lemme swim in the deep end of the pool wiffout fwoaties!” He finished on what he thought was a high note, but what gave me the forerunner of a heart attack.
I imagined his mussed up hair, his hazel eyes he got from me. The fearlessness of the Stone family that had me worried like only a dad could be from those first wobbly steps and every day since.
“Can I talk ta Uncle Wicky?”
I beckoned Nicky over.
“Hey, dude-man.” Nicky’s deep voice rumbled out as he greeted my son.
The rest of what I heard was a series of high-pitched nonsense and Nicky rambling on, a huge smile on his face. “Nah, I ain’t famous.”
There was a pause, then Nicky’s loud chuckle. “No, I don’t know Mickey Mouse.”
A couple minutes later, he handed the phone back. “He’s winding down.”
“Sugar crash,” I mouthed.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, baby boy.” I listened to him yawn, that soft pop of his innocent mouth.
“Do Baloo for me.”
I fell back on the bed. “‘Bare Necessities’?”
“Mm hmm.”
I shut my eyes and curled against the phone like I folded around his little body when I sang him to sleep. I’d employed every trick I could think of when he suffered from colic the first nine months and Claire was battling postpartum depression. Disney characters were the old standby. Putting on my best Baloo-bear voice, I sang him the song as he sleepily harmonized as Mowgli.
The song ended and all I heard were soft breaths, deep and heavy. Ma came on the line, whispering, “I don’t know how you do it, Joshy. He’s already asleep. You’re a good daddy.”
I crooked my arm over my face, swallowing a few times. “Thanks, Ma. Thanks for takin’ care of him.”
“Oh hush now, you do all the work. I just do the spoilin’.”
“You know he’s gonna be up pissing all night because of the sodas and ice pops, right?” A grin slid across my mouth.
“Hmm. I hate to break it to you, but you were the same way. And I done been through the wars with you.”
“Love ya, Ma.”
Her voice softened. “I love you too. Behave, or I will break out the willow switch when you get home. On you and Nicky both.”
Ending the call, I kept my eyes closed. JJ still asked about Claire, wondering why his momma left him, why he could only remember me singing him to sleep at night. I didn’t believe in sugarcoating the truth, but I did believe in protecting him. Most times I told him she wasn’t ready to be a mom. “But she sure missed one helluva a kid.”
Then I’d sit in the rocking chair beside his bed all night, making sure his dreams didn’t turn into nightmares. That’s why I’d never left him before.
“Still hurts?” Nicky read my mind.
“Yeah. But not because Claire left me. Because she left JJ high and dry.” I propped up onto an elbow. “Man, what if I’m not good enough to be everything to him?”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. Anyone who sees the two of you together knows it, too. Besides, you’re not doing it alone. You’ve got me and the guys, you’ve got Gigi.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. But, if you stopped sowing your wild oats around the lowcountry and settled down, maybe he could have another mom.” He knocked into my shoulder.
“Well that isn’t gonna happen now that I’m your lover, right?” With a grin, I pushed him right back.
Sure, marriage had never been a cakewalk. That had been blatantly obvious as soon as Claire smashed a piece of our pretty wedding cake into my face after the shotgun-she’s-pregnant ceremony. But I’d been determined to give it my best shot, which meant putting up with all of Claire’s worst ones. I’d stuck it out for the kid because family was important. Now I didn’t give any woman the chance to shake me up, shake me down. There was too much at stake.
It wasn’t as if I didn’t have offers. Half the female population in Mt. Pleasant—including a good quarter of the married ones—acted like I was a high commodity. They saw the surface only: tough guy, big muscles, successful business owner. They didn’t delve into the single dad working all hours, whose personal time was spent with his son, his family, his friends. The Friday night freebie-fucks were what I needed to de-stress from a week full of worries, bills, and bitching.
And I sure as hell was not looking for anything else.
At least here I’d be somewhat anonymous. Nicky’s love muffin, not Mt. Pleasant’s most-wanted bachelor.
I sat up when Nicky popped the cork on a bottle of wine, wedging a few more inside the mini-fridge. He took a sip of the pink-colored fizz in his glass. “Done moping?”
“I wasn’t moping, I was thinking,” I replied.
“I knew I didn’t recognize that look on you.”
I chucked the hotel menu at him, which he swiftly deflected. “Blow me.”
“Might have to before the week’s out.” He gave me his best attempt at a leer.
“Speakin’ of, the cost of registration . . . that’s a write-off, right?” I’d have to sort through all these receipts when I got home or, better yet, hand them off to Ray.
“Yeah. If you’re a writer.” Nicky tossed a red-ribboned lanyard at me. “You can get a thirty percent deduction as my assistant though.”
“And this is?” I looked at the thing he’d thrown into my lap.
“That’s your name badge.”
“I gotta wear it?”
“Yep, at all times.” Then he threw something else over and I grabbed it midair. “Don’t forget to pin your pretty silk flower onto it. It’s the same as mine.”
What the hell? A corsage too?
I dutifully pinned the peach-colored flower to my name badge and did a double take. “Stone?”
“Straight up Stone.” He swigged down the rest of his wine.
“No pun intended, huh?”
Ambling closer, a seductive swagger to his steps, Nicky bit his bottom lip.
I hustled back on the bed, laughing nervously. “Uh, Nicky? You’re kind of giving me the heebie-jeebies here.”
He ran his fingers through the shoulder-length hair freed from his ponytail, peering at me with eyes that suddenly smoldered. Jesus, this is scary. Is this what he does to the ladies? He stopped right in front of me, breathing into my ear until my shoulders shot up. “Stone. Hard Stone. It adds to your aura, lover.”
I gulped. “I can work with that.”
Canning the Casanova crap, he started crowing loudly, enjoying every second of my discomfort. “Dude, you actually thought I was hitting on you? I already told you you’re too hairy for me.”
I punched him in the stomach. “Douchebag.”
He continued to laugh as he began his total transformation from plucky Nick Loveland, to natty dresser Nicky Love, New York Times best-selling paranormal author. Changing into a flowing poet shirt, tight-ass charcoal gray slacks, he finished it all off with a slash of guy-liner and the long silver medallion that sat in the open collar of his shirt.
I strolled up behind him in the bathroom and pinched his ass. “Lookin’ good, babe.”
“Maybe you should take a lesson.” He scraped a blunt fingernail down my dark stubble.
“I am not going clean-shaved. It hides my weak chin,” I grumbled quietly.
“You do not have a weak chin!”
“How do you know? You’ve never seen it. I was growing this when I was fifteen.” Jesus, I already sound like I’m flaming.
He looked at me in the mirror from all possible angles. Then he nodded. “Designer stubble.”
I could work with that.
“Yeah, butch gay instead of pretty underwear model gay, you can pull it off.”
I nodded. “Right on.”
With that huge problem solved, i.e., my hairy face, he left me to my cleanup. I changed again, feeling like a frigging clotheshorse as I pulled on another pair of jeans, my shitkickers, and a navy button down shirt. I brushed my teeth, slapped on some aftershave for the shave I hadn’t had, and left the bathroom.
Another beer from the mini-fridge in hand, I quickly found ESPN on the TV. Nicky settled at the desk doing his conference shtick. He used one hand on the laptop, the other on his cell, both flying with speed as he pounded out . . . something. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, and a frown dug deep lines into his forehead.
“Dude, you look like you’re about to drop a double deuce over there.”
He looked up with glazed eyes. “Huh?”
“Straining, like you’re about to drop a load.”
“Facebook and email.” He waved at the computer. “Twitter, tumblr, and texts.” He shook his phone.
I didn’t know twatter from tumbleweed from fuck-all, and I definitely didn’t have a Facebook account. “You look a little stressed, my friend.”
He chugged a glass of wine. “Well, how many accounts do you have?”
I held up my thumb and fingers in a big fat zero.
Pressing a hand to his heart, he gasped. “That’s—that’s—social media suicide!”
“Hey, I’ve got a website for Stone’s and it’s on Facebook, as you well know, but Javier handles that crap. I don’t have time to diddle around on the Internet.”
“It’s not diddlin’. Where do you think my readers come from? How do you think I get the word out there?”
“Whoa, hoss, no need to get your nuts in a knot. I just don’t want you to stroke out because of social media before I get a chance to get in your pants.”
He pressed a key on his computer and hovered over something on his cell simultaneously, grinning at me.
I shrugged and muttered, “I even hate my iPhone, man.”
“You are such a throwback.”
“Yep, that’s me.” I retrieved the fedora from my bag and set it on my head at a rakish angle. The hat combined with my smirk was a guaranteed pussy-magnet. Hell, maybe it worked on dudes too.
“So you’re okay with PDAs?” Nicky turned his attention away from the Internet to me.
“Portable electronic devices?”
He walked up and rapped his knuckles against my forehead beneath the hat brim. “Public displays of affection. Asshole. With me.”
“Yeah. Already done it, didn’t I? But just so you know, rimming is off the table.”
“Gotcha,” Nicky said with a wince. Then, not to be outdone, he widened his eyes. “What about tea-baggin’?”
My nuts shriveled up. My voice raised one notch higher. “No balls goin’ anywhere near each other’s mouths. Jesus.”
He flopped onto the blessedly massive bed after snagging one of my brews. “Is there baseball on?”
“Dude.” I settled next to him, watching him closely in case crazy was catching. “Gamecocks versus Clemson, you forgot?”
He suddenly perked up with a clink of his bottle against mine. “Go Cocks!”
We watched the game in soothing male camaraderie, chugging beers and booing and hissing along with the televised crowd.
The umpire made a bad call and I sat up to shout, “That was not a foul ball!”
“That was clearly a foul ball.” Nicky got in my face.
So I decided to take him down. We traded mock punches, pulled a few wrestling moves, the game forgotten for good ol’ scrapping. Then it got serious. Clambering on top of me, the wiry bastard practically shoved his crotch in my face.
My head tipped back as I snarled, “What’d I just say about balls in my mouth, you dirty whore?”
Nicky scrambled to his knees and grabbed his johnson. “Foul balls! Foul balls!”
I’d just beaten him down to the mattress with his arm jimmied behind his back when heavy pounding on the door cut into my three-count victory moment. “Who the hell is that?”
His head shot up. “Oh shit.”
“Oh shit?”
Bucking me off him, he quickly tied back his fucked-up hair. “My crew.”
More hard knocking ensued.
His crew? Sounds like Gerald’s out there with a battering ram tryin’ to break the damn thing down. Not a bunch of female romance writers.
I watched in amusement as Nicky shoved our beer bottles behind the nightstand, whipped out a fresh bottle of pink fizz and two plastic wineglasses. He chewed his lip, skimming TV channels until he got to a cooking program. From bros to boyfriends in twenty-five seconds flat. For my part, I thought about straightening up but then figured what the fuck? We looked like we’d just been catching an early evening canoodle, right?
Nicky arranged himself on the bed with wineglass in hand, pinky finger quirked. Waving like the sultan of some Middle Eastern country, he gestured for me to let the henpeckers in. I kicked his foot—hard—when I walked past the bed.
Pulling open the door, I was almost stampeded into the carpet. A flurry of ruffles and hair and perfume swept past me. Counting the ladies off in my head and matching the numbers to the women I knew were part of Nicky’s gang, I started to shut the door.
“Wait!” The last lady’s hand shot out. She grabbed someone beyond the portal, pulling her hastily inside.
I flattened myself to the wall and shut the door, listening to the hustle and bustle just beyond the short entryway, gathering my courage . . . and my balls.
Stepping around the corner, I faced the firing squad headed by an elegantly dressed, mid-fifties-something woman. Giant diamonds glittered from her fingers and long strands of pearls hung off her neck.
“Missy Peachtree, BDSM. We simply couldn’t wait to meet Nicky’s partner. Now, we didn’t interrupt anything, did we?” she asked with way too much interest.
I straightened my collar, scanned the room for my fedora—the one Nicky was twirling on one finger with a cool smirk on his face—and offered my hand to Miss Missy Peachtree/BDSM. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Oh my. He’s just delicious, isn’t he, ladies?” Her hand, released from mine, fluttered to her throat . . . and pearls.
Titters abounded and I curbed the impulse to strut around.
A short round woman in peasant gear with bangles running up and down her arms knocked Missy out of the way. She looked me over from behind green-tinted Lennon glasses. “Divine, I’d say. Where’d you find this tall drink of water, Nicky?” Before he had a chance to answer, she pulled me into a long hug. “Janice Ranger, Steampunk.”
Steamwhat? That was a head-scratcher.
No sooner had she released me than a dark-skinned lady glided up to me. “Utterly fuckable.”
My eyebrows ratcheted sky-high.
“Don’t mind Jackée, she has no filter.” Janice butted in.
Lifting her hand with a snap of fingers, Jackée said, “Bitch, don’t be callin’ me Jackée, this ain’t no 227 up in here.” She gave a mighty exhale through her nose before her brown gaze walked all over my body. “Jacqueline, Gay Male Romance. I might need to get with you to work out some ideas.”
Oh God, meat market. And I’m the grade-A beef apparently.
I stood stunned until another one was pushed forward. I started at the shoes— heels to be absolutely fucking correct—because they were red, with ribbons wrapping around nicely toned calves. A scarlet dress halted just above her knees, cinched in at the waist, cupping her breasts as if offering them for dessert. Sexy round shoulders and the palest buttercream skin brought me to instant hard-on. Then there was her bow-shaped pout and sexy-secretary glasses over guileless green eyes, all set off by clouds of strawberry hair.
It was the woman from the lobby whose shit had dumped out all over the floor.
The babe. The beauty. Right here in our room. In red. How the hell does she wear a dress like that and manage to look . . . innocent? My eyes weren’t the only thing bulging.
“Leelee Songchild, N
ew Adult.” She lifted her hand.
Boing. And I almost swallowed my tongue. Sliding my palm against hers, I curled my fingers and brought her hand to my lips. “Stone. At your service.” This time it wasn’t a line.
Heat rippled between us as Leelee—Leelee—flushed from the top of her breasts to her cheeks. Her lashes fluttered, the pulse in her throat skipped. My cock throbbed in time to it. I only broke away from her when Nicky coughed-swore in the background, probably to remind me my place was supposed to be at his side.
I cleared my throat, glancing around the group. “Stone, foreign car dealer.”
“Swoon.” Steampunk Janice fanned herself.
“More like sex on legs.” Jacqueline picked up her purse.
Missy adjusted her pearls for the umpteenth time. “I’d love to suspend him in a hogtie and try out my new Evil Stick on those thighs.”
I choked through a forced laugh and looked to Nicky for help. In return, he grinned and sent my fedora sailing toward me. I caught it behind my back, rolled it up the length of my arm and flipped it off my shoulder to sit at just the right angle on my head.
“Ice, girls, I need ice!” Jacqueline wailed.
I looked to Leelee, my gaze drawn to the red-dressed minx. She dipped her head and gave a slow clap. No rings on her fingers, she was fair game, except I already had a boyfriend.
“Dinner!” Missy was clearly den mother as well as Domme—another, even more alarming, prospect.
We filed into the hallway, Nicky and I in the center of the chickens who carried on clucking around us. Guiding him along with a hand pressed to his lower back, I earned a half smile and batting eyelashes from him—Jesus, even I’m convinced—and giggles from the gals.
“I could get used to this,” he whispered.
I growled in what I hoped was a suggestive manner and tightened my fingers just hard enough to cause a twinge of pain with any luck. “Used to what?”
“Being out and proud with my boyfriend.”
Yeah, I’m gonna have them all eatin’ out of my hand, including Nicky, by the time this shindig’s over.
“Which one’s the groper?” I whispered.
“Jacqueline. Janice after a successful book signing. Missy after one too many martinis. I don’t know much about Leelee yet.”