Switching it On

by Lexxie Couper

  RG plonked back onto the stool, tossed the guys a quick glance, and then shoved the wedge into her mouth.

  Mike watched her, his gut a tight knot.

  She had no clue how gorgeous, how intimidating she was. Nor how vulnerable. He wanted to wrap her up in cotton wool and protect her forever. Of course, she’d nipple-cripple him if he tried, and submerge herself even more in the world of Hell’s Harbour, to the point he’d likely never see her again.

  For RG, Hell’s Harbour wasn’t just the way she made a living; it was a sanctuary from the brutal realities of a world she couldn’t control. A safe place without manipulative mothers who cut off all your hair when you were ten so they could sell it for the cost of a cheap bottle of whisky. An enticing place with magical beings and savage battles and, from what he’d seen of the ads for it, some seriously intense sex.

  Thank God that intense sex all took place in virtual reality. He’d probably lose his shit if he knew his little sister was—

  “I saw that you were here,” RG said around the wedge of lemon, her voice a mumbled muffle, “and guessed it was either the fact the Sydney Swans had lost the premiership or The Wife had entered the scene again.”

  She removed the wedge and its now-depleted flesh and flicked it at him with a grin.

  “It wasn’t until I googled the AFL results that I realized it’s not AFL season, so I figured it must be The Wife.”

  Mike laughed. He could almost hear the uppercase T and W in her voice. “Your talent for deduction astounds me, Goober.”

  RG preened. “Of course it does. But I am the smart one of us, remember? You just watch sports for a living.”

  “Hey.” He pouted. ”I don’t just watch it. I also talk about it, y’know?”

  Whatever fresh insult his sister was about to throw at him—said with more love than RG would most likely care to admit—Lucy arrived back with his water. “Here you go, Mr. Bailey.” She did the whole leaning/boob-squashing/cleavage-presenting thing again. “Let me know if that doesn’t satisfy you and I’ll do what I can to fix it.”

  RG burst out laughing again.

  Lucy frowned at her, smiled at Mike, tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and strutted away to the other end of the bar and the patrons waiting there for service.

  “Seriously,” RG snared Mike’s water before he could, “I didn’t think people like her actually existed, but oh man, am I proved wrong.” She took a sip from the sweating glass and grinned. “Bet her mum’s proud of her as well. ‘What did you do today, honey?’ ‘Oh, I hit on a famous sports reporter and served intoxicating drinks to the masses.’ ‘Oh, go you. Such a productive day’.”

  “RG.” Mike dragged her name out in warning. “Be nice.”

  She poked her tongue out at him and offered his water back.

  “So, you came here to stop me from succumbing to the powers of a pub?” he asked, glass half-raised to his mouth. “Or to get the gossip about Lena?”

  RG shook her head. “Neither.”

  Mike frowned. “Then why—”

  She wriggled her fingers at him, palm facing upward, in the universally recognized please-give-it-to-me gesture. “Hand over your phone, Doofus.”

  Without hesitation, Mike shifted on the stool, withdrew his mobile from his pocket, and handed it to his sister.

  “I came,” she said, swiping her thumb over its screen and then jabbing in his lock code, “to make sure no other psycho stalker can fuck up your—”

  Mike’s phone burst into loud life in her hands, AC/DC wailing “Highway to Hell” with jarring volume.

  Mike’s gut dropped. His heart smashed into his throat. His breath caught there along with it.

  On the stool opposite him, RG read the name of the incoming call, a wide grin stretching her lips.

  “Give it to me,” Mike said, his turn to make the finger-wriggling gesture.

  RG laughed and twisted away, taking his phone with her. “Hell no.”

  AC/DC continued to wail about being on that highway and its hellish destination.

  Only one person in his contact list had that song assigned to them. One person…

  “RG,” he said, standing, heart a smashing sledgehammer in his chest. “Give—”

  Smirking at him, his sister jabbed her thumb to his phone’s screen and pressed it to her ear. “Michael Bailey’s phone,” she said, affecting the most ridiculous prissy voice he’d ever heard. “Who can I say is calling?”

  Mike stared at her face. A charged energy thrummed through him.

  Lena was calling him. When was the last time she’d done that? Over seven and half months ago? And why was he so damn unsettled by the fact she was doing so now?

  RG’s lips twitched. And then a frown pulled at her eyebrows. “Hi, Lena,” she said, suddenly serious. “I can do that. Bye.”

  Expression guarded, she held his phone out to him.

  And then jerked it back to her ear as he reached for it.

  “Oh, before I go, Lena,” she said, holding Mike’s gaze. “If you hurt him again, I’ll come after you. And you don’t want that, okay? I’ve got enough money to make sure no one ever finds you again. Bye.”

  She handed Mike the phone, grinned and then, before he could do or say a thing, leapt from the stool, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “See you later, Doofus. Remember, you did nothing wrong. And she got to keep the dog.”

  She spun on her heel and crossed the pub to the door. Mike couldn’t miss the two guys who’d checked her arse out earlier, tracking her path with their eyes. He focused his glare on them, for a moment ignoring the phone in his hand.

  As if aware of his scrutiny, the two guys slid furtive glances his way.

  He raised a pointed eyebrow. Didn’t say a word.

  Both guys dropped their attention to the beers in their hands.

  Mike grunted in approval and pivoted on his seat, returning his attention to his glass of water and the phone call awaiting him.

  A steel band of pressure as hot as his water was cold wrapped his chest.

  Why was Lena calling him?

  Was it in her role as his boss? Or his wife?

  Ex-wife. All that’s left until she’s your ex-wife is your signature.

  Pulling in a deep breath and then letting it go in a ragged chuckle, he pressed his phone to his ear. “Button.”

  “Really?” Her exasperation cut the word. “Do you have to piss me off straight away, Mike?”

  Mike closed his eyes and scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “’Twas once a time you loved hearing the name Button.”

  “’Twas once a time you only stuck your— You know what? I’m not doing this. I’m not going there. It’s not why I called.”

  Mike dug his blunt nails into his scalp. He opened his eyes and stared at the glass on the bar in front of him. Why had he done that? Antagonised her? To what end? “I’m sorry,” he said, throat thick.

  Silence greeted the apology.

  Stretched for longer than he knew what to do with.

  “Lena?”

  “Why are you sorry, Mike?” she asked, a hesitancy in the question he’d never heard from her.

  A dry bark of a laugh fell from him. “For pissing you off straight off the bat,” he said. “I know you refuse to believe me, but I’ve got nothing else to be sorry for.”

  Another stretch of silence.

  He closed his eyes and drew an image of her into his mind. Imagined her in the EP’s office, now her office. Imagined her chewing on her bottom lip as she sat behind the massive desk made of glass and brushed steel.

  He’d always joked the old EP had been overcompensating for something when it came to that desk. It was a behemoth of industrial strength and design.

  It didn’t suit Lena at all.

  As an EP, she was good, the best out there, but it was all about calm control and subtlety with her. She knew how to get the best out of her news team, how to work their emotions when it came to the events they were reporting, withou
t slamming it into the viewers’ faces.

  She was smart, quick-thinking, and could gauge the viewers’ concerns and interests with a deft mind.

  He’d always been proud of her, even when they’d clashed over how he’d conducted an interview.

  He still was proud of her.

  Still proud of her.

  Still in love with her.

  Still hurt by her.

  Still sexually attracted to—

  “Can you come to the apartment in an hour?”

  Her soft question jerked his spine straight. Turned his pulse into a thumping cannon.

  “Please?”

  He sucked in a breath of air tainted by the smell of stale alcohol.

  The apartment?

  Their old apartment?

  The image of her in the EP’s office morphed into her sitting cross-legged in the middle of their king-size bed. She wore those loose merle-grey yoga pants he loved so much and a loose mint-green T-shirt that hung skewed on her body, exposing one of her shoulders and the top of her breast. Her hair was a casual ponytail that kissed the skin of that shoulder, some of the strands slightly damp from her recent shower. Her reading glasses rested on the bridge of her nose and she ranted to him about the incompetence of Australia’s current Prime Minister.

  Lena.

  Fuck, he missed her so much he could hardly breathe.

  “Mike?”

  He scrunched his eyes shut as her voice—that hesitant, shy voice so foreign to her—played with his senses. His sanity.

  “Why?” Hell, it sounded like his throat was suddenly lined with sandpaper. “If it’s to talk about the divorce papers, about when I’m going to sign them, I think I’ll give it a miss.”

  “It’s not.”

  Mike’s heart smashed into his sandpaper-lined throat.

  “About the interview? With Ricardo West?”

  “No.”

  He gouged his fingers into his scalp. His blood roared in his ears.

  In his mind, Lena lifted her head, removed her glasses and smiled. You think I’m crazy, don’t you? she’d asked him that night. Want me to shut up?

  He’d shaken his head at her, giving her back his own smile. I think you’re perfect, he’d answered.

  They’d made love until dawn. They’d both been late for the breakfast production meeting with the network owner. They’d played footsies under the conference table throughout the entire meeting.

  A week later, while she’d been in Canberra lining up an interview with the country’s openly gay deputy PM, the fucking obsessed dog-walker had fucking ruined his—

  “Lena…” Her name was nothing more than a scratched breath. “If you want—”

  “Please come to the apartment, Mike,” she said. He had no hope of deciphering the emotion behind her request. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  She ended the connection without another word.

  “Is there anything I can give you, Mr. Bailey?”

  Mike jerked his head up at the sultry female voice.

  Lucy leant on the bar in front of him, magnificent cleavage presented, lips freshly glossed in cherry-red lipstick, eyes offering anything he wanted.

  Anything.

  He rose to his feet and, with a smile, shook his head. “No thanks, Lucy,” he answered, tapping the bar twice with his index finger. “I’m good.”

  He left.

  He only wanted one thing.

  And he wasn’t going to get it here in the pub.

  Chapter Three

  What the hell was she doing?

  Lena studied her reflection in the mirror. Behind her was a mountain of clothes piled high on her bed. Mocking her.

  What. The hell. Was she doing?

  Her reflection stared back at her, fidgeting with the hem of a skirt way shorter than any skirt someone who wasn’t a beanpole should wear.

  She was insane.

  Stupid.

  A masochist.

  Then ring Mike up. Tell him not to come. Cancel. Or when he gets here, talk about the St. Xavier athletics carnival. Yes. Do that. Show him he hasn’t affected you the way he really has. Show him you’re the one in control. In charge.

  She flicked a glance at the slim watch on her wrist.

  She had time to change. To put on one of her power suits.

  Returning her stare to the mirror, she studied the woman looking back at her.

  A woman dressed to seduce.

  Hip- and butt-hugging emerald-green skirt. A white silk sleeveless shirt with a loose neckline that plunged to damn near her navel, revealing to anyone paying attention there was no bra on duty. Stilettoes. Black patent-leather ones with peep toes and gold heels.

  Her hair was a tousled mess of waves, a style she knew Mike adored. Her face was free of makeup except for some black eyeliner and natural lip-gloss. Again, a look that drove Mike wild.

  Mike.

  Mike was on his way here. The deceiving bastard was on his way here. She’d invited him. And this was how she was going to answer the door?

  Christ, was she that lonely?

  Did she miss him that much?

  “What are you doing, Bailey?” she moaned, turning from the mirror to hurry to her walk-in wardrobe.

  Bailey. Huh. If only she could break that habit. Calling herself Bailey when frustrated with something she’d done had seemed cute when they’d been married. But after…

  No matter how she tried to break the habit though, she still called herself that.

  Another reason to end this lunacy now.

  To change out of the ridiculous clothes and call Mike and tell him—

  Her door buzzer sliced through the silence of her apartment. Tore at it.

  She froze.

  Oh God.

  Mouth dry, nipples pebbling—damn them—stomach knotting, Lena slowly walked from her bedroom, through her living room until she reached the door of her apartment.

  She stared at its closed state.

  At the tiny security eyehole in the middle of it.

  Of course the bastard would be early.

  He always was. For everything.

  Mike never ran late.

  She knew that.

  They’d joked often he’d run early for his own funeral. He’d had her in stitches one afternoon as they’d walked Bondi Beach, hand in hand, describing how he’d be lying there in the coffin, tapping his dead fingers and checking his watch as the reverend and mourners hurried across the cemetery to the site of his grave.

  She knew he never ran late.

  So when she checked her watch and told herself she had time to change, when she spent those precious minutes standing motionless as she took in her reflection, she’d also known she was lying to herself.

  She’d known he would be there any second and hadn’t made a move to change at all.

  Not really.

  It had all been one big self-deluded attempt to—

  The buzzer sounded again.

  Impossibly, Lena’s mouth grew drier. Her nipples grew harder.

  Her sex decided to join in the fun and began to throb.

  She stared at that tiny eyehole, knowing who was on the other side.

  What. The hell. Was she doing?

  Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped forward and opened the door.

  Mike’s gaze found hers without a second’s delay. It was as if he knew exactly where her face would be.

  “Mikey,” she said. If she pissed him off before he crossed the threshold, maybe—

  He chuckled, a low sound Lena suspected he wanted her to be intimidated by.

  She wasn’t.

  She just…

  Oh God, she’d missed him.

  “Button,” he murmured, stepping through the door and closing it behind him, without releasing her gaze.

  She stood still. At the junction of her thighs, her clit tingled. Her pussy lips did the same.

  “I…” She stopped. Licked her lips. “I want you to understand, this doesn’t change anything.”


  Mike’s jaw bunched. “It doesn’t?”

  She shook her head. Christ, why did he have to look so sexy? That three-day growth, the suit jacket…the undone top shirt button showing off the incredible column of his throat… “It doesn’t. This is just us…scratching an itch.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “That’s all it is? An itch?”

  “An itch. We’re not stupid people, Mike. There’s no denying the sexual…” She stopped again, heat flooding her cheeks as her voice cracked on the word sexual. “The sexual chemistry between us is still there. But you can be sexually attracted to someone without liking them, so we can be grown-ups and do something about that.”

  He regarded her, eyes revealing nothing.

  Stepped closer to her.

  Close enough her nipples brushed his chest.

  Close enough she had to tilt her head back, even with the added six inches from the heels of her shoes.

  Close enough she could feel his warm breath fanning her lips.

  Oh man, this was a bad idea.

  Such a bad idea.

  “And what,” he lowered his head an inch closer to hers, eyes glinting, “do you suggest that something is?”

  Lena swallowed.

  This is a bad idea, Bailey. Abort! Abort!

  “Is it this?” he murmured, snaking his arm around the curve of her waist, his stare holding her captive.

  “Or this?” He yanked her to his body. Hard. Fast.

  The curve of her sex—almost perfectly aligned with his groin, thanks to her stilettoes—slammed against the undeniable ridge of his erection.

  Hot lust gushed through Lena. Pooled in the junction of her thighs. She gasped, her hands curling in the front of his shirt before she could stop herself.

  “Or this?” he asked once more, eyes lowering to her lips.

  Every fiber in her body prepared for the assault, for the sweet, intoxicating friction of his lips on hers. The bone-melting aggression of his tongue mating with hers. The raw carnality of his teeth sinking into her bottom lip followed by the dizzy decadence of his mouth sucking the fresh wound.

  She stilled, aching for it all.

  Needing it.

  Impatient for it.

  “Fuck, Lena,” Mike groaned, shaking his head as he released her.

  He stepped away from her. One step.

  Her body screamed with denial. Her heart thudded fast, hammering blows that shook her to the core.