Felony Ever After

by Helena Hunting

  Verity nervously smoothed her dark hair and fixed her black pencil skirt, trying to pull herself together. “Yes, I, uh...well, you know…”

  She stammered for an excuse, but it was pointless. The man wasn’t listening to her anyway. His eyes drifted from his watch straight to her chest. In a rush, she’d thrown on a white blouse, tighter than she liked for work, and given no thought—until now—to the black bra she wore beneath. He was practically eye-fucking her tits through the material.

  “It’s unfortunate,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. “But I’m late.”

  His eyes raised to meet hers, a glazed look on his face—as if he could see her standing there, all right...just with less clothing on. Pig.

  Verity stepped past him to her desk, willing the phone to ring for an easy escape from his bullshit. But he cleared his throat, and the phone remained stubbornly silent.

  “I’m expecting a package,” he said. “It should’ve been here already.”

  She looked up to find him checking his watch again. “An important one?”

  “Yes. A personal one. And an important one.” Lay looked suddenly nervous and adjusted his necktie awkwardly. He swallowed before checking out his reflection in the tinted glass behind her.

  Verity tamped down the desire to roll her eyes. “I’ll be on the lookout for it.”

  “I know you will,” he said, striding toward the elevator. “After all, we all want to be good at our jobs.” He smiled as if this were a great secret they’d shared before adding, “Though we certainly could pay you to be a decoration. You look great today.”

  Verity scowled, mentally flipping him off for that comment, but he scurried into the elevator and was gone.

  ***

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa—back up here. The guy stole a cab? Like, a real cab? Are you kidding me? I’m out of town for one lousy weekend and shit gets crazy!”

  Angie’s eyes were wide as she stared from her perch on the corner of Verity’s reception desk. Verity nodded slowly, slouching down in her chair. Angie had strolled in a moment earlier—clearly not one to be distressed about being late—clutching a coffee and looking like she’d stepped off a Paris runway before strutting straight here. She’d made it no farther than reception, which was often the case. A love of shoes and the deviant little sparkle in Angie’s eyes had drawn them together as close friends in just a few weeks.

  Angie was beautiful, like the Barbie to Mr. Lay’s Ken, except they got along about as well as Tom and Jerry. When she’d first come to the company, Angie said Lay had pursued her. But she’d put him in his place, and after a while, he’d stopped chasing. He seemed to know it was a game he wasn’t going to win. This gave Verity hope that as soon as the shine wore off her apples, he’d move on from her as well. Too bad she didn’t have the luxury of putting it to him bluntly like Angie had. Sometimes she worried he took her efforts to do good work as efforts to please him.

  Angie was always full of gossip, but today Verity was the one with a story to share. She’d been more than happy to spill the details about the gorgeous tattooed idiot who’d jumped in her cab on Friday when she left work. She felt like a real New Yorker… sort of.

  “Well, I mean, he didn’t steal it so much as borrow it. Without permission. So whatever. I guess he stole it.”

  Angie shook her head. “Who does that?”

  Damn taxicab-thieving tattooed dudes.

  “So what did you do?” Angie continued. “Jump out? Scream? I would’ve screamed.”

  “I should’ve,” Verity replied. “He was clearly crazy. I threatened to call the police before he got any bright ideas, like trying to murder me. Or, you know… pillage me.”

  He hadn’t, of course. Hadn’t even given any indication it was something he’d be interested in doing. But that hadn’t stopped her mind from suggesting it all damn weekend long. She could still practically feel the adrenaline pumping through her bloodstream, pulsing through her body, settling right in that sweet spot between her thighs.

  The sweet spot she’d told him was diseased and taser-guarded when her panic set in. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “And what did he do?” Angie pressed, sipping her coffee. “Kick you out before you could report him to the police?”

  “He drove me home,” she said. “Then he left.”

  “Then he left?” Angie’s voice was incredulous. “That’s it?”

  “Yup. Left the taxi in front of my building.”

  “Seriously, who does that?”

  Tattoo does.

  Angie was still shaking her head when the phone rang. Verity picked it up, bringing the receiver to her ear. “SalesExportt.com. Verity Michaels speaking. How may I help you?”

  Over and over, again and again. Verity was constantly saying those words. She fielded three calls back to back, taking messages and directing them upstairs. Angie still lingered, steadily sipping her coffee and trying to slip in more conversation between calls, but the phone wasn’t being very cooperative.

  The fourth time it rang, Verity snatched it up, sighing. “SalesExportt.com. Hold, please.” She pressed a button before lowering the phone to her chest, glancing at her friend. She started to speak when the elevator dinged and Mr. Lay appeared in the office lobby again.

  Twice in one hour. Had to be some sort of record.

  He looked their direction, lips twitching with a grimace for Angie before his eyes settled on Verity. “That package show up?”

  She held her hands up, still clutching the phone. “Nothing yet.”

  “It was supposed to be here almost an hour ago,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s what I get for taking a risk on a new courier.”

  “New courier?” Verity’s brow furrowed. In the time she’d been there, they’d had the same bike messenger every day. The woman was not only punctual, she was young, and blonde, and gorgeous. Right up Lay’s alley. “What happened to the other one?”

  He cleared his throat. “We parted ways.”

  Ah. The unspoken message was clear, but Angie muttered the words anyway. “Lay strikes again.”

  He didn’t stick around to respond to that, instead hitting the elevator button to head right back upstairs.

  “Must be an important package,” Angie mused.

  “He said it was. He said it was personal.”

  “Probably sex toys,” she said. “He’s anxious for his collection of tentacle porn to get here. Taken by the Sea Monster, Volume 69.”

  Verity grimaced. “Gross.”

  Angie laughed, pushing away from the desk and strolling over to the elevator, still in no hurry to start her day. “Catch you later, V. I should probably go do some work before Lay finally gets the balls to fire me.”

  As soon as she was gone, Verity brought the phone back to her ear and hit the button, taking the call off of hold. “Thank you for holding. Verity Michaels speaking. How may I help you?”

  Nothing. Line was dead. Great.

  But more calls flooded in. People stopped by with things they needed done. Verity was drowning in unwanted interaction. She slipped away from her desk about an hour later, practically running to the bathroom to get a moment alone. It was only a moment, though, before she could hear the phone ringing again in the distance, and she heard a voice calling from her desk.

  “Yo! Knock, knock! Anybody home?”

  Cursing to herself, Verity slipped back out of the bathroom, nearly colliding with someone standing right there. Gasping, she took a step back, starting to apologize when she glanced up and saw the face.

  The face.

  His face.

  A face that had hovered just above her all weekend long, there every time she closed her eyes. Those gorgeous blue eyes, the dimples, the ink that covered his skin and disappeared somewhere her subconscious was damn anxious to follow. She blinked a few times, shocked. It had to be another dream, right?

  Oh, crap. Did I fall asleep at my desk?

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she opened them
again after a moment, and through the haze she still saw him standing there. No way. Reaching up, she pinched herself on the arm. “Ow!”

  His smile faded to confusion. “You okay there, Country Girl?”

  He was talking. Why was he talking? The Tattoo of her dreams kept his trap closed. In a snap decision, she reached over and poked him in the arm, too. He flinched with surprise, taking a step back. “What the hell?”

  Oh God. He was real. He was really there. The phone was still ringing, but Verity barely heard it. Adrenaline surged in her again at the mere sight of the guy. Her skin tingled with something that felt damn close to excitement.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed. “Are you following me? Are you stalking me? I still have my taser, you know. I’ll spray you. I will. I’ll take your eyes right out.”

  Instead of seeming alarmed, he laughed. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “What do you want from me?” she continued, her panic escalating. “Oh God, we’re busted, aren’t we? You got caught and turned me in. Are you wearing a wire?” She grasped at his chest, but it was hard to get a feel of anything because he had a messenger bag strapped around him. “I swear, I can’t go to jail.”

  “Relax,” he said, still laughing as he grabbed her hands to stop her pawing. “I’m not here about that.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Pulling his bag off, he unzipped it and whipped out a small box. It was plain brown and no bigger than a book, but it was packaged together with colorful duct tape. Wasn’t like most of the packages they got.

  “Is that for me?” Verity reached out to grab it, but he snatched his hand back, holding the box out of her reach.

  He examined the top of the package before looking at her again. His gaze was intense.

  “Depends,” he said. “Do you want it?”

  She hesitated. “It?”

  “What I’ve got,” he clarified. “Do you want it?”

  Verity swallowed thickly, nodding. Did she want what he had? Abso-flippin’-lutely.

  His smile returned, dimples showing. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but unless your name is Mr. Larold Lay, you’re not getting it.”

  It took a second for that to sink in as Verity stared at him, completely thrown off by his presence. “Wait...the package is for Lay? You? You’re the new messenger he’s been waiting for?”

  Before he even had a chance to respond, she wrenched the package from his hand. It was light, so light she nearly crushed the cardboard the moment she clutched it. She shook the box, bringing it to her ear, but heard absolutely nothing.

  It was like the thing was full of feathers.

  What kind of kinky shit...?

  The box was snapped back out of her hand.

  “Hey!” she protested. “My boss has been waiting for that!”

  “You can’t just take it,” he said. “You have to sign for it first.”

  Verity rolled her eyes, watching as Tattoo tucked the package beneath his arm and fished through his bag for some paperwork. The phone continued to ring over on her desk, but she ignored it, taking his moment of distraction to check him out. He was almost exactly as she remembered; except somehow standing here he seemed even more gorgeous—in an unconventional, felon-y kind of way. Definitely wasn’t her type.

  Did she even have a type? She wasn’t sure anymore, but if she did, it wouldn’t be him. Yet there was something about him.

  “Are you checking me out?” he asked, smirking as he held out a crinkled piece of paper and a chewed-up old ink pen. “You’re not very subtle, you know.”

  Sneering, she grabbed the pen and paper and scribbled her name on the first line she spotted. She thrust it back at him before reclaiming the package, shaking it some more. Nothing.

  “This thing is empty,” she said. “You didn’t steal whatever it was, did you?”

  His expression hardened a bit. “Do I look like a thief to you?”

  Verity wanted to say yes, because well, he kind of did. But she shrugged instead. What the hell did a thief look like, anyway? Bernie Madoff stole billions of dollars. Tattoo certainly didn’t look like him. “Well, you did steal a cab on Friday.”

  “Again, I rescued you from a crappy situation. Total white knight, remember?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she muttered, eyeing him again. He had on a pair of jeans that looked like they’d been through a war and barely survived. His beanie covered his hair. She wondered what it looked like… what it would feel like—you know, if she ran her fingers through it. “You don’t look like a bike messenger, though. Aren’t you supposed to have those little biker shorts on? And one of those plastic helmets with the chin strap?”

  He looked more like he flipped around on a BMX bike for kicks than rode around the city delivering crap for a living.

  “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of spandex,” he said, glancing at where she’d scribbled her name on the paper, his brow furrowing. “What does that say?”

  “My name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Verity,” she said. “Verity Michaels.”

  He repeated her name quietly, like he was trying it out to make sure it fit. After a moment, he folded up the paper and shoved it back in his bag.

  “Verity Michaels,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t like it.”

  Verity scowled. “Yeah, well, what’s your name?”

  “Hudson Fenn.”

  “How very...river-y.”

  “It makes a hell of a lot more sense than Tattoo.” Winking, he turned away. “Tell your boss I’m sorry I was late with the delivery. My bike got stolen Friday, and the one I’m riding right now is a piece of shit.”

  “It was stolen?”

  “Yeah, it’s why I had to take that cab in the first place. I filed a report, but it’s pretty much a lost cause in this city, so I’m trying to make do until I can get a new one.” He flashed a smile at her. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, Country Girl.”

  He walked out the door before she could find her voice. She stared at the wall where he’d been standing a moment ago.

  Unbelievable.

  Shaking her head, Verity continued to ignore the ringing phone as she walked over to catch the next elevator upstairs. She went straight to Mr. Lay’s office, tapping on the door and waltzing in when he told her to enter. His secretary was nowhere to be found. “Your package is here.”

  “About time,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand impatiently. She held her breath as he took the box, waiting for him to freak out about it being empty, but he said not a word. He showed no sign of distress, as if whatever was or wasn’t in the box was exactly what he’d been expecting. “Did you sign for it?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you give them a tip?”

  Shit. Verity froze. She’d been so flustered she’d forgotten.

  Lay laughed. “They don’t deserve it anyway. Maybe that’ll teach them not to be late.”

  She watched as he set the package in front of him on the desk and gazed at it almost lovingly. What is it? she silently screamed.

  “That will be all, Ms. Michaels,” he said. He was too absorbed to even look at her boobs before she left.

  Verity Michaels @VerityPics03

  Do multiple orgasms count if you’re asleep when they happen? #NeedToKnow #ForScience #HolyCrap

  Verity Michaels @VerityPics03

  *Brad Pitt voice* What’s in the boooxxxxxx?!!! #Se7en

  Verity Michaels @VerityPics03

  Really, what’s in the damn box? It’s starting to piss me off.

  Chapter 3

  Bee

  Vi Keeland

  Hudson’s tattooed hand held a fistful of her long, wavy hair as he hovered over her. He clutched it so tightly, his knuckles had started to turn white. He trailed his tongue from her collarbone up to her ear, then bit down on her lobe. Hard. The sound of his voice matched the desperation in his grip. “I’m going to bury—”

  “Verity?” Mr. Lay snappe
d his fingers in front of her face. “Did you hear me?”

  Shit.

  “Ummm… sorry. I was concentrating on this spreadsheet.” She pointed her finger to the computer screen, and immediately realized she’d been so lost in her daydream the screensaver had activated. Mr. Lay looked at the screen and back to her.

  “Coffee.” He dropped a fifty-dollar bill on her desk. “Black with one sugar.” Taking a few steps toward to the elevator, he turned back. “And grab yourself some too. My treat.” He smiled broadly, a little too pleased with his generosity.

  Great. Just great.

  The line at Starbucks down the block was long, and Verity found herself staring blankly out the window as she waited. Last night had been another restless, dream-filled lustathon that left her dragging when the alarm went off at six this morning. If she didn’t chase Tattoo out of her head soon, she’d find herself in the unemployment line, instead of the Starbucks line. She felt her cheeks heat as she thought of her blunder in front of Mr. Lay this morning. So not professional.

  But in the next instant, she was daydreaming again. If only Tattoo was the postman instead. Then she could count on seeing him every day. Bike messengers only came when a client utilized them. Or maybe it wouldn’t even be him the next time. She felt a stab of what might have been panic. And it had only been two days.

  She guzzled half of her double shot caramel macchiato before even leaving the packed coffee shop, determined to get her head back in the game, and walked back toward the office with two tall cups. The straight line of fuchsia bellflowers planted in the plaza outside of the building had just started to open. She’d been watching them grow every day, patiently waiting for the bells to blossom. When a honey bee slipped inside one of the barely open flowers, she couldn’t help herself. Verity wished she had her professional-grade digital Nikon on hand, but it belonged to someone else entirely now. Her iPhone would have to do.