by Meghan March
As soon as he fired up the bike and revved the engine, my self-preservation instincts had overridden my pique. I wrapped my arms around Con’s middle, and he rocketed away from Voodoo, the brick walls of the alley flying by. I buried my face against his back, certain I was going to die before we even made it onto an actual road.
With my eyes squeezed shut, I yelled over his shoulder, “What if someone sees me?”
The wind carried Con’s laugh back to me. We slowed at a stoplight, and he turned his head to reply, “Princess, no one would ever think you would get on the back of my bike. If anyone sees us, they’ll just assume you’re my newest piece of high class ass.”
I opened my mouth to deliver some sort of scathing reply, but the light turned green, Con gunned the engine, and we were off again.
“Where are you taking me?” I yelled. The wind whipping the ends of my hair drowned out my words. Con ignored me, changing lanes and heading into an area of town where I’d be more than hesitant to venture alone.
He didn’t stop again until we pulled up in front of a crumbling brick building. There was no sign, no awning, not even a flashing neon light announcing ‘topless women’ in sight. He booted down the kickstand, hopped off the bike, and unhooked his helmet.
He reached for me, and I flinched, unsure of what he was trying to do.
“Easy, princess. Just want to get your helmet off.”
I relaxed as he unbuckled the strap and sat it on the seat.
He held out a hand, and I stared at it, eyes caught on the name tattooed on the inside of his wrist. Joy. His adoptive mother. She’d been a happy, vibrant woman. I’d heard that she and Andre had died holding hands. I glanced at Con’s other wrist. Sure enough, Andre was written in black script. It seemed overly sentimental for the tough exterior Con exuded.
Which just highlighted how much I didn’t know about this man.
The question was, did I want to know him?
I looked up at the brick building. I supposed the question I should really be asking myself right now was whether I trusted him enough to take his hand and follow him inside?
The heavy, humid June air pressed down on me as I sat, showing way too much leg, on the seat of his matte black Harley. The fact that I was sitting on the motorcycle told me that I trusted him. When he’d picked me up and sat me on it, he’d ignored my protests…but they’d been half-hearted at best. Because a part of me—the part that had made the decision to go home with him that night two years ago—already trusted him far more than I should.
I took his hand and swung my leg over the bike.
Instead of going through the front door, Con tugged me along around the side. He reached over a section of the wooden stockade fence and flicked a latch.
I glanced around nervously, looking for some indication that we were allowed to be here. The lack of “Beware of Dog” signs was heartening at least.
“Are we breaking and entering? Because I’m on my lunch hour. I don’t really have time for jail at the moment.”
“It’d be the parish prison, sweetheart.” He pushed open the fence, and the mouthwatering aroma of barbeque connected with my olfactory receptors. “But either way, the only thing you need to worry about right now is whether you prefer ribs or chicken.”
And then that mouthwatering aroma made me want to vomit. I grabbed his arm and squeezed my eyes shut. “I can’t.”
Con stopped, swung the gate back shut, and turned on me. “You need to quit telling me ‘you can’t’ without any other kind of explanation. It really fucking pisses me off.”
I wrapped my arms around my middle, and my mind raced for a good excuse. Something…anything but the truth.
Con’s callused fingers tilted my chin up, and I was forced to meet his stare.
“Just fucking tell me what your deal is. Are you trying to be difficult? I know you can be a righteous bitch, but over ribs and chicken? Or is it me? Are you really so much better than me that you can’t sit at the same table and share a meal?”
At that, something flashed in his eyes. I remembered the angry boy sitting alone at a lunch table in our prep school. The foster kid. The boy who solved every problem with his fists. The chip on his shoulder may have shrunk slightly, but the habit of lashing out at anyone who thought they were better than him hadn’t completely disappeared.
“It’s not you. I swear.”
His eyes narrowed on me.
“Then what?”
I tugged my chin out of his grip and looked away. I couldn’t look him in the eye when I confessed.
God. Why was I going to tell him? Because I hate having him look at me and assume I’m a stuck up bitch who thinks she’s better than him.
The words came out in a big mumble.
“What? Was that Cajun? Because I didn’t catch a word of it.”
Once again his big hand lifted my chin. “I have issues with eating in front of people.”
Confusion washed over his features, and his eyes turned hard. “That’s a damn lie. And a stupid one.”
My mouth would have dropped open if Con’s hand wasn’t holding it up. Seriously? I finally share something incredibly personal and embarrassing with him, and I get…that?
I shook my head and spun, stalking back toward the bike. I’d grab my purse out of the saddlebags and call a damn cab.
I didn’t make it more than two steps before Con grabbed me by the arm and backed me up against the house.
“Now wait just a minute.”
I struggled against his hold. “Let me go.”
Con didn’t loosen his grip. “I watched you eat while sitting next to that slick fucker, Titan. So don’t lie to me.”
“But that was a salad!”
The angry edge faded, and once again confusion reigned over his features. “What the fuck does salad have to do with anything?”
“Fat girls can eat salad in public without being judged. It’s like a rule!”
“What?” Con reared his head back before staring down at me. “Princess, I don’t know if you’ve looked in the mirror, but you ain’t fat. You’ve got the kind of body a man wants to grab hold of and never let go.”
I exhaled and dropped my head back. Before it could connect with the brick wall, Con’s hand was there, protectively cupping it, bringing our bodies flush.
“Careful.”
Our proximity made it nearly impossible to explain what I needed to, but I did it anyway. “Look, I was big as a kid, and my mother never let me forget it. She was a Nazi about everything I was allowed to eat. Other kids had moms who baked cookies; mine made sure I had seaweed crisps. Sure, it was all under the guise of being ‘healthy,’ but she was as much of a perfectionist as anyone you’ve ever met ... and I wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter how many laps I ran, or how many ‘healthy’ diets she put me on, I was the chubby kid. Food became the enemy.” I shuddered. “You don’t understand what it’s like to have someone judge you for what you put on your plate. Knowing that they’re thinking should she really be eating that at her size? Hell, you know they’re thinking it because you’ve heard them say it behind your back.” I thought about the pizza incident at Madeline’s birthday party, and…I took a deep breath and shared it with Con.
By the time I was finished, my heart slammed against my chest so hard, I was sure Con could feel it too. His brow was scrunched in confusion. “I’ve known you since you were, what? Sixteen? I don’t remember any of this.”
“Because I’d already hit my growth spurt by the time you came. By then, I’d become one of the ‘popular’ girls because my size was finally ‘acceptable.’ And if you think those girls didn’t watch everything I put in my mouth, wondering if I’d get big again, you’d be dead wrong. Teenage girls are mean. I lived on Diet Coke and salad for all four years of high school.”
Con tilted his head to the side, considering everything I’d just admitted. “It’s been like fifteen years since then, and this stuff really still bothers you.” It wasn’t a question.
/>
I dropped my eyes, staring at his chest as I tried to explain. “Those kinds of feelings don’t just go away overnight because you grew five inches and magically all of the weight you were carrying was right for your frame. Hell, if they were burned into you the way they were burned into me, they might never go away.” I looked up and met his eyes again. “Trust me, even after years of therapy, I’m still just coping. I’ll never have an easy relationship with food, and when I’m around people I don’t know or trust, it’s pretty hard not to wonder if they’re watching me—judging me—when I eat.”
He lowered his head toward mine, and I could feel his breath on my skin. “Woman, the only things they’re watching when they see you are those delicious tits and that luscious ass. If you think anyone’s judging you, you’re crazy.”
“I’m not crazy,” I whispered. “And don’t call me woman.”
His full lips stretched into a lazy smile. The awkwardness I expected to linger after my confession faded when Con said, “You’re bossy. You know that?”
I was staring at the dimple in his cheek when I replied, “I’m not bossy; I’m just not a doormat.”
His dimple deepened, “I didn’t say bossy was a bad thing.” He lowered his lips another fraction toward mine. “It’s pretty fucking hot.”
Holy shit. Con’s going to kiss me. Sober. My eyes drifted closed.
A jingle of metal and the sound of wood slapping against wood caused us both to jerk backward, and I smacked my head against the wall.
I cringed, and Con swore. “Shit! Are you okay?”
Eyes firmly shut this time, I nodded. “I’m fine. Hard head.”
A quiet chuckle washed over me, and Con’s hand cradled the back of my head once more, massaging the bump. “Not surprising that you’ve got a hard head.”
“You gonna kiss that girl, Constantine? ‘Cuz if you ain’t, you better get yourself to the table. My barbeque don’t wait for no man. No woman, neither.” My eyes darted toward the voice. A stout woman in a red ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron stood with her arms crossed. Her dark gaze didn’t miss a thing.
Con glanced her way. “Give us a second, Mama Vee.”
“Mmmhmmm. And a second’ll be all you’re gettin’, boy, if you plannin’ on eatin’.” She retreated back inside the fence line.
“Who is…Mama Vee?” I whispered.
“That was Mama Vee. She’s Jojo’s gran—he’s one of my boys. She invites me, and I come.” He stepped back. “This eating thing…I get that it’s a big deal for you. But I have to ask—are you going to be able to sit at her table and not insult her? Because if you can’t eat in front of her, she’s going to take it personally.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but shut it again. I didn’t know what to say to that.
“The only greens on that table are going to be drowned in butter.”
Shit.
Rock, meet hard place. Also known as my insecurities versus my Southern manners. In my circles, it wasn’t hard to eat only socially acceptable foods if I absolutely had to eat in public. Salads were on the menu at every event, restaurant, and dinner party. Mama Vee’s menu…not so much. But Con hadn’t made me feel self-conscious when I’d explained; he’d just listened and accepted what I’d said. It seemed that he wasn’t going to judge me. I straightened. I could do this.
“I won’t insult her.”
Con reached down and grabbed my hand. “Thank you. Now come on, before she throws us out for being late.”
I hadn’t known what to expect when I’d brought Vanessa to Mama Vee’s. I wouldn’t lie and say it hadn’t been a test. Because it had been. But by the end of lunch, I wasn’t sure who was being tested.
Vanessa hadn’t insulted Mama Vee. Not in the least. She’d been gracious. Charming. Engaging. There was no doubt that Vanessa would have an open invitation to return—with or without me.
Vanessa had opted for the rotisserie chicken, and the smear of BBQ sauce across her cheek reminded me of the strawberry jam I’d wanted to lick off her face in the kitchen of the gym.
And while I didn’t pretend to completely understand her hang up with food, at least I had some sort of explanation for her behavior.
It was startling to learn that Vanessa’s life hadn’t always been as easy as I’d assumed. It was even harder to believe the perfect princess hadn’t always been quite so perfect. I wondered how I’d never known. Probably because I’d kept to myself in school and had paid no mind to gossip of any kind.
Then Mama Vee surprised us both.
“Your mama would have loved seeing you all grown up like this,” she said as I collected the plates and shoved them in the trashcan, and Vanessa gathered the condiments on a tray.
My attention fixed on Vanessa, who was flicking the edge of the ketchup label with her fingernail. Her eyes came up and met Mama Vee’s.
“You knew my mother?”
Mama Vee nodded. “Before I had my own catering business, I spent a lot of years prepping in kitchens for other people. Your mama was a very particular woman.”
Vanessa blinked and reached for the salt and pepper. “Yes, particular was a good word for her.”
Mama Vee wiped her hands off on her apron and laid one over Vanessa’s. “That little girl you were? She was a beautiful child. And the woman you are now? Is a credit to you. Not even your mama could find fault with that.”
Vanessa squeezed her eyes shut, and I was afraid that tears would start spilling. Crying women were not something I knew how to deal with effectively. Man down and bleeding from shrapnel? That I could handle. Flying bullets and incoming mortar rounds? Bring ‘em on. But a crying woman? Not so much.
But Vanessa didn’t let the tears fall. She straightened her shoulders and looked Mama Vee in the eye. “Thank you.”
“You look like you need a hug, child,” Mama Vee whispered in her gravelly smoker’s voice.
I figured Vanessa would just shrug it off, but she did something that surprised me even more than Mama Vee bringing up Vanessa’s mother: she rounded the table and wrapped her arms around Mama Vee’s neck.
Mama Vee hugged her right back, and I just stood and watched. Amazed.
It seemed that I’d judged Vanessa wrongly when I’d decided to label her a stuck up bitch without a heart. Because she very much had a heart, and I didn’t know many stuck up bitches who would lower themselves to hug a woman clearly their social inferior. But I was seeing it.
I owed her an apology.
That feeling didn’t last long.
I helped Vanessa off the bike in the small garage tucked behind Voodoo. I felt like I was looking at a completely different person than the one I’d helped climb on only an hour and a half ago. Taking her to Mama Vee’s had peeled away a few layers and revealed things I hadn’t expected. Vanessa Frost was more than met the eye. I wanted to keep peeling back those layers.
And her clothes.
I retrieved her purse from the saddlebag, and we stood beside her car in the alley. I wasn’t ready to let her go back to her world quite yet. I liked having her in mine. A little too much. “You busy tomorrow night? I’ve got appointments until late, but I want to take you somewhere.”
“I’d have to check my calendar. It’s gotten really busy with everything going on these days.”
I gritted my teeth. “Blowing me off already? I wouldn’t recommend it.” My words carried an edge I didn’t even try to hide.
She blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“I’d have to check my calendar isn’t giving me a shot, princess.”
Hitching her purse higher on her shoulder, she stared me down. “Would you rather I agree and then blow you off later? I’m trying to be honest. If I’m supposed to trust you, then I guess you’re going to have to trust me, too.”
I crossed my arms and huffed out a laugh. “Guess you’re right. But it’s a little hard to trust someone who tried to sneak out of my bed so she wouldn’t have to look me in the eye and admit we’d slept together.”
As soon as the words were out, I wanted to snatch them back. Fuck. I hadn’t meant to bring that up.
Instead of turning on her heel and climbing in her car, she followed my lead and crossed her arms over her chest. I tried not to notice the way her tits plumped up under that orange dress. Tried—and failed.
“You’re the king of the one-night hit it and quit it program. It’s rich that you’re giving me hell about something you’ve probably done dozens of times.” On a roll, she uncrossed her arms, stepped forward, and poked a finger into my chest. “The only reason it pisses you off—”
I didn’t let her finish. I grabbed her hand and dragged her closer. “The only reason it pisses me off is because I wasn’t done with you.”
That shut her up. For about five seconds.
“That’s not how I remember it, Constantine.” The way she spat my name heated my blood.
I wrapped my other arm around her and pulled her flush against my body. I stared into those arctic blue eyes when I said, “I don’t fucking care how you remember it, Vanessa. This time, we’re not done until I say we’re done.”
Her delicate nostrils flared, and I smiled.
“You like it when I tell you how it’s going to be. Don’t you, princess?”
It was the kind of line I’d throw at a girl I’d just met if I wanted her to drop her panties at my feet. It was the wrong thing to say to Vanessa.
She struggled against my hold, shoving me away. “Let. Me. Go.”
I squeezed her tighter until she stilled. “That’s the problem. I can’t. I’ve got nothing but blanks when I try to remember that night. It eats at me. Do you have any idea what it’s like to know I’ve touched you and tasted you—and I don’t remember any of it? It’s fucking torture.”
The sucker in me thought I could feel her heart hammering against my chest. For several minutes, she said nothing. I said nothing. The silence that stretched between us was heavy, but I didn’t care because I had my arms wrapped around her, and she wasn’t trying to pull away.
But she would.
A few more seconds passed before she said, “I have to get back to work.”