Her chestnut hair is pinned back with a single barrette, which reminds me of Edith, except that Laurel’s hair falls in a smooth cascade, every dark lustrous strand in place, to where it neatly curls at the ends.
I need to stop touching it. But that hair has always been my weakness.
“Looking lovely this evening, Laurel,” I say, putting my hand on the curve of her waist as I drop a kiss at her cheek. And fine, maybe I touch her hair just a little.
It’s like silk, but Laurel seems different. A little harder than when I left her last night.
The host cuts in to let us know it will be a few minutes for our table, so I walk Laurel back to the spot at the bar where I’ve already ordered her a glass of wine. She takes one look and leans over the mahogany bar, asking the bartender for a martini. Vodka, up. Three olives.
Dirty.
And yeah, that’s the word my brain locks on to.
Not cool. Not part of the plan. And, considering our history, not even within the realm of possibility.
The bartender practically breaks his leg tripping over himself to get Laurel her drink. My molars grind together, because of the way he leans into her space to slide it to her. I’m not a possessive guy. But with Laurel—hell, maybe it’s the blood oath I swore to her brother before I had sense enough to know better, or maybe it’s something… else—but I can’t remember a time when she didn’t feel like my responsibility. Mine to look after and protect, at least in some limited capacity that didn’t interfere with our exchange of relentless shit.
Either way, the bartender and all these other fucks have my inner caveman starting to twitch.
Laurel takes an appreciative sip, cutting a grateful smile his way. Giving him the smile she didn’t have for me.
Not waiting for her attention to eventually stumble back, I lean an arm on the bar, putting my body between her and the guy who definitely has other customers to serve.
She purses those glossy red lips and sighs.
“Here’s the thing, Jack,” she says, close enough that her words are for my ears only, and I can feel the soft puff of her breath and smell the subtle notes of her perfume. “I’ve had a change of heart. It’s not me. It’s you. Jackass.”
Ahh, so a change of heart it is. I anticipated this.
“Yeah, and?”
She blinks, the corners of that too-bold, too-red mouth curving just a bit. “And no need to stick around for dinner. I’ve got a book loaded on my phone. Thanks for scoring me a reservation. This place is impossible to get into.”
Not for me.
And not that it matters. Because there’s not a chance in hell I’d leave her alone wearing that dress. Not even if I were going to let her off the hook. Which I’m not.
“I don’t know, Laurel. You may want to reconsider.”
She gives me a droll look. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely. Anyone can say they’re in a relationship, but if you want it to stick, you’ve got to reinforce the claim. You’ve got to be ready to show up with that date more than once, looking like the love you’ve got is destined to go the distance. Anything less and, at best, you look like a challenge; at worst, it becomes a waiting game. Either way”—I take another swallow of my drink—“do you really want C-man watching you that carefully?”
As stubborn and difficult as Laurel might be, she’s also smart as hell. And she knows I’m right.
Her head tips to the side, and her hair spills deeper into the vee of her dress. “Maybe that’s a risk I’m willing to take. That business at Belfast probably bought me another month. Easy. If Clarence starts looking too closely, I can always say we’ve broken up. Tell him you betrayed me, and I’m too hurt to consider dating again any time soon.”
“You could. But that month you think you’ve bought yourself might be a bit of a stretch. Considering.”
“Considering what?”
I shrug.
She takes another sip of her martini. Catches the lingering drop of dirty with the tip of her tongue and plants about a hundred dirty as fuck ideas in my head at once.
Holy shit. Not good.
Her eyes narrow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I don’t even want to know how she thinks I’m looking at her.
“I’m selling the fairy tale, sweetheart. Something you might try yourself.”
“I might, except”—another slow, dirty swallow—“I’m dumping you right now, so really, what would be the point?”
I can’t help but laugh.
So difficult.
“Right. Which brings me back to my point. What happens if now that Clarence knows I hang out at Belfast, he decides to stop in again and say hi? I think we both know he’s man-crushing pretty hard.”
Rolling the stem of her glass between her fingers, she peers down into her drink. “It’s sad, really. He could do so much better.”
“What if he shows up tomorrow… when you’ve set me free tonight?” I lean over the bar, taking her hand and turning it over so her palm is open and exposed within mine. “What do you think your guy would see if he happened upon me any given night at the bar where I hang out?”
A satisfying pink breaks past her cool façade, rushing to her cheeks.
Truth is, if he happened on me at Belfast, he’d probably see exactly what he did last Thursday. Me hanging out with my friends. I don’t pick up dates at places I wouldn’t want to give up. But I’d rather let Laurel think it’s something else.
“You’re right,” she acknowledges, one brow slowly arching. “Wouldn’t do me any favors to have him witness your latest STD in the making.”
Jesus. I know I should let it go, but… “I beg your pardon, but this equipment is clean as a whistle, baby.”
Laurel’s eyes drop to my junk, and I cough at the blatant stare and the way her lip curls. “That sounds about right. Coated in germs and the saliva of untold masses.”
“Whoa—”
Her hand comes up between us. “I don’t want to know anything about your whistle, Jack. I’m already not feeling great.”
No way I’m going to let that stand. “But—”
Her lips pinch together and her hand flies to her belly as her cheeks puff, right there in the middle of one of Chicago’s most elegant bars. I have to admit, I’ve missed having someone who plays as dirty as me.
“Come on. Enough with the theatrics.”
One eye squints open, again cutting to my groin, before shutting as she lets out a sick groan… that’s disturbingly believable.
Heat crawls up my neck like I can’t remember happening before. She can’t be serious.
“Laurel.”
Ignoring the stern warning in my voice, she covers her eyes and sucks a long breath through her nose before smoothly drawing the martini back to her full red lips. Another swallow, and she flicks those dark eyes toward the ceiling, muttering a quiet obscenity.
I toss back the remainder of my drink and set the empty glass on the bar harder than necessary. “Laurel.”
“Fine.” She cuts me a look full of loathing. “You’ve got a point about C-man.”
Thank you. “And?”
“And I suppose I can fake my way through a couple dates.”
It’s a start.
Our table is ready, and the choice location at the front window couldn’t be more perfect. Not only are we visible to everyone inside the restaurant, but we’re front and center for the gossip hounds who hang around across the street, bribing the valets for tips on the who’s who inside.
I take the seat at the intimate table we’re sharing. The host is talking about the grilled ahi, but I’m too distracted by the stare-down happening between myself and the woman in red to pay attention.
Finally, he leaves and we’re alone.
Time to get down to brass tacks. “Let’s talk fidelity.”
She rests her chin atop her hand. “What about it?”
“I get that you had second thoughts today, but after this, there’s no ba
cking out. If you meet some guy with the potential for something real, too fucking bad.”
She blinks, and I realize I might have put more emphasis on that than necessary.
“I’m no cheater, Jackhole.”
“Neither am I. But I’m not just talking about taking some random banker back to your apartment. I’m talking about the way you engage with other men when you’re out. How you talk about me.” For a city with a population over two million, at times it can feel much, much smaller.
“Understood. What about our family and friends? Do we tell them the truth?”
“Use your discretion, but the fewer people who know, the better.”
We lay down rules and discuss dates, speaking quietly enough that by the time our meals have been cleared, we’re leaning into the shared space of our intimate table. To the casual observer, we can’t get enough of each other.
But within our little bubble?
“Could you be any more of a dick? Yes, I get it,” Laurel snaps, managing to keep the smile I had to talk her into in place. “We need each other. We need to follow the other’s lead. And we need to keep the lie believable.”
“For two months.”
“Yes, fine. For two months.”
That’s all I needed to hear. Pushing up from my chair, I take Laurel’s hand in mine and drop to one knee beside her chair.
Her eyes bug, and a hot red that might actually be as sexy as her dress pushes into her cheeks. “Jack, oh no way. Don’t you do this,” she hisses, eyes locked with mine.
“Oh, I’m doing it.” Flashing a wink I’m sure will have her teeth grinding, I withdraw the ring I picked up earlier today from my pocket, tucking it into my palm. “Laurel Matthews, you’ve been the thorn in my side since we were six years old.”
Her lips compress into a thin line the casual observer might mistake as emotion overwhelming her. The idea that someone might snap a picture of this special moment, forever capturing that less-than-flattering image, pushes my grin all the wider.
“I’ve known a lot of women through the years. A lot. Sexy women. Satisfied women. Women who spend years trying not to moan my name when they meet their Mr. Right. But never in my life have I met a woman who could rub me as wrong as you. You put glue on my pants. Knotted my shoelaces. Made my Bumblebee Transformer marry your dumb Strawberry Shortcake. Changed the code on my bike lock and ruined my chances with Denise Locklain… all before we were ten. But even now, you manage to make each day suck harder than the last. And when I think of you, Laurel, you make me want to get even.”
That thin, hard red line twitches.
I lean into it.
“You make me want to sabotage your best days and darken your brightest moments. Baby, if you’ll give me this chance, I swear to be the pee in your cornflakes every morning for the next two months.”
That’s when it happens, the thing I thought I wanted. What I pushed for, just because I knew she’d hate giving it to me.
Her smile. And not that tight, bitter one I seem to have an all-access pass to. But the real one that’s full and wide, and so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at it.
I think it can’t get any worse, but then her head tips back and, eyes closed, she laughs.
Aww, fuck. That was a mistake.
Because through all the years I’ve known her, that laugh is something I have no defense against. It slides through me, winding around the parts I like to pretend Laurel Matthews can’t touch, and digs in.
Time to stop this. And I know exactly how.
I rise to stand and slide my ring onto her finger.
Her dancing eyes meet mine and hold.
“Say yes, Laurel.”
Another wide smile that gets to me in all the ways it shouldn’t. “Yes.”
Catching her by the back of the neck, I pull her into a hard kiss that has the smile wiped clean from her face and the restaurant around us breaking into applause.
It ought to feel like a win, but even with that low, threatening growl emanating from the pit of Laurel’s black little soul… it doesn’t.
5
Laurel
For the fifth time in the two hours since I’ve been home from dinner with my fake fiancé, I jackknife up from where I’ve been glaring at my ceiling, sweep my phone off the nightstand, and jab at the screen until I have Jack’s contact up.
With anyone else on the planet, I’d be concerned about calling after midnight. Not Jack. The only thing that’s kept me from it until this point was the very real concern that I was too mad to actually form coherent words.
My temper hasn’t cooled. But it has sharpened to a honed point.
Two rings and I have Jack’s jovial voice in my ear. “Hello, gorgeous. How are you this fine evening?”
“Stabby.”
“Mmm. Still steamed about that kiss?”
“Say goodbye to that pretty-boy nose. Law is going to kick your ass.”
Actually, he probably won’t. It’s been a good decade since my brother threw down. But it makes me feel better to say it. At least until Jack’s low, rumbling laugh comes through the line. “That so? Am I supposed to meet him behind the bike racks at the middle school tomorrow? Or should I let security downstairs know to send him up when he arrives?” I can hear some rustling, like he’s just stretched back to get comfortable. “Was wondering how long it would take before I heard from you. But seriously, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.”
My screen lights up with his request for a video chat.
I decline with another angry jab.
“Party pooper,” he mutters, sounding nothing but entertained.
“Where do you get off, Jack? We’re supposed to be helping each other out in a very specific, very limited capacity. We agreed to stop trying to screw each other over in public. And then you go and, just to piss me off, do that.”
Whew. It feels better getting that off my chest. And my voice barely shook.
“Laurel, I’m listening.” He yawns. “I am. But communication is a critical component of any fake relationship… and I feel like I need to see your eyes to really understand where you’re coming from.”
“Are you seriously—”
“Eh-eh, Laurel. Not until I can see you.”
I gape at the phone in my hand, barely able to see past the red haze. “You want to see me,” I snap, stomping out of bed, shoving my feet into my Ugg slippers. “How about I come over there right now!”
The sound coming through the line is low and masculine. An appreciative hum.
“You are mad. But as much as I like the idea of having you storm into my bedroom—you really think you can hang on to that temper as long as it will take for me to get a car over there to pick you up? Because no way in hell am I letting you go out at this hour by yourself. Then there’s the ride over here, signing in downstairs, waiting on the elevator… I mean, even without traffic, we’re probably looking at twenty minutes, probably twenty-five.”
That temper he’s so appreciative of tips over the edge, and I slam my finger down to disconnect the call. It’s a close thing, but I manage not to throw my phone against the wall, full-on tantrum style. Instead I give him the visual connection he’s asking for.
A scowling, nail-spitting selfie, complete with my middle finger front and center.
Send.
I haven’t taken two steps before I get a response.
Jackass: See? That wasn’t so hard. And here’s what I look like. #communication.
This is the part where I’m supposed to drive a spiked heel through my phone in a fit of rage, but instead it’s a stunted laugh that takes me by surprise as I drop back onto my bed.
The accompanying shot is a selfie of Jack kicked back against a pile of pillows and silk shams in shades of gray and navy behind him. He’s got that infuriating smirk parked on his lips, and his hair is standing up in all the wrong directions, like maybe once he got home he scrubbed his hands through the normally neat strands. His chest is bare and he’s s
hooting me a peace sign.
Me: Tell me you aren’t naked.
His reply is another picture, this one featuring the sculpted terrain of his bare abs, the fine line of dark hair starting at his navel and trailing beneath the pale blue pajama bottoms parked dangerously low on his hips. The contours of his thighs stand out through the thin fabric, and even though I don’t want to, I find my eyes drawn to the bulge between his legs.
Jackass: Stop staring.
Me: You wish.
But yeah, I totally was.
The phone rings a second later, and I answer with a forced yawn. And another look back at the pinup-quality pictures now contaminating my phone. Why couldn’t he be wearing a shirt?
“I’m looking at your picture, Laurel, and sort of regretting talking you out of coming over to ream me out in person. I like the jammies.”
My stomach falls, and I nearly drop my phone, flipping past Jack’s skin shots to the picture I sent to him. God, I didn’t even look at it.
“Yeah, I just posted yours on Craigslist,” I offer absently. “Couple bites from some really eager-sounding guys. They say they’re gentlemen… but not too gentle.”
And my picture? Yeah, my middle finger takes up about fifty percent of the shot, and once you look past that, my expression practically screams Jerry Springer guest. If I’m going to be totally honest, I look ridiculous.
I also look a little light on coverage.
No, I’m not wearing some baby-doll nightie, but the lace-edged tank is fitted, thin enough to see I should probably turn the heat up a degree or two, and not quite long enough to meet the bottoms that hang even lower than Jack’s.
No wonder Jack was grinning in his picture.
Oops.
“So, Ms. Matthews, you’re pissed. Let me have it. Lay in about the kiss I stole and how much better it would have looked if we’d busted knuckles and blown it up once you agreed to be my wife.”
“Oh, please. You could have warned me. Asked me.”
He makes some noncommittal noise. “I’m grabbing a beer. You want a glass of wine or anything, if we’re going to be up awhile?”
Dirty Bad Boy Page 3