Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Of course. But they’re not usually threatening to duct tape me up at every turn.”

  “Goes with the job. It’s just a career hazard, I guess.”

  “If you say so,” I replied with a snort. “How long you been doing it?”

  “Threatening to duct tape you? Today’s my first day.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “I’ve been working for Cohen for six years.” His voice was tinged with poorly disguised bitterness.

  “You don’t like it,” I stated.

  “No.”

  I turned his words on him. “Then why are you doing it?”

  “Very funny,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m deadly serious.”

  “Are you?”

  He hates Cohen as much as I do, I realized, and I felt a little worse about giving him a hard time.

  “Don’t look so sad, Mr…” I trailed off.

  He hadn’t given me his name.

  Why would he? I asked myself. I’m just another pay cheque, and giving me his name turns me into a loose end.

  “I’m Painter,” he stated without hesitating.

  I laughed in spite of myself. “Painter? What is that? Your day job?”

  You’re obviously sleep-deprived, I told myself. Feeling sorry for the man who’s going to turn you over to Cohen Blue and teasing him about his name isn’t normal.

  But then he grinned and it was worth it, just to see the genuine pleasure in his green eyes. The smile transformed his face. I admired his profile as he answered.

  “Unfortunately, no, it’s not a title. My mom was an artist, and for some reason, that seemed like a good enough reason to name me after an art medium.”

  “Wait. That’s your real first name? Not one you just give to Cohen’s…friends to throw them off?”

  “Yep. Real name. Painter Garret Darren. And really, I’m lucky I wound up as Painter and not as something far worse.”

  “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “Just about anything. Sculpture. Van Gogh. Dancer.”

  “Prancer? Vixen?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Just so you know, I’ve punched people for mocking me about less important things.”

  “Are you going to hit me, Painter Garret Darren?” I asked.

  His face tightened, and I put my hand on his arm to let him know I was kidding. The thick muscles of his biceps made my heart beat a little faster before he shook off my grip.

  “I’m not that kind of man, Polly.”

  He twisted the steering wheel and pulled off the road. For a second I thought it was because he was mad, and then I spied a dimly lit gas station just ahead. We coasted up to one of the pumps.

  Painter reached across my lap, pressing his elbow against my knees in a way that gave me a bit of an involuntary thrill.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Painter didn’t answer right away. He let his arm rest there, building up heat in my thighs.

  “Does he hit you?” His voice was gruff.

  The abrupt question caught me off guard. “What?”

  “Does he hit you?” Painter repeated.

  Had he spotted my black eye? I stole a glance in the mirror above me on the shade. No. It was still well covered.

  “Well,” Painter prodded. “Does he?”

  “Does who?”

  “The dangerous man you have at home. The one you say you didn’t call.”

  “No!”

  “Because if he does…”

  “He doesn’t. He’s kind and sweet.”

  My sincerity seemed to satisfy him, even if it didn’t make him happy. “Good.”

  He popped open the glovebox and yanked out a set of handcuffs. He held them up and dangled them in front of me.

  “Let’s call this insurance,” he said.

  “You’re going to handcuff me to…what? The steering wheel?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God, because—”

  He cut me off. “I’m going to handcuff you to the toilet.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You told me yourself you’re a runner.”

  I didn’t deny it, but I didn’t offer him my wrist, either. After a second he sighed.

  “I thought you might like to use a real toilet. Since you wasted your last pee break on a phone call.”

  I reigned in an urge to stick my tongue out him.

  Somehow, I thought. This can work to my advantage.

  I smiled sweetly. “Yes, please. I’d love to use a real toilet.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Do I need to give you a list of rules along with the standard consequences for breaking them?”

  “I think I can manage.”

  Painter grabbed my purse from the backseat and tossed the cuffs into it. Then he let himself out, and came around to open my door.

  “Such a gentleman,” I muttered.

  He grinned. “From what I hear…ladies prefer a bad boy. So keep this in mind. I don’t like to hurt people, but I will, if I’m pushed to. Don’t risk anyone else’s safety by pulling something stupid, okay?”

  “Do I seem stupid to you?”

  “No. You seem a little too damned smart, actually.”

  This time, I did stick my tongue out. “Can I take my purse so I can fix my make-up?”

  “As long as you’re not planning on whacking me in the head with it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

  He pulled me out by the hand and didn’t let go as we walked toward the service station store.

  We stopped right outside the doors and Painter bent his head down to my neck. When he spoke, his warm breath made a trail of goose bumps rise up on my skin.

  “I promise you, this isn’t going to be one of those movie-escape scenes where I leave you alone in the washroom long enough for you to climb out a window.”

  “Fine.” I hoped he took my gritted teeth as an expression of irritation and not what it really signified—a maddening urge to turn my mouth toward his.

  Painter plastered a cheeky grin on his face as he yanked me close and opened the door. He winked at the attendant before slapping a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter.

  “Key to the men’s room, please?”

  “Not the ladies?” The shaggy-haired cashier tugged on his eyebrow ring and gave us a puzzled look.

  “My lady friend has a peculiar fetish,” Painter announced, and my face went hot.

  The attendant nodded and tossed the key to us.

  “What is wrong with you?” I hissed.

  “Let’s call that payback for the phone thing,” he replied as he shoved me through the store and into the restroom.

  “Isn’t chaining me here punishment enough?”

  “You’d think so, but no.”

  He fished the handcuffs from my purse and shot a meaningful look toward the tiny window above the toilet.

  “As if my ass would fit through that,” I said.

  “I know exactly what size your ass is,” he replied. “And there’s no doubt in my mind you’d squeeze it through there.”

  I fought off another blush. “Whatever.”

  He smiled and fastened my wrist to the metal pipes behind the toilet. Then he closed the door. I was able to reach the lock and to secure it, but I could still hear him shuffling around outside.

  “I’m supposed to go while you’re out there?”

  “Yes.”

  I sighed, then realized I was still gripping my purse in my free hand. I stared down at it, feeling a bubble of hope build in my chest.

  A bobby pin. I had to have one.

  I rattled the handcuffs to cover the sound of me tossing things from my bag to the floor. Painter’s laugh carried through the door.

  “You can’t shake your way out of those,” he called. “They’re police issue.”

  “Police issue?” I managed to reply. “Seems kinda classy for a seedy guy like you.”

  Aha!

  I had to bite my tongue to keep from cheering out loud as my
fingers closed around a skinny piece of metal at the bottom of my purse. I pulled it out. It was a silver bobby pin, decorated with pearls. I stuck it into the cuffs, but the pearls stopped it just a little too short to pick the lock. I needed to pull them off.

  “The cuffs were my dad’s.”

  I stopped what I was doing and stared at the door. Had I heard him right?

  “Your dad was a cop?”

  “Never mind,” Painter muttered.

  But I wasn’t going to let it go that easily. “He must love what you do for a living.”

  “He’s dead.”

  My heart squeezed guiltily. I knew the pain of losing a parent.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He was a hero. He died on duty and that’s exactly how he wanted it.”

  “You didn’t get along?” I asked.

  “We got along fine,” he replied. “But he wanted me to be the same kind of man he was, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite cut it.”

  “He wanted you to be a cop?”

  “Probably more than he wanted to be a cop himself,” Painter said.

  “So why didn’t you do it?”

  “I tried. I failed the entrance exam. Twice.”

  “How come?”

  “No aptitude for the work, apparently. Too free spirited. Too emotional. I think my dad took it personally that I failed. He never said directly that it made him angry or that I disappointed him but I always assumed I did anyway. So I did what I hoped was the next best thing. I became a private investigator instead. And that probably embarrassed him even more, I don’t know. Maybe I just wasn’t enough like him and just a little bit too much like my mother.”

  “Your mother, the artist?”

  Painter chuckled dryly. “Is that so hard to imagine?”

  “Yes. I mean, unless she was an art forger. Or an art thief.”

  “Because you still think I’m seedy?”

  I looked down at my bobby pin. I’d pried off two of the tiny pearls and needed to get to work on the third one.

  “Like I said before…who else works for a guy like Cohen Blue?” I asked.

  “Guys who have no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  Painter paused and then answered, “That’s what everyone who’s always had a choice thinks.”

  I pulled off the final pearl and shoved the bobby pin into the handcuff lock. It fit perfectly.

  Just a few more seconds, I prayed silently as I wiggled the latch.

  “You’re saying I have a choice now?” I asked sarcastically.

  I could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “You’re an exasperating woman.”

  “You do have choice, though,” I argued in a pleasant voice. “You could choose not to take me to Cohen.”

  “It’s not my choice. It’s my job.”

  “You could just leave me here. Or better yet, take me home and pretend you never found me.”

  Painter sighed so loudly I could hear him through the door, but he didn’t reply. I dug the bobby pin in further, willing it to catch.

  “What kind of hold does Cohen have on you?” I asked. “Is he blackmailing you?”

  “What motivates me is my business.” He sounded bitter, but I didn’t think it was directed at me.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “But I lived with that man for almost seven years, and I’ve seen first-hand how he operates. Two kinds of people work for him. Assholes and people who owe him something. Or think they do. You claim you’re not a thug, so…”

  I trailed off as his feet began to smack along the floor. I pictured him pacing back and forth in front of the door with his hand running nervously through his hair. The image made me pause, and I twisted the bobby pin firmly, angry at myself for feeling any sympathy for this man. The cuffs popped open. I stared down at them dumbly.

  I’m free.

  Painter’s pacing stopped.

  “What Cohen has on me…I can’t change it,” he said, his voice brittle. “Which is exactly what I’m talking about when I say I have no choice. If you know him as well as you claim to, you have an idea of what he’s capable of, and of the kind of control he demands.”

  I did know. But it didn’t change a thing about our situation. I had to get back to Jayme.

  “Polly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What aren’t you doing in there?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ve heard jangling and clicking and rattling and I’m pretty sure you dropped your purse, but you know what I haven’t heard?”

  “What?”

  “Peeing.”

  “I can’t go with an audience.”

  “So come out then.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m coming in.” He rattled the doorknob. “Are you going to unlock it?”

  “Are you going to kick it down if I don’t?” I retorted.

  “Probably.”

  I debated letting him do it.

  “Polly?”

  “Fine,” I sighed.

  I put my wrist back into the cuff without closing it and stretched to unlock the door. I stepped back, getting as close to the rear wall as I could. Painter came in warily, taking in the mess on the floor and my fully clothed state. He held the handcuff keys in his outstretched hand and I had to force my eyes not to linger on them greedily.

  “I’m sorry about the lap dance joke,” I offered.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I feel bad about teasing you like that.”

  He stepped closer. I grabbed his shirt in my fist and yanked him toward me. He was startled enough that he didn’t resist. I brought my face up, tilted my lips toward his and closed my eyes. He made a sound, deep in his throat, and let the kiss happen. The tension between us ignited something in my chest, flaming a seemingly impossible heat. I slid my hand to his legs, then up to his hips. I dragged my fingers to his belt loop, pausing just above his pocket. He inhaled sharply. He pushed me up against the wall, one hand wrapping around my waist and the other around the arm suspended by the handcuffs.

  It required real effort to pull away.

  “Painter,” I whispered.

  “Mmm.”

  In a deft manoeuvre, I slipped the tiny keys from his hand, twisted my hand free, and snapped the cuffs onto his wrist before sliding out of his embrace.

  “I feel bad about this, too,” I said.

  His eyes widened and he took a frantic step toward me. But I’d spent the past year and half dodging drunken, handsy men, and I was quick. I slipped away easily.

  “Are you serious?” Painter growled.

  His green eyes darkened. I watched him for a minute, feeling an inexplicable guilt for locking him there. He strained futilely against the cuffs, making his muscles pop, and the other emotion that had been plaguing me for the past twelve or so hours threatened to overwhelm me.

  Desire.

  His arms flexed again and I had to shake my head to clear it.

  “Sorry, Painter,” I stated with true regret. “Like you said. Sometimes we just don’t have a choice.”

  Chapter Nine

  Painter

  I smacked the back of my head into the bathroom wall for about the tenth time, then winced. My frustration had got the better of me, and I’d hit it a lot harder than I intended.

  You’re going to give yourself a headache.

  As if I didn’t have one building already.

  I was annoyed at Cohen for sending me on this assignment with no warning as to what he was getting me into. I was doubly angry at the girl for manipulating me. Repeatedly. Most of all, though, I was pissed off at myself for being tricked by a pretty face and a pair of soft lips.

  Perfect lips.

  “Shut up,” I growled at my inner voice.

  I mentally scrolled through my options once again.

  One. Scream and yell to get the gas station
attendant’s attention. An undesirable alternative at best. A humiliating one at worst.

  Two. Call Cohen directly and admit defeat. My cell phone weighed against my thigh like a brick.

  Three…I couldn’t even come up with a number three.

  I closed my eyes and willed myself to think of a better option. I breathed in and out slowly, and my mind drifted to the last time I’d been held against my will, feeling just as angry and helpless as I did now.

  I’d woken in a cold sweat, and tried to roll over, only to find my hand stuck in place.

  “What is this?” I muttered.

  I shook my arm, and the zap strap there dug into my flesh.

  “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been examining your escape options.”

  I cringed at the unexpected voice. Until that second, I hadn’t even realized Cohen Blue was in the room with me.

  “What do you mean?”

  The other man shrugged. “Each night since you’ve been able to get out of bed on your own, you’ve walked over to that window there, and checked the integrity of the bars. Believe me when I tell you they will hold.”

  I shivered. I hadn’t told him—or even the doctor who was attending to me for the past month—I was able to stand. I was weak, and every excruciating movement required me to hold on to the furniture to do it, but it was still true. I had been doing just what he’d stated.

  “How’d you know?” I asked.

  “You’ve seen the TV show…the one about getting caught in the act by a secret camera?” He smiled coldly when I nodded. “Right now that’s your life.”

  “That, plus a guard at the door, twenty-four hours a day,” I added bitterly.

  “Painter, I didn’t choose this for you.”

  I wanted to say that I didn’t choose it for myself, either, but I couldn’t. It brought up too many doubts. Because even if I hadn’t made a conscious decision, it didn’t absolve me of responsibility for my actions.

  “I don’t want to be trapped here,” I said instead.

  “I don’t want that, either,” he replied. “And that’s why I’d like to provide you with an option. One that will keep you out of this room, and also out of jail.”

  “What kind of option?”

  “One that starts with me helping you get stronger instead of chaining you to a hospital bed. I’d like to provide you with the tools to so you can really get out.”