by Clara Stone
The back door swings abruptly open for the second time that night, shattering the moment. Instead of jumping away from me, Harrington blocks me from view with his body, keeping me hidden from whoever just came outside. I hear the shuffling of feet—more than one pair.
“Oh, sorry. I thought—” Cat’s voice comes out in a giggle of hiccups.
“Cat?” I ask, peeking around Harrington. I always knew he was big, but now, hiding behind him, he’s downright huge. I feel so tiny in comparison.
“Duuuuude!” Cat giggles, stumbling and walking toward me, the guy who came out with her following hesitantly. “You’re heeeeere!”
“Ah, yeah.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear as I step out from behind Harrington and reach for her, the same time the guy—Frank, Phil, something, one of Stamos’s boys—does. I shake my head. “Um . . . you’re drunk.” I laugh.
“No. Yes.” She crinkles her nose and gestures. “Maybe a little.”
“Hey, man.” Harrington gives the guy one of those boy handshakes. Do they know each other? I guess that answers my question about whether or not he’s here with Stamos.
“Soooo . . .” Cat giggles with a hiccup. She tries to poke me on the cheek, but ends up giving me a wet willy. “You and Hotty Mcjagger, huh?”
I throw a quick glance at Harrington. He’s deep in conversation with his apparent friend, his arms crossed over his chest. I pull my bottom lip in between my teeth. “There’s nothing—”
“Ah-ha.” She throws both of her arms around me.
“You look like you found someone, though,” I tease, poking her in the ribs.
She giggles again, wiggling her fingers at the guy. He winks at her, but continues his conversation with Harrington. “Yep. And not just anyone. That fine piece of male specimen, he’s going to keep me warm tonight.”
“And you’re totally drunk. I think we should get you home.”
“Hell no!” She wavers a little and gives a lopsided grin, looking at the guy. “Have you seen him? I’m not going anywhere he isn’t coming. I’m going fishin’ tonight, darlin’.” She uses one of her flirty, southern tones, eyeing her chosen boy-toy for the night like her namesake would eye a platter of tuna.
Sober-Cat is interesting to say the least, but drunk-Cat, it seems, is horny. “And how am I going to get a ride home, exactly?”
She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t have to. Her look is enough to tell me. I follow her gaze toward the boys. Harrington is looking at me, a playful smile forming on his lips.
“So, it looks like I’ll be taking you home tonight after all,” Harrington says, coming to stand in front of me. He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and I don’t miss the way his eyes sparkle with mischief, almost daring me to take the bait and call him out on the innuendo.
I look to Cat, then at him, trying hard, but failing miserably to ignore the small ball of happiness that forms inside my chest, jumping up and down. So instead, I look him square in the eye and say, “It seems so.”
I PARK AT the front of a red brick building with what looks like a half a mile of stairs. Seriously, I think there are at least fifty steps. I hate steps. Despise them.
“You want to come up?” Jess asks. When I don’t respond immediately, she stumbles through her words. “I-I mean, for coffee or . . . or something.” Her eyes dart down toward her hands.
“Yeah. That’d be cool.” I wince. Wow. That’d be cool? Seriously, dude? How old are you?
She smiles, but in that innocent way where her lips press together. “Cool. So . . . um . . . upstairs . . . ?”
I blink. “Yeah. Sure.”
I get out and run around the car to open her door for her. She offers me a smile and then heads up the massive flight of stairs. After closing the car door and hitting lock on the key fob, I follow, trying not to look as disgruntled about the stairs as I feel.
“So, um . . .” she says once I make it to the top. She fidgets with her keys before turning and shoving her key into the door, looking back over her shoulder sheepishly. “I’m not going to lie . . . I have no idea what state the place is in.”
“Trust me, I’m the last person to judge anyone.”
“Okay . . . but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then she pushes open the door and stands aside, letting me through first.
I don’t know what to make of it. It’s a small room with a couch and a love seat. Off to the side is one of those 50s television boxes, huge and brown, with bunny ears extended. A small wooden table sits between the sofas and the TV, but what catches my attention are all the pictures in the room. There are tons of them. And from what I can see, none of them have Jess in them.
“Who’s the sparkle lover?” I ask, pointing to the curtain that separates the kitchen from the living room.
Jess raises her hand, crinkling her nose. “That’s all Cat. She’s got this thing about vampires.”
I stifle a laugh, remembering how I thought the same when I first saw Cat. “Huh.”
“So, ah, coffee?” Jess asks, pulling off her high heels. She wiggles her toes several times before making her way toward the strings of tiny mirrors.
“Sounds good.” I follow her into the kitchen.
I watch her rummage through the cabinets as she searches for something. “You haven’t been here long,” I say.
She looks over her shoulder for a second, before turning back to the pot of coffee. “How do you figure?”
“Nothing in the living room belongs to you—”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” She turns around, placing the heels of her palms over the edge of the counter.
“Well, okay. But if I had a roommate and they wanted to hang that shimmering monstrosity of a death trap, I’d punch myself in the face before I said yes.”
She thinks on it a moment and then laughs. “Okay. I’ll give you that. I moved here like two and half months ago. What about you?”
“I’m a nomad of sorts. For now.” I quickly change the subject back to her. “Where are you from then, originally?”
“Georgia.”
“No shit.”
She nods. “Born and raised. You?”
I snort. “What are we playing . . . twenty questions?”
She shrugs. “Why not?”
“When did you get that tattoo on your wrist?” If she wants to play, then I’m game. But only because I’ll finally get to learn more about her.
“Nah-huh. My turn.”
“Technically, yes. But I already asked the question.”
She juts her hip to the side. “Fine. I was eighteen. A birthday present to myself.”
“Why?”
She wags her finger. “My turn. What’s your strangest pet peeve?”
That’s an easy one. “People talking about ghosts like they don’t exist.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“What? They exist,” I insist. “Now, my turn. Why did you get that tattoo?”
She sighs and looks down at her wrist, running a finger over the quote. “Because music—drums—were the only thing that kept the demons out.” She looks up. “Sorry, that was probably too much for a second question. Let’s try that again: because I love drumming. My turn. Ahh . . .” She narrows her eyes. “What’s the most annoying thing anyone’s ever done to you, for you, or beside you?”
I chuckle. “What’s with you and things that bug me?”
She saunters her way over to me, her hands on her hips. “Just answer the question, Harry.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Harry.”
“Huh?”
“It annoys the ever living crap out of me when people call me Harry.”
“Why?”
“Nope, it’s my turn.” I dodge the question, because I would really rather not talk about it. “Any siblings?”
She shakes her head. “Not unless you count Vincent and his brothers. They’re practically family. My turn. What’s your full name?”
“Harrington Brad Lovelly. That’s Lo
velly with a double L.”
Something that looks an awful lot like recognition flickers in her eyes. Her eyebrows pull together, like she’s trying to place something. I smile at her thinking face. It’s awfully cute.
“Okay, so how about . . .” she says, “your favorite color?”
I laugh.
She lifts a shoulder. “What?”
“Nothing.” I let it slide. Technically, it was my turn to ask, but whatever. “Nothing. It’s just weird that you could ask me anything and you ask about my favorite color.” I shake my head. “But, since you asked, I like black.”
“Black,” she repeats, as if to be sure.
“Yup. Black.”
“Okay, then what’s your favorite season?”
“Really?” I ask.
“Really.”
I chuckle. “Okay, I like winter.”
“Winter.” She puts a hand on her hip. “Let me guess, it’s because you can keep a girl warm on cold, cold nights.”
“Are you psychic or something?”
She winks. “Can’t tell you that. What—”
I put up my finger, cutting her off. “My turn. You got three extra turns. So I get to ask you something that’s worth three questions. You ready?”
“O-okay,” she stutters.
“Do you have any other tattoos?”
Her cheeks turn a brilliant shade of pink. But before she can answer, the timer dings. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move so quickly to get a pot of coffee.
Instead of being put off, it intrigues me more. If she’s so readily dodging the question, I know she’s hiding something juicy, and I’m all for juicy details.
I sneak up behind her just as she turns. She flinches, startled, and the coffee cup slips from her fingers.
“Fuck.” I jump back in nick of time, but she isn’t so lucky and the piping hot liquid splashes all down her arm.
She cries out in pain and I move before she can even blink.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I pick her up so she doesn’t step on the broken ceramic and spin her toward the sink. I place her back on her feet and push up the tap before I guide her arm toward it, letting the coolness of the water soothe the pain.
“First aid?” I ask her, as she grimaces and hisses in pain. But to my surprise, not a single tear spills from her green eyes. “Jess. Where’s the first aid kit?”
“Bathroom,” she says through clenched teeth.
I nod and make my way toward the hallway I’d seen.
“First door on the right,” I hear her call.
It takes me all of thirty seconds before I’m back, first aid kit in hand. I take her hand out of the cold water and study the burn. It isn’t bad, but her skin is red.
“I’m fine,” she protests, pulling her arm to her chest.
I look at her, stern. “You have two choices: the easy way or the hard way. Which’ll it be, sweetheart?”
She huffs, annoyed, but a few seconds later, she stretches her arm out toward me. “You’re bossy.”
“I’ve been told that a time or two,” I reply, smoothing the burn ointment over her reddened skin. I kneed it in gently with my fingers and when she doesn’t reply, I look up, wondering if she’s in too much pain to speak. But once again, I’m surprised by the way she’s looking at me, her eyes glued to my mouth.
She licks her lips. “You’re so full of yourself.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, an insult, or an observation. I lean closer, my fingers still massaging her arm. Only, they’ve inched a little higher now. “I’ve also been told I can work miracles with my fingers.”
Her breath hitches when I run my finger lightly over her tattoo. Which reminds me . . . “You never answered my question.” I’m now blocking her against the sink, my arms on either side of her hips. Without those heels, she looks so tiny in front of me.
“Which question?” she whispers.
I take another tiny step closer to her, my legs wide, settling hers between mine. I tilt my head to the side and lean forward, down to her ear. “Do you have any other tats, Jess?”
A shiver passes through her when my lips gaze the bottom of her ear. My heart beats faster, louder, and I can’t help the way my breathing turns shallow, rapid, matching the pace of hers.
Her gaze falls to my mouth, and she whispers ever so lightly, “Yes.”
I groan. “Can I see them?”
Something stirs in her eyes as her tongue comes out to wet her lips. She nods. Her hand reaches for my bicep and she caresses the tattoos on my arm. There’s something to be said about small, innocent touches. Touches that are there, but not really. The cat and mouse game of showing you want someone with the barest of contact.
I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss her, taste her, drive her crazy. Of course I have. But now, with her so close and our bodies touching in ways they haven’t before, I don’t think I can stop myself at just a kiss. And from the look she wears as she stares up at me, she isn’t that far off from feeling the same.
My body grows hot as I slide my hand up and over her exposed skin, all the way to her neck. I shove my fingers into her hair and pull her head back slightly, so I can look into her eyes before I kiss her.
The heat in her eyes is charged with so many different emotions, I can’t put my finger on any single one. I knead the back of her head as her breathing increases and her eyes roll to the back of her head before she closes them.
“Harry—” That name . . . I know it should make me upset, but coming from this girl, it tugs at something deep in my core.
I bring our mouths closer together and let my lips graze hers, light and soft. Holy shit. My heart hammers inside my chest and blood rushes to my ears as her chest heaves up and down. I want to kiss her so fucking much it hurts.
There have been plenty of one-night stands in my life, but with her, it just doesn’t feel right. I want her, no doubt. Everything inside me aches. It hurts, demanding that I take her right here against the counter in her kitchen. But at the same time, I want to feel her feather light touch and soft kisses. I want to feel wanted when I’m with this woman. I don’t want it to be a one-time thing.
My throat is thick and heavy as I call her name in a hoarse whisper, “Jess—”
Her eyes open as she studies me. Does she feel the tension charging between us?
She swallows, thickly, and never in a million years do I expect the words she says soon after: “I’m not ready.”
My grip on her loosens, and the layers of lust dissipate, slowly. It isn’t until right now that I see how almost scared she looks. Guilt washes over me like a heavy rock. She isn’t like the women I’m usually with, and yet here I am, acting no different. She probably thinks that I’m after her for one thing and one thing only. I mean, I definitely am, I definitely want that, but I’m also trying damn hard to not let that be the case.
I don’t get a chance to express any part of my conflicting thoughts, though, because the next moment, the front door opens.
Cat walks in, Fisher following behind as they argue. Cat more or less stomps across the living room, shoving Fisher back as he tries to tail her.
“Catherina . . . Cat . . . come on, baby.” Fisher’s hands fall to his sides in defeat. He lets out a frustrated sigh.
Jess moves past me, her arms crossed as she goes to her friend.
“What the hell is going on?” Jess asks, coming between Cat and Fisher like a mom breaking up fighting siblings. The way her back is stiff, I can tell she’s upset, but with them, or me? Probably me.
I ruin things.
“Cat . . . ?” Jess asks.
Cat turns toward her, and her eyes become big round saucers when she sees me. “What is he doing here?”
“Fisher, what the hell happened? I thought—”
I stop mid-sentence when I catch his intense, unblinking stare, like he wants to say something. Something important. Something that probably has to do with Stamos, I realize.
Cat g
lares at Fisher. “Funny how I thought the same thing, Killshot. But Fisher here had other ideas. He left me in the car to go snoop around some guy’s ass.”
“Cat—”
She whips around on her heels and jabs her finger into Fisher’s chest. “Don’t you ‘Cat’ me, asshole.”
“It’s just a misunderstanding . . .” he tries to reason, pleading.
He doesn’t even get the chance to finish his sentence before she turns around and walks away, like that’s the end of it.
Jess looks between Fisher and me, and then in the direction Cat stomped off.
“You should go talk to her,” I say.
She nods with a tentative smile, some of her earlier anger disappearing. “Be right back.”
The moment she gets out of earshot, Fisher starts to whisper, “I heard Tony on the phone, making plans to go to Houston to meet some guy named Viktor.”
“Who’s that?” I whisper back, hurriedly.
“Hell if I know. But he said something about getting some sort of shipment in January, and that he’ll talk to Stamos about beefing up the security.”
“Are you sure?” I whisper. I hear one of the bedroom doors shut.
He nods, leaning closer to me. “I don’t remember reading anything about this Viktor guy in any of Stamos’s files, so I don’t know what to make of it or even have a guess what this shipment is.”
“I’ll have Neil look into it. If Viktor exists, he’ll find him. Anything else?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t get a chance to find out more, because Cat came looking for me and I barely got us out before Tony saw us.”
“Thanks, man.” I nod, straightening just as Jess steps back into the room.
She looks at me, then to Fisher. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just . . . just some trouble with work,” I say, nonchalant.
Fisher steps forward, extending his hand to Jess. “By the way, we haven’t met. I’m Fisher.”
She nods, curtly, apparently none too happy with him.
“So, how much trouble am I in?” Fisher asks.
She shrugs. “Cat doesn’t hold grudges as long as you have peace offerings.”