by D. Morrissey
I almost disgust myself. How could I have been moony-eyed over Detective Asshole just a few hours ago, and now be lusting after this guy who, until about an hour ago, I compared to Satan? Besides, he may be sexy as hell, but I don’t like him very much. Do I?
“Well, let’s go, I guess.” I open truck the door and climb down.
I stand beside the truck and stretch, my muscles aching like I just outran a bear, when suddenly I feel a sharp pain right under my boob. “Ow!” I whisper, rubbing it lightly with my hand.
“You are hurt,” Cal says in a see-I-knew-it voice. “Come inside so I can look at it.”
I look at him like he’s crazy. “What? Nice try, Spy Guy.” I giggle, because, apparently, he really is a spy.
He sighs, sounding a little aggravated. “If you’re hurt, you need to let me help you. If you’re worried about me…well…doing anything to you, then don’t. Believe me. You’re safe.”
What the hell does that mean? I follow him up the long, wooden porch steps, sulking, as I watch him unlock the door. All I can think about now is why he said I’m safe. It’s not the word that bothers me so much as they way he said it. Did he mean I’m safe because Danny and Everett can’t find me? Or, did he mean I’m safe because he’s some kind of hitman super cop? Or, because he thinks I’m so ugly his dick might fall off at the risk of touching me?
“Come on in,” he says, opening the door and turning on the lights. “Sorry for the mess. I don’t have a lot of company.”
It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light. But when they do, I look around in awe, my mouth agape. Mess? What mess? It’s immaculate. I let my eyes roam, trying to take it all in. The lack of walls is the first thing that I notice, the wide open spaces making the house seem huge. A large modern kitchen sits directly behind the living area, with an adjoining dining room off to the side. The dining table itself is enormous and could easily seat a dozen people, old oak if I had to guess.
The living area is roomy and spacious, but has a definite warmth, with dark, leather furniture placed strategically on a rug in the middle of the room. A flat screen television rests above a contemporary fireplace with a beautiful mantle made from what appears to be the same type of wood as the dining table. To my right, there are stairs leading up to a loft, which I can’t see from where I’m standing.
It’s beautiful, no denying it. But there’s something missing that I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Here,” he says, pulling me into the kitchen. “Let me see your hands.”
I drop my purse on the counter, my small date purse, and I mentally kick myself when I think of all the stuff I need in my bigger bag at home. Then I blame Danny, much preferring to kick him, instead. What a jackass!
I hold out my hands as I’m told, but I’m still gawking at the living room. He sighs impatiently, grabs my hands, and flips them over, palms up.
“These aren’t too bad. Let’s get them cleaned up.” He steps over to the sink, still holding my hands so that I have to follow, and then he turns on the water. “This might…”
“Ouch!” I jump.
“Sting a little.” He smiles, holding my hands beneath the warm tap, and running his fingers over the scrapes on both palms. Once he’s satisfied they’re clean, he turns off the water, and gently pats them dry with a paper towel. I watch him silently, a little touched by the care he’s taking, even though they’re just minor wounds.
“Here. Wait.” He says, opening a cabinet and reaching toward the back. He produces a small tube of ointment and squeezes a tad on each of my palms. Carefully, he smooths it in with the pad of his finger, rubbing soft circles around my open hands. I am hypnotized, and more than a little surprised that I find the whole thing kind of stimulating, erotic even. And then he does the unthinkable. He blows on my palms.
Kaboom! My crotch explodes. I can’t believe he just did that. And more, I can’t believe it turned me on like that. But it did. It really did.
“There,” he says, all sweet and sexy-like as he plasters the last Band-Aid on my hand.
“Well. Ahem.” I clear my throat, hoping it will clear my loins, as well. But it doesn’t. “Thank you, Dr. Stone.”
He smiles. “You’re welcome. Now, why don’t you show me your side? It’s purely medical, you know, since I’m a doctor and all. I won’t even touch you.”
I remember what he said to me outside about being safe and I frown.
“I promise. Scout’s honor.” He holds up three fingers to symbolize his pure intent.
“First of all, it’s not so much my side as it is my chest. And, I don’t really know you well enough to play doctor with you. And second, I think that’s the Girl Scout’s sign you’re making.”
“Oh,” he says, slowly lowering his fingers. “Well, I wasn’t really a Boy Scout anyway.”
“You don’t say?” I grin. “I would never have guessed.”
“Okay, since you won’t play doctor or Boy Scouts with me, how about something to drink? Water? Beer? A glass of wine?”
“Actually, a glass of wine sounds great.” Between the fear and the adrenaline, and the lusting, and the longing, and the thinking I’m going to die, I hope it might calm my frazzled nerves.
I watch him open another cabinet and reach up to get the glasses. His black button-up shirt rides up as he stretches and I can’t help but rest my eyes on his nice, round butt.
“See something you like?” He grins and I blush from head to toe, caught in the act of ogling. Conceited man!
I do a quick subject switch as he pours. “So, are you going to tell me how Danny is mixed up with this guy Everett or not?”
“Yes. I am.” He hands me a glass. “But first, let’s sit down and catch our breath.” He walks toward the living room. “Are you cold?”
“A little.” I take a sip of my wine, and then follow him. “Oh my gosh. This is really good.” I take another drink.
“You like it?” He takes a sip and nods. “Actually, I do, too. And, I’m not a big wine drinker. This is a Chateau Blanc.” He sits down beside me, picks up a remote from the mantle, presses a button, and voila! Fire.
“Oh,” I say, impressed that he knows the name of the wine. “If you’re not a big wine drinker, why do you have so much of it?” I glance back at the kitchen where I saw at least five or six more unopened bottles. I suspect they’re for innocent, naive little waifs like me.
“My boss,” he says, smiling. “He gave me a wine club membership for Christmas last year, and I get a new bottle every month.”
I giggle. “At least your boss gave you something for Christmas.”
“Why? Yours didn’t?”
“Well, yes, I guess they did. Let’s see. My boss at the chemical plant gave me a ham. My boss at the grocery store gave me a turkey, and my boss at King’s Pizza gave me coupons for pizza discounts.”
“Well, at least we know you’re well-fed. How many bosses do you have, anyway?”
“Just one now. I paid off my student loans last month and quit the other two. That’s why we were celebrating last night.”
“I see.” He takes another sip, sets his glass on the coffee table, and shifts around so that he’s facing me. “Okay. Detective Logan and Everett. Here’s what we know.”
I squirm around to face him, too, nodding excitedly like a child who’s about to hear their favorite bedtime story.
“We know that Everett has a lot of people on his payroll, people like cops, businessmen, even a couple of judges. A few favors here and there, maybe we could look the other way. But Logan is a key player. He’s in up to his eyeballs. He runs some of the card games in Hot Springs, a prostitution ring out of at least one of Everett’s night clubs, that we know of, and, as of late, seems to be expanding into narcotics.”
“Well that explains the Mercedes,” I mumble. Wait! I know where I saw that car! I gasp and almost spill my drink.
“What?” he asks, alarmed.
“His car! The Mercedes! I saw it the other nig
ht at the club. It was parked in the alley when I came outside. I knew I’d seen it before.”
“Are you sure it was his?”
I nod emphatically. “Yes. It has a police emblem hanging from the rear view mirror and it sparkled when I walked past it. Otherwise, I would never have noticed it.” I take another sip of wine, finishing off my glass.
“More?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He grabs the glass from my hand and heads back toward the kitchen.
“Um…sure,” I say, more to myself than to him. I sneak a peek at his butt again as he walks away, careful not to get caught this time. Stop it!
“You don’t know the half of it.” He continues from the kitchen. “And, that much money coming in means he has to find a way to clean it.”
“Clean it?” I imagine a laundry room with thousands of wet dollar bills hanging from a clothes line.
“Yeah. He has to have some way of explaining where it’s coming from. He certainly couldn’t afford his lifestyle on a cop’s salary. Believe me.”
“So, how does he go about cleaning it?” I suppose I am innocent, after all.
“That’s a little more complicated,” He hands me back my glass, filled now to the brim, and I wonder if he’s trying to get me drunk. “Most likely he’ll use shell corporations, front organizations, you know?”
“Mm Hm. Yes.” I nod as if I understand, but I really have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. “Like what?”
“Well, like a real estate consulting office that has no consultants, for one. And then there’s the shabby little one-bedroom house in the middle of downtown that he calls a rental property, but we all know is just a crack house. They can get really creative.”
I take another drink of wine, already feeling a little tipsy as I stare ahead at the fire. I’ve been chilled to the bone since we left the restaurant, and I’m only now starting to feel warm and cozy again. A big shiver runs through me as I remember the whole restaurant parking lot incident.
“You’re cold,” Cal says, as if I have committed a cardinal sin. “Wait here.”
He jumps up from the sofa before I can object and I watch him jog up the staircase and disappear into the loft above the fireplace.
“I’m actually just now starting to feel warm again.” I call after him, but it’s no use. He can’t hear me. I shrug, and take another sip of the excellent wine as I look around the room, trying to put my finger on what exactly seems out of place. Something.
I hear the sound of running water upstairs and decide that he must have popped into the shower. That’s odd. I stand up and take a slow turn around the room, exploring. It has to be the cleanest bachelor pad that I’ve ever seen, not that I’ve seen a lot. But I can’t imagine most men keeping a spotless house like this.
Almost guiltily, I run my finger across the top of the mantle and then inspect it. Nope. Not a speck of dirt anywhere. I know without a doubt, if anyone traced their finger across a piece of furniture in my house, they’d need to run it through a vacuum cleaner to get it clean again. I vow to dust as soon as I get home.
I hear Cal’s footsteps on the stairs again and I walk briskly back toward the sofa. Nope. I haven’t been snooping at all. I smile innocently as he reaches the landing.
He stops at the bottom of the stairs. “Here. Come with me.” He motions for me to join him.
“Um…” I hesitate, unsure of his intentions.
He grins wickedly, his caramel eyes sparkling with mischief. And then he goads me. “Surely, you aren’t afraid of me?”
“Afraid of you?” Bah! I laugh nervously. “Absolutely not! Why would I be afraid of you?” I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of what I might do to you given half the chance. And, I shaved my legs tonight!
“Well, come on then. Bring your glass with you.”
“Okay,” I agree, joining him on the landing. He takes my free hand, pulling me slowly up the stairs. All my senses are zeroed in on his hand in mine. It’s warm and firm, and it totally engulfs mine, making my palm all sweaty.
I clear my throat and give my head a little shake, hoping to gain some semblance of a level head. But immediately, I begin to imagine all the naughty things I would like for him to do to me with those big, strong sweaty hands of his. Who am I? Misty? Get a grip! The sound of running water gets louder and louder as we reach the top of the stairs.
“Holy cow!” I look around, stunned. The entire upper loft is a bedroom with only a couple of standing walls, which I assume are reserved for bathroom privacy. A large, king-size bed takes up a good deal of space. There’s no headboard, just a large painting on the wall above it. I point at it with my glass.
“I know that painting. It’s a Kandinsky,” I whisper, almost to myself. “Composition V.” I know relatively nothing about fine art, but we studied this piece in Art Appreciation class. I took it for the extra credits.
“Wow. You’re good. Don’t get too excited, though. It’s a reproduction. After all, I’m not Danny Logan,” he scoffs.
I continue to gawk around the room, taking in the dark, mahogany furniture, the extensive closet space, and the large, fuzzy area rug in the corner. Then I glance up, almost wetting myself. In the ceiling is the largest skylight I’ve ever seen in a personal residence, a clear, dark sky pictured perfectly and sprinkled with countless sparkling stars, extending across the entire side of the room.
“Oh my.” I look at Cal who is studying my reaction with a satisfied grin. I smile, confirming my absolute delight.
“Come on,” he says, still holding my hand and tugging it now toward the sound of the running water.
We step inside the bathroom, and immediately, I’m overcome by the sweet smell of lilac and other spices. But my eyes are drawn to a large, sunken tub full of hot, sudsy water, which I now gather is for my benefit. Or, is it for both of us?
I remember his words ‘Don’t worry. You’re safe.’ Surely he was telling me that he isn’t at all interested in me in that way. But his actions don’t seem to reflect that. Without thinking, I squeeze his hand, which I’m still holding. He squeezes mine back. Oh yeah. He’s interested.
“I thought a bath might warm you up and sooth any other aches or scrapes that you won’t let me look at.” He grins and releases my hand, moving to the tub to turn off the water.
“That does sound good, actually.”
He looks me over slowly, and I hold my breath, wondering if he plans to stay and watch me undress. “I’ll give you some privacy then,” he says and walks to the door. I start breathing again.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a bit awkward, shy even. I am not normally a bashful person, but for some reason, he makes me really nervous.
Thankfully, he leaves and I waste no time peeling off my clothes so I can disappear beneath the bubbles. I step down slowly into the warm, soothing water, sitting down carefully while I hold up my hair. Only a ponytail holder or a hair clip could make it any more perfect. Drat! There’s one in my purse downstairs.
“Ahh…” I sit back against the wall of the tub, letting the healing water and the soapy suds do their job. The pain in my chest is totally gone, and I forget all about my hair, letting it fall across my shoulders as I reach for my wine glass. A girl could definitely get used to this kind of treatment.
Chapter Eleven
I face the fact that I’m totally knackered, something that my eyelids have apparently already accepted since I’m struggling to keep them open. But a rap on the door jerks me wide awake. I gasp and sink down as far I can into the tub, my eyes as large as globes.
“Yes?” I croak.
The door opens a crack. “If you don’t want me to see it, you’d better cover it up,” Cal says matter-of-factly.
“Oh!” I use my arms to scrape all the bubbles I can around my neck.
He steps in carrying an armful of fresh towels and washcloths, careful not to look directly at me as he places them on the counter. I notice he’s taken off his socks and shoes and, for some strange reason, I fi
nd the sight of his bare feet quite thrilling.
“Here’s some towels. Sorry. But, like I said, I don’t get a lot of company out here.” He looks up, suddenly freezing as his eyes lock onto mine in the large, steamy mirror. Then I watch as slowly they travel down the length of the sudsy tub and back up to my face again, smoldering, desiring. Oh my. That’s hot. My breath catches.
“It’s fine,” I finally say, feeling almost guilty for not screaming at him to get out.
He pauses a few seconds longer than he probably means to, still staring at me in the mirror. I feel sure that he’s going to turn around and get in with me, and then take me right here in the bathtub. And even more surprising, I want him to.
“I’ve laid out some things for you on the bed,” he says suddenly, and walks out, closing the door lightly behind him.
What the hell?
I finish up my bath quickly after that, using the large fluffy towel he brought to wrap around myself when I’m dry. Gathering up my clothes, I open the door leading back out to Cal’s bedroom.
On the bed, he’s laid out what I assume is a pair of his sweats and a soft, cotton T-shirt. I place my dirty clothes on a chair in the corner, and then, sadly, I realize that I have no clean underwear. I hold my panties in my hand, debating whether or not to put them back on given the solid workout that I’ve given them tonight. I shake my head and stuff them carefully into the pocket of my jeans on the chair. Best to go au’ natural.
I climb down the stairs slowly, holding my empty wine glass in one hand and the waistline of his sweats with my other. Even with the waist tie, they still feel loose and I couldn’t bear the embarrassment of tumbling down his stairs should they fall around my ankles. But I’m most self-conscious about the shirt. I debated for a full minute whether to put my bra back on before finally deciding not to. I am now questioning that decision. Barely a C-cup, I’m careful not to bounce or jiggle as I step down the last few stairs.
I see him as soon as I hit the landing. The room is dimmer now, lit mainly by the glow of the fireplace, the television, and a small lamp in the far corner. Cal sits on the sofa holding a remote, his legs and bare feet stretched out across the sofa. He stares at me silently.