Joe stood still a moment, watching them go. Then he turned to Alyssa. “You OK?”
“Yeah,” she said, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering with cold and tension. “Just freezing.” She smiled, and could feel her teeth chattering. She’d really thought he was going to fight. Three guys.
He unzipped the heavy jacket and handed it to her. “Put this on.” He watched her struggle with the zipper for a minute, her fingers too shaky for the task, then brushed her hands aside and zipped the jacket for her as if she were a child. Then he took off the helmet and gave her that, too. “I don’t have another one with me. Wear this.”
She hefted the weight of it. “Uh, Joe. I can’t ride a motorcycle. Maybe you could just wait for a cab with me.”
“You don’t have to ride a motorcycle,” he said. “I’ll do the riding. You just have to hold on.”
“I mean . . .” She tried again. “I’m wearing a short skirt.”
“I noticed.” He smiled suddenly, surprising her. “Looks good.”
She laughed back in relief, so glad that he wasn’t mad at her for hauling him over here, for putting him in this situation. “Well, thanks. But . . .”
He took the helmet right out of her hands, fitted it over her head. “Let’s go.” He walked over to the bike, swung a long leg over so he was straddling the machine, planted his feet and held out a hand to her. “Put your foot on the peg and swing on.”
She took his hand, tried to forget the fact that her underwear was of the barely-there variety, found the footrest he was talking about. Stepped onto it with one sandaled toe, abandoned all modesty, hitched up her skirt, and swung.
Joe pulled out into the street, trying to calm himself down. The residue from the flood of adrenaline had made him shaky, to his disgust, while having Alyssa pressed against his back, her hands holding onto his shoulders, her thighs so close to his own . . . that had him reeling in a different direction. As always with her, he’d lost the balance he worked so hard to maintain. Lost it entirely.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever moved faster than he had when she’d called. He’d been miles deep into the knotty problem that had kept him at his desk hours after everyone else had left, grateful for the chance to work without interruption. He’d been spending far too much of his time on the administrative side of the business with Alec and Rae both gone for the week, and that was on top of the normal back and forth with his staff of programmers. He’d needed to get something done.
But the complicated subroutine he’d spent hour after patient hour debugging had flown from his head the moment his phone had chimed and he’d looked down at his desktop to see her name on the screen. He’d been moving out of his chair when he picked it up, out of the office by the time he’d hung up, had broken a speed limit or two and done some pretty aggressive lane-splitting to get to her.
But he’d made it, he reminded himself now. He’d made it, though he still wished those dirtbags had stuck around to get their asses kicked. Probably for the best, though he was having trouble believing it. It had felt like such a good idea at the time.
He had the feeling that he needed to do something else now, though, something besides just taking Alyssa home. He tried his best not to be sensitive, not if he could help it, but he could tell how scared she’d been. It had been there in the stiffness of her posture, her jerky steps when she’d come out to meet him with those three assholes behind her. When he got scared, he wanted to forget about it as fast as possible. But women didn’t. They wanted to talk about it. What they didn’t want was to go home and be scared some more there, alone.
And anyway, he didn’t want Alyssa to be scared anywhere. If talking would help, she should talk.
He swung over to the curb once he’d turned onto Haight, the street still buzzing even after midnight. He eased the bike to a stop and twisted around so he could talk to her. “Maybe we should go warm up. Have some coffee. Or tea,” he suggested. Women liked tea, especially when they were upset.
“Tea would be great,” she said from beneath the helmet, shivering now that she wasn’t pressed against his back. He could see the goosebumps on the smooth, bare thigh that lay against his own. She had to be half-frozen. He knew he was.
“Swing off, then,” he instructed, and knew he shouldn’t be sorry that he didn’t have a good enough view when she did. She pulled the helmet off, and he took it from her, locked it with the bike, and took her into the cheerful café, painted lime green inside and decorated with some artist’s unframed abstract paintings, blocks of bold swirls and deep color. The space was thankfully warm and half-empty, and he led her to a booth in the back, farthest from the chill of the doorway, ordered her a tea and himself a cup of coffee, then sat and looked at her for a minute.
She unzipped his jacket as her tight muscles relaxed in the warmth, took it off and laid it over her lap, over her chilled legs. But once she’d done it, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and hugged herself.
It was no wonder she was cold. The little coat she had on wasn’t doing much, and the sweater she was wearing underneath it was . . . Well, it was a sweater, but it wasn’t exactly designed for warmth. Ruby red, which would have been enough right there, but there was more. It was the part that wrapped around somehow from the back to form a collar that really did the business. The band that encircled her neck, fastened with two more little buttons above the vee of smooth skin beneath.
That choker of vivid red around her throat, it was . . . it was working. Combined with the short skirt and high heels, the shiny dark hair swinging to her shoulders, she was a walking fantasy. And thinking of her alone in the Tenderloin like that—it wasn’t a good thought.
“You have hair,” she said as soon as she’d warmed up enough to talk.
He smiled at her. “Better? Or no?”
“Hmm.” She smiled a little herself, and he was glad to see it. “Yeah. Better.”
He rubbed his hand over his stubbled cheek. “Should I shave, too?”
“No,” she said immediately. “No, if you’re asking me.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m asking you.”
The waitress brought their drinks, and Alyssa thanked her, polite even now, then sat and wrapped both hands around the cup for a minute, warming herself.
“What happened?” he finally asked. “Going to tell me?”
She hesitated a moment, looked down and picked up her spoon, did some stirring, even though she hadn’t put anything into her tea. “You’re going to think I was stupid,” she said at last. “And I’m really glad you came to get me. I’m sorry you had to rescue me. Again. I know, it keeps happening over and over, and I’m sorry, and I haven’t even said thank you. Those guys were . . . I didn’t know what was going to happen. When you came . . . “ He could see her swallow, could watch it happen all the way down the delicate line of her throat, all the way to that strip of red. “I was so glad to see you,” she said, and her voice broke, and he needed to hold her.
“But why were you there?” he asked instead. “Were you out with friends? Did they leave you there? What?”
“No,” she said, and then she stopped, and he could see the reluctance.
“Alyssa.” This time he did reach out, took her hand where it lay on the table, and held it. It was cold, still, and he wrapped his own hand gently around it, felt her squeezing back, and he was filled with . . . something. “Just tell me.”
So she did. She told him, and she pulled her hand out of his so she could use her hands to talk, because with Alyssa, her voice wasn’t enough, her face and her hands and her body all had to get into the act too, and he could see her getting mad all over again while she explained.
“I thought he was kind of a jerk already,” she finished. “And when he started in like that, so smug, so sure that life was so easy, I just wanted to hit him. It wasn’t even that I disagreed with everything he said. I know the way things are handled now—not handled, more like, isn’t working, that there need to be better ways to d
eal with homelessness. I know that. I hear about former foster kids being homeless practically every day. It was just the contempt. The way he was so sure it could never happen to him. It made my blood boil. I mean, literally, I was boiling. You know how I am,” she said with an apologetic laugh.
“I do. I know that you get it. You get that people can fall on hard times. And that some people are just . . . lost.”
“You can’t grow up as a PK and not know that. But doesn’t everybody know that, at least a little bit? Shouldn’t everybody know that?”
Yeah, a Preacher’s Kid would know that, he guessed. “People should,” he said. “They should know life can be hard, even if it’s never been hard for them. Not like the evidence isn’t right there in front of them.”
“Was it hard for you?” She asked it quietly, her face still for once, her gaze intent. She’d seen the crack he’d opened in the door, had picked right up on it, and he wanted to slam it shut again, but he couldn’t, because she was holding him right here.
“Yes.” He thought about saying more, and didn’t even know how to start. He wanted to run, and he didn’t do that either. Just sat there, big and dumb, and waited.
Her eyes searched his, and when he didn’t say any more, she sighed, took another sip of her tea, and the moment passed.
“So you didn’t hit him,” he said, trying to remember what they had been talking about.
“No. I jumped out of the car instead,” she said, and she laughed. “You should have seen him. I left the car door open. Wide open, so he had to run around to shut it, and everyone was honking. It was great.”
He laughed out loud himself. “I’ll bet a girl’s never ditched him like that, like she couldn’t wait to get away from him.”
“I hope it was memorable,” she said. “I hope it hurt his pride, at least. But I could have chosen my moment better. I should have waited until he’d got to a better neighborhood. I didn’t think ahead. As usual.”
“Well, you did the right thing. You got someplace safe and called me.”
“I was worried you’d be asleep.”
“Nah. I was still at work, actually. That’s why I had to bring the bike.”
“At midnight on Friday night? You were at work?”
“I got an idea,” he tried to explain. “I didn’t realize it was midnight. Time can go by.”
“Yes,” she teased, sparkling again, because Alyssa could go through three moods while he was still figuring out the first one. “I know it can. You get a little wrapped up.”
“I do. I’m good at concentrating.”
And right now, despite everything, he wanted to concentrate on her. He could imagine exactly how he’d do it. He wanted his hands around that red band on her throat. Gently, just holding her there. He wanted to unbutton those two little buttons holding it together, watch the two strips of red fall down her back. Somehow, exposing her throat like that would be like undressing her. And then, kissing her there. Putting her down onto his bed, lowering her until she was under him, her head back, and his mouth was at that throat. And then he’d get to work on the rest of her. Slowly. He wanted to do it. He wanted to do it now.
She looked down, picked up her spoon, set it down, and he realized he was staring. He dropped his own gaze, picked up his coffee cup and drained it, even though it had grown tepid.
“When you came,” she said, “I thought you were really going to beat those guys up. I thought you really could.”
“Well, yeah, I could have,” he said with surprise and not a little indignation. “Why, you don’t think I can fight? I may be a programmer now, but I still know how to fight.”
“But how do you fight three guys?”
“You hit them first. And you don’t hold back. And one of them always runs.”
“Yeah,” she said with a reminiscent smile. “One of them would have run for sure.”
“Plus,” he pointed out, “I was the guy with the helmet.”
“That’s right. You were. I wondered why you didn’t take it off.”
“Big advantage in a fight. Get your head protected, you can do a lot of damage, and you limit their options. Helmet, leather jacket, I was all set. I was just sorry I wasn’t wearing boots.”
“Mmm,” she said. “Stomping would have been good.”
“It would have. Real good. But the best fight’s the one you don’t have. I figured they’d back down. Although I was kind of hoping they wouldn’t.”
“I would have got cold, waiting for you to get done,” she said, smiling happily back at him.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
She lifted her delicate eyebrows. “You’d have been done that fast?”
“Yep. Kick their asses and take you on out of there.”
She shut her eyes for a moment, shivered a little, and he realized it was after one in the morning, that she was cold and tired. “Come on,” he said, pulling out his wallet and tossing a twenty down on the table. “Let’s go. Get you home.”
“More indecent motorcycling,” she said, sliding out of the booth and standing up, lifting the heavy jacket and searching for the sleeve. “I’ve never even known you had a motorcycle, you realize that? Why is that?”
“Why would you? Just how I get to work. And here.” He took the jacket from her, held it while she slid her arms inside.
“Joe.” She sighed. “It’s a hot-guy thing to have, don’t you know that? Don’t you know women like that?”
He smiled. He knew it. He zipped the jacket for her again, because he’d liked doing it the first time. And he liked the way it looked, miles too big, hanging down to her hips, a skimpy few inches of skirt below, and then all that smooth bare leg. It was easy to imagine that she was naked under there, and he had a sudden image of her wearing his jacket and nothing else, of unzipping it, slowly, the black leather falling away, uncovering her. Of cupping her breasts in his palms, the delicious weight of them in his hands, the way she’d arch into him when he did it, when his thumbs started to move. And then pulling her against him, with her naked under that jacket, the way she’d press into him, trying to get closer. Sliding his hands under her, his fingers digging into the curve of her ass, feeling those long legs wrapping around him as he pulled her off her feet, backed her against the wall.
Out of control. His mind was seriously out of control, he was standing there like a fool, and she was staring at him. He tried to think of something to say, and failed. Turned and led the way out of the café.
Back to his bike, unlocking the helmet and watching her put it on, climbing onto the bike and steadying it as she got on behind him, held his shoulders, pressed tight against his back, and he rode to her apartment, talking to himself the whole way, fighting hard.
Kick their asses and take you on out of there.
She’d thought she was going to have an embarrassing moment right there in the café. The way he’d looked when he said it, so sure, so tough . . . he was every fantasy she’d ever had. A fantasy whose head was covered with a stubble of brown hair, now. Barely military-short after just a few weeks, but she’d been right, it looked better. He still looked tough, but he looked more handsome, too. He looked good.
He’d asked her if he should do it, and she’d said yes, and he’d done it. He’d grown his hair, and she thought he might have done it for her.
She snuggled up into him as they rode, and she wasn’t kidding herself it was for warmth. If she’d dared, she’d have wrapped her arms around him, but despite the speed with which he’d come to get her, the way he’d taken her to warm up, had encouraged her to talk it out with a thoughtfulness that had made her melt, she still had no reason to believe that he wanted her the way she wanted him.
Maybe, though. She’d thought there had been something back there. Surely she couldn’t be the only one feeling this way. So when he pulled up in front of her apartment building a few minutes later, got off the bike and walked her to her door, she tried.
“Well . . . thanks again,” she said, unz
ipping the jacket and handing it to him, watching him shrug it on and zip it again, wanting to do it for him the way he’d done it for her.
Or, more like, wanting to step into him while it was still unzipped, so she could feel him against her when he kissed her. The size of him, the heat of him. She wanted to put her arms around him, reach under the collar of the jacket, feel that ridge of muscle at his shoulder, stroke the back of his neck. While he kissed her. No, scratch that. While he kissed her hard, like he couldn’t stand not to do it. While he pushed her into the wall of the apartment building just because he had to, because he wanted her backed up like that. She wanted him hard and fierce, the way she’d seen him tonight. She wanted all that focused intensity aimed at her.
“Thanks for rescuing me,” she said. “Again. I know I’m high-maintenance.”
“Mmm,” he said. “Luckily, I’m good at maintenance.”
“Oh.” That had her melting just that much more, and she swayed towards him.
“Alyssa,” he said.
“What?” she breathed, her heart pounding.
He gave her his crooked grin. “My helmet.”
“Oh.” She tugged the thing off her head, handed it to him, and he hefted it in one big hand.
And, when she still stood there, he took the keys from her, found the dull brass one for the front door with an unerring hand, because he’d helped her move, just like her brother, and put it in the lock and turned it. He shoved the heavy glass door open, propped it with his foot while he pulled the key out again and handed the bunch back to her.
“Go inside,” he said, shifting a hand, his foot so he was holding the door for her now. “You’re dead on your feet.”
What choice did she have, after that? She obeyed, heard the heavy door swinging shut behind her, turned and watched him pull the black helmet over his head, turn and go back to the curb for his bike. He straddled the heavy black machine, kicked forward to release the kickstand as the powerful engine started, raised a hand to her in farewell while she still stood, watching. And then he was gone.
And damn it. She’d done every single thing she could think of. She’d paused. She’d jingled her keys. She’d given him every signal a woman could possibly send, and still nothing. He’d come to get her when she’d been in trouble, had rescued her the same way Alec would have. Like a brother, and that was it. That was all.
Asking for Trouble (The Kincaids) Page 11