by Tessa Bailey
Katie trots towards me on the sidewalk, making her small tits jiggle underneath her tank top. The wind sends that red hair flying off behind her and I can already feel it wrapped around my fingers. Feel it rubbing down my stomach and catching on my thigh hair. Most times, I would be well on my way to reaching that portion of the evening with a girl. Instead, I’m walking her to the park. There’s a first time for everything, I guess.
Not like I’d had much choice if I wanted to keep hanging out with her, since she doesn’t go to bars. Doesn’t go to bars. Where I tend to close my nights. Every night, lately. Meaning she’s not a drinker. A good girl. It was right there in her denim eyes that she has a good damn reason for not wasting hours in watering holes. So God knows that should have been my cue to bail the second she dropped that information, but I still stood there. Waiting for her to choose me. Why?
I have no idea if I’m good for this kind of activity anymore. Park walks. Small talk. In high school, I focused more energy on dates. Hanging out with girls when the focus wasn’t on getting each other into the sack. Around sixteen, sex became a given and I loved it. I listened to the johns talking. I paid attention to my mother’s friends discussing their customers and I learned how to murder in bed. It kind of gave me a sense of . . . value. And there didn’t seem like anything wrong with that when everyone around me was living with that same sense.
I’m good at . . . fucking. No, I’m a great fuck. Do I have other skills? Sure, I can entertain any crowd with a tried and true set of card tricks and the occasional arm wrestling competition. But beyond that, I’m not sure what I think I can bring to the table with Katie.
Katie hasn’t offered too many details about herself, but here is what I’ve gleaned. She’s organized. Those little dog-eared pages in her mob hits book and the way she sealed her camera neatly in its case tell me so. She’s got a sense of humor, but doesn’t use it to flirt. At least not with me. Murder is her jam. Her eyes make my stomach hurt.
And she’s got a great rack.
What do I have going for me? Obviously she doesn’t give a shiny rat’s ass about my devastating good looks. I might be able to impress her by mentioning I’m training to be a police officer, but something tells me she would cut through my bullshit and see the academy is just a necessary evil for me. That it’s not something I’m proud of, unlike my fellow recruits. Getting my badge is just a way to pay the rent and help my mother out with grocery money. If I hadn’t lost a bet to Danika and gotten stuck enrolling, I would have found another way to make ends meet. I always have.
It frustrates the hell out of Danika and our other roommate, Charlie—whose father and brother are big dogs in the department—that I don’t take training seriously. That I show up with a vodka buzz half the time and waltz through the drills like a sleepwalker on Ambien. Maybe I just don’t see the point. A room full of shithead twentysomethings are preparing to call themselves New York’s Finest and I can’t relate to being confident in anything beyond bedroom and parlor tricks. I’m there. I’m training. But I never actually feel present. It seems like an elaborate dream to me, the halogen lights and drills and sweatpants. I’m not meant for it. I’m not sure I’m meant for anything at all but a good time.
Katie catches up with me on the sidewalk, her thumbs looped under her backpack straps. I’ve got a good eight inches on her and since I’m the furthest thing from a saint, I let my attention drop to the edge of her tank top. My body responds to the sight of her breasts swelling against the white cups of her bra and I swallow a groan, aching for the feel of them in my palms.
I’m seriously attracted to this girl. More attracted than I’ve been to anyone in my memory. I’m also anxious to stop pretending I’m the kind of guy who chaperones an innocent out-of-towner to the park and find a flat surface where I remind myself what I’m good for, just for a while.
“So . . . do you live around here?”
Katie looks up at me a split second after I take my eyes off her cleavage. Close call. “Not anymore. I grew up here, but I live on the East Side.”
“Oh, I think that’s where I’m staying.” She’s like a curious meerkat, ducking and shooting up onto her toes to look into the shops we pass. Her camera is back out and she’s taking pictures of damn near everything in sight. “I just flew in this afternoon and I haven’t really gotten my bearings yet, but the hotel is somewhere around the UN. Is that east?”
“Yeah.” I edge closer to Katie as two men pass by us on the sidewalk. Would she have done this walk to the park alone if I hadn’t come along with her? I’m not sure I like that idea at all. No, I definitely don’t like it. “Are you here in New York by yourself, Snaps?”
She pulls to a stop and blinks up at me. “Snaps?”
“On account of you taking literally one picture per second.”
Her whole face brightens with a smile. And then she keeps walking.
Feeling . . . bemused? I jog to keep up. “Look, I’m not saying women aren’t capable of taking care of themselves, but it’s almost nighttime and you don’t know this town. Some precautions might be in order.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“But you’re ignoring it.”
“Yes.” We’re a block away from the park now and I can see it’s empty, except for one old man in a ball cap feeding the pigeons. I’m trying to decide on another tactic to keep this cute-as-a-button redhead from getting mugged while she’s in New York, when she cuts off my uncharacteristically noble line of thought. “Tell me a story about this park. If you grew up here, you must have one.”
Is she really so confident in my ability to entertain her with my memories and thoughts? The idea both pleases me and makes me nervous. “Sure.” I scratch at my sideburns, a series of images and sounds flickering in my head. “All right. Some of the locals used to have chess tournaments in the park.” I squint an eye and point off into the distance, rubbing our shoulders together in the process. “At those tables near the basketball court. Only six or so regulars would be allowed to play and the same dude won every time. Isaiah. They had like a . . . trophy of sorts the winner would take custody of, but it was really just some knife carvings on a plaque.”
We reach the corner across from the park and I slide an arm across Katie’s shoulders. Maybe I do it because I don’t usually go this long without touching the girl I’m interested in. Or maybe I’ve designated myself as the one looking after her tonight and the responsibility is making my palms sweat. I don’t know. But I do it and she stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.
“Anyway . . .” I let the oxygen in my lungs seep out slowly. “Same guy won the chess tournament again, only the loser didn’t feel like being gracious for the hundredth damn time. So he tossed the plaque into the back of a passing garbage truck.”
“No,” she breathes. “Terrible sportsmanship, that.”
“Terrible.” God, the fluid, husky way she talks is addictive. As soon as I’m finished with this story, I’m done talking so I can listen to all her, all the time. “So off goes the winner, chasing after the garbage truck and his beloved plaque. He manages to stop the truck after four blocks, but the compactor has already mangled it.”
She shoots me some narrow-eyed suspicion. “Is this going to make me cry?”
“If it does, be forewarned that a woman’s tears have no effect on me. Sob a brand-new river straight through the city. I’m completely immune.”
“Is that true?”
“Hell no, it’s not true. I’d curl into a fetal position and beg for mercy.”
Her laugh tickles straight through my bones. “Better make it a happy ending, then.”
I let out a slow whistle. “Isaiah walked back to the park with the mangled plaque and the runner-up helped him put it back together?”
“Oh no, you don’t, liar.” She gasps and pokes me in the ribs. “You changed the ending. I want the real one or I will launch a formal protest.”
“With who? The storytellers’ union?”
&nbs
p; “Yes.” She giggles through the word and I realize two things. I’m doing all right here. Not a single drink in me. No expectation of sex. Yet. And I’m doing fine. I’m not sure how long I can keep it up, though. We’ve been walking for only five minutes and already my heart is starting to hammer, my tongue feeling thick. I want a drink. I want Katie spreading her legs for me in bed. I want the high of feeling useful I only get from giving pleasure.
“Uh . . .” I tug on the string of my hoodie, forcing myself to chill the fuck out. But seriously. What am I doing here? Walking with this girl who giggles and wears a backpack. Trying to pull off the long game. Why? What is it about her that’s got my chest so tight? “Okay, here’s the real ending. Don’t say I didn’t try to soften the blow.”
We walk into the park and she eases away from me, turning in a circle to take in the scenery and, I swear to Christ, for a second I really believe she’s a mirage and I’m imagining the whole thing. “Fair enough. I’m prepared for the worst.”
“Isaiah fell down a manhole on his way back to the park.”
The old man feeding the pigeons on the bench behind me hums. Mmm-hmm. Probably because he was sitting in the same spot a decade ago and witnessed the whole thing.
Katie is staring at me as though the fate of mankind is in my hands. “Did Isaiah survive the fall?”
“He did.” I ease the backpack off of Katie’s shoulders because it looks heavy and I decide I should be holding it for her. She doesn’t even seem aware I’m removing it, she’s so intent on the story’s ending. “He would have landed on a subway gear switch, but the plaque blocked it from sticking him in the ribs.”
Her nod is slow. “So the moral of the story is, it’s okay to be a shite loser.”
“No, the moral of the story is this city has hidden dangers and you shouldn’t be exploring it all by yourself.”
I take the camera from her hand and snap a picture of her adorable outrage. Which makes her bristle even more. “How dare you try to teach me a lesson when I’m on holiday.”
Time for more cajoling. I tilt my head to one side, slipping into a contrite smile. “Forgive me, Snaps? I only have your best interest at heart.”
“How did you fit my best interest in there with all the lies knocking about?”
“Persistence.”
Our fingers brush as she takes her camera back. “I’ll be keeping my head around the likes of you, Jack.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I don’t like the touch of worry I see trickle into her expression as she leads the way farther into the park, but I follow anyway, wanting her more with every step.
Chapter 3
Katie
If I’m not mistaken, Jack is the Big Bad Wolf and I’m Little Red Riding Hood.
Or at least that’s how I’m feeling as he saunters along behind me in the rapidly falling evening. It’s strange. One second I feel safe as houses with him. The next, I wonder if he’s deciding how best to prepare me for his supper.
I’m picturing myself trussed up like a turkey when the wind begins to kick up, sending goosebumps prickling up my arms. There’s a cardigan in my backpack but Jack is carrying the feckin’ thing and I’d have to stand there and dig it out while he holds it open in his big hands. And then I’d essentially be required to don clothing in front of him, which is basically, seriously way too close to intercourse to even consider. Slide on my cardigan under his watchful green eyes? We might as well be stretched out in my hotel bed doing the bloody business.
Where did that thought come from?
I must be jet-lagged. That’s why I’m picturing Jack above me, half of his amazing face lit by the lamp on my hotel side table. No. No no no. I can no more tell this man I’m a virgin who’s been locked in a firing range for four years than I can recite the ancient Greek alphabet. And I would have to tell him. Anything else wouldn’t be proper behavior. While I might be on a rebellious streak, I can’t set aside every ounce of politeness and Catholic guilt that has been hammered into me for years.
He could help me check an item off my Katie Conquers New York list.
As soon as I consider the notion, I discard it. Jack would chew up the likes of me and spit me out. I glance over my shoulder and find him watching me, as if chewing and spitting is exactly what he has in mind. Maybe some flambéing and glazing while he’s at it.
But then. Then he frowns at my shivering, unzips my backpack and pulls out my cardigan, holding it out for me to take. “If that’s not enough, you can have my sweatshirt.”
“Oh.” Lord does it sound lovely, the chance to be swallowed up by his rich scent, but I can’t. That would pretty much be like, double intercourse. And I’m back to being confused over whether Jack is the Big Bad Wolf . . . or a sheep in wolf’s clothing. “Ah, th-this’ll do. Thanks,” I say, taking the cardigan.
Watching me closely, he nods, before zipping the pack once more and casually tossing it over one wide shoulder. “So where did this hit go down? Talk to me, Snaps.”
“Right.” I whip the mob hit book from my back pocket, lick my index finger and flip to the correct page. “This one was more quick than brutal. It happened in broad daylight during the mid-eighties and the victim was . . .” After studying the black-and-white crime scene photo a moment, I turn and point back towards the benches. “He was found over there, single GSW to the left temple. Witnesses claim the perpetrator walked with a severe limp. Therefore, the rumor was that local baddie Frank Donahue was the shooter, but no one in the neighborhood would confirm which of the shooter’s legs was bad, putting the kibosh on that theory. And then the witnesses changed their stories altogether, probably afraid of retaliation or being called a snitch. So technically it went unsolved.”
Jack appears to be holding his laughter. “Technically?”
“Well . . .” I drop my voice to a whisper. “It wouldn’t be difficult to fake a limp if you wanted to frame someone obvious. Someone the police would already suspect. I’m just putting it out there, mind you.”
“Jesus. This is exactly why you need me with you on this little holiday in the city.”
Him be my guide? When had that subject been broached? “I don’t follow.”
“Going around, stirring up old homicide investigations. Throwing out new, dangerous theories.” He bites his bottom lip, dragging his green eyes from my feet to the tip of my head. “You need me along for the ride. I can’t have you ending up in the updated version of that book.”
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “And you would be willing to throw yourself into harm’s way for a mere stranger?”
Silence glimmers between us. “Yeah, I think I might.” His boots fall heavy on the asphalt as he comes closer. Close enough that I have to tip my head back. “And you won’t be a stranger too much longer, will you?”
Languid, purple—I’m guessing on the color—heat billows in my tummy, reaching down to my knees and loosening them. Feckin’ hell. It’s settled. He’s the Big Bad Wolf and while, yes, I am quite clearly attracted to Jack—who wouldn’t be?—this burning he kicks off inside me is far too bright. Too intense.
I’ve had none of the experiences most twenty-five-year-old women are meant to have at this point in their lives. There was no time after the tragedy. After my father tunneled all his focus into the Olympic trials. Maybe Jack sensed that I would be an easy conquest? Something in my gut tells me he wouldn’t do that, but damn, I don’t have the experience to be sure.
It doesn’t help that I’m suspicious by nature and I’m fascinated with true crime.
Doesn’t help whatsoever.
“Em. I don’t think a bodyguard is necessary.” Pretending to be engrossed once more in my book, I back away from the magnetic presence of Jack. “Didn’t you know people fear the wrath of the redhead? My hair protects me wherever I go.”
“Or it makes you more recognizable,” he mutters. “Is this all you plan to do while visiting? Tour old crime scenes?”
“Oh no, i
t’s only one item on the list.”
The second the words are out of my mouth, I know I shouldn’t have let them loose. No one knows about the list, save myself. It’s tucked into the back pages of the book in my hands, flat as a pancake and unseen by human eyes. It might as well be my diary, it’s so personal. But I know when Jack’s eyebrows lift and his devilish mouth curves, I’m not getting away without an explanation. Not without some effort. “List?”
“Shopping list. I love a good sale. Did you know that about me?”
“Try again.”
“Grocery list. I have wheat allergy so I have to stock my hotel room with food. It’s very inconvenient, but I’ve gotten used to it.”
“That was pretty good, but I’m still not convinced.” He crosses his arms. “What list?”
I clomp over to a bench and drop down onto it, noticing that the pigeon-feeding man has gone home for the day, leaving Jack and me alone in the empty, now dark, park. Even though I’ve decided he’s a wolf, I’m still not nervous for some reason. Thinking maybe I should be and my sheltered upbringing has made me less perceptive of danger, I do a quick scan behind the park’s perimeter bars, confirming there is a decent amount of foot traffic, plus one hot dog vendor I could call out to if I was in trouble.
When I return my attention to Jack, there’s a furrow between his brows, as if he knows my thoughts. “Hey. We can go somewhere more out in the open if you want, Snaps.”
The memory of him walking away, prepared to leave me outside the bar sails past. He might be seductive, but he’s not aggressive. “I’m grand. You want to sit?”
He falls onto the bench beside me like a prince draping himself over a throne, one arm stretched along the back, his fingers just shy of brushing my neck. The heat of them alone makes me shiver, along with Jack’s steady eyes. “Tell me.”
“It’s silly—” I stop myself. “No, actually, it’s not silly. I have a list of things I want to do during the two weeks I’m in New York. They’re not big, world-shattering accomplishments. It’s more for a bit of fun. I haven’t had fun in a long time.” I sense his fingertips creeping close to my nape and hurry to speak out of pure nerves. “That’s not to say you should feel sorry for me, Jack. I’m fine.”