by Kat Bastion
My pulse quickened. My breaths shallowed. He stood mere inches away, and I swore I felt the heat of his body, smelled the incredible scent of his skin.
“Ummm…” Yeah. Stalling didn’t take the pain of humiliation away. It only prolonged it. When dealing with Band-Aids, experts recommended a brave ripping over cowardly peeling.
“I might have called you sex on a stick. Once.”
His eyes widened. The corners of his mouth twitched. He pulled away from the wall, evening his weight on both legs…presumably to not topple over. Then he barked out laughter.
I frowned. “Not funny.”
“Nope.” He struggled to regain his composure. “That shit’s hilarious.”
On a huff, I turned away from him, squaring my shoulders against the cold brick wall. Then I stared up at the high-raftered ceiling, searching for my patience somewhere up in those metal girders. “Was a long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“Ancient.” Sudden déjà vu hit me. We’d had the same dialog. Only it had been about the last time I’d had sex. Wonderful.
“Nice outfit, by the way.” His tone softened. The humor left his eyes but a steady warmth remained.
Pulling my drink away from my chest, I glanced down at my outfit. Chrome beading covered the thin strap of a tank top that disappeared under a faded black sweatshirt. My knees stuck out of the holes of acid-washed and majorly shredded 501’s. I’d had to wear sensible black underwear that covered my ass, since another one of those shred-holes ventilated just under my left butt cheek. Strappy metallic-leather stilettos let my lilac-painted toenails peek out.
“Thanks.” I let out a relieved breath, then smiled at him. “I was going for Flashdance.”
“Achieved.”
For the first time all night, I appraised his outfit. The one he’d texted me about earlier. Tee, jeans, boots. Yeah. Not a damn thing boring about it. Probably because of who was in it.
“You look good too.” Weak. My nonchalant tone sounded believable, though.
He didn’t seem to care. Just scanned the crowd again.
The reprieve gave me a chance to collect myself: to try to be unaffected by how close we stood, ignore the butterflies dancing in my stomach—the slow heat spreading downward from my flushed face…settling between my legs into a delicious ache.
I swallowed hard. Then downed the rest of my drink.
“This would be a great place to show your art.” He crossed his arms, scanning the room.
“Yeah.” I’d initially thought so too. Relaxing back, with the ball of one foot propped on the wall, I examined the space from an artist’s eye. Rusted I-beams supported the massive roof. The concrete floor had been burnished with an acid treatment, rich reddish-brown and black swirls covering the roughed surface. Exposed brick lined only the wall we leaned against. Along the back and across from us, ivory plaster served as a backdrop for giant black-and-white photographs that matched the industrial theme. All were prized collector pieces, historical photos from atop skyscrapers and bridges in various stages of construction.
“Don’t sound so thrilled.” He glanced at me, brows raised. “Aren’t you in another gallery?”
I huffed out a held breath, wincing inwardly—I hoped. I felt as if my brave face was failing. “Yeah.”
When Kristen had told me the party was for a new gallery opening, I thought I could handle it. No biggie. Been to plenty of art exhibitions.
My opening in December had been the high point of my life. Hopes and dreams had been pinned to that one night. And it had been a wild success.
But in the months that followed, it had twisted into the worst mistake of my life. Well, second worst. Trusting business associates apparently equated to trusting men. Inadvisable.
“Aren’t you able to show in more than one?”
I gave a slow nod. “Sure.” Wasn’t the issue. Sticking my neck out again was.
He nudged me. “Go for it. They already have metalwork displayed.” He nodded to one of the handful of pedestals arranged throughout the room. Small industrial cogs from much larger machines had been welded into a modern-yet-rustic piece.
“I suppose I could ask.” Didn’t mean I had to commit. Or even seriously consider.
“Look at the sculpture on the other side of the bar.” He tugged on my arm, forcing me to push off from the safety of the wall. Both of his hands curved around my upper arms from behind. Then he tightened his grip ever so slightly and pulled me against him, holding me captive.
My body tensed, heart racing as his heat permeated through the threadbare cotton of my jeans. Warm gusts of his breath rustled the hair above my ear. The stubble of his jawline scratched along my cheek as he leaned forward.
Mouth gone bone dry, I swallowed hard.
Then I did my best to focus on what he’d pointed out.
Beyond an exquisite cake Hannah and her team from Sweet Dreams had designed that depicted a historic flour mill stood a polished steel replica of The Illinois, Frank Lloyd Wright’s mile-high cantilevered vision that had never come to pass.
Mind scrambled by how close Darren hovered, I stumbled on any intelligent words. “It’s…nice.”
“I’ve seen your mailbox.”
A soft laugh escaped my throat, body relaxing against him before I realized it had happened. “So you’re saying my random junkyard art will fit right in?
His hands released their hold on my arms. They moved forward, first landing on my hips, then sliding around until they locked together, pressed firmly against my belly.
I stopped breathing for a moment, closed my eyes, and basked in how good it felt to just let myself go and be held: warm, solid—sure. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I gave in, didn’t fight the impulse to pull away and put on my armor.
And for the briefest moment, as Darren literally supported me with his intoxicating embrace, I pretended he was one of the good guys, would protect me no matter what might happen, that whatever had begun slowly unfurling between us was real—that he was real.
When he took a deep breath, his chest expanding and shifting me a fraction away from him, he quickly compensated, tightening his hold, pulling me closer.
“What do you have to lose?”
I let out a shaky breath.
Everything.
Darren…
Three days. Sixty-nine hours and thirty-seven minutes, to be exact. Apparently, that was the amount of time it took for me to go nearly insane.
Just to be near Kiki again.
I’d never been so crazy about a girl before—never allowed myself to get that close.
Now, I could finally breathe easy again. Because she sat across from me laughing. Her hair was pulled up into a messy ponytail; pieces of her dark hair had escaped, framing her face. Pink brightened her cheeks. Long dark lashes blinked over bright blue eyes.
Beautiful. And she didn’t try to be—seemed to have no clue she was.
We’d shifted our Tuesday run to late afternoon—at my request. Then we ran a new longer trail that skirted the other side of town. On our way back, we hit up my favorite dive burger joint on the corner of 6th and Elm.
Her laughter at my weak joke died down, and she took a long pull of her near-empty beer. “So why the time shift?”
My attention had gotten stuck on her bra strap. It peeked out from under the collar of the worn gray T-shirt she’d changed into after the run. An inch-long band of white lace crossed her delicate collarbone before it vanished under the cotton. My focus lowered. And before I could stop the thought, I imagined the rest of the bra as I watched the tempting curves of her chest rise and fall with each breath.
“Heeellooo…” She waved a hand over the table between us, in my line of sight.
I cleared my throat. And my head. Not a damn thing I could do to clear the blood from where it had rushed. I shifted uncomfortably on the booth. “Had to sign an employment contract this morning.”
Blinking, she clanked her empty bottle on the table. �
�You got a job?”
“Not just any job. The job. Dino Mathis, huge in the jazz world, hired me as his studio drummer.”
“That’s awesome, Darren. Congratulations!” She grabbed her already waiting refresher bottle and angled it toward the one I held.
“Thanks.” We clinked bottle necks. “To new beginnings.” As I stared into her eyes, hers widened a fraction at the toast, then softened as her smile grew.
“To new beginnings.” She took a deep breath as she stared back, gaze intensifying.
How much of that toast meant us to her? To me, for that matter. I had no idea.
I sensed the hesitation she had around me. Hell, I had serious reservations about how close we’d already gotten. And we had made the agreement to be just friends.
Shit, I needed things to stay platonic. At least, I thought that was the right thing to do.
But with every passing day, the time I spent getting closer to her, I wasn’t so sure.
We’d stumbled into a definite gray area, one where the closeness of friends had transformed us into some undefinable other thing. Deeper. And dangerous.
Because while I watched her, her gaze lowered to my lips. Her breaths quickened as she stared at my mouth with unmistakable want.
I sucked in a deep breath, arousal still lingering behind my fly.
My gaze dropped to her mouth too.
Those pouting kissable lips of hers parted.
My mind fuzzed out about the reasons we shouldn’t be going there.
We leaned toward each other, forearms braced on the tiny table of our half-booth.
Our breaths began to mingle as inches of space disappeared between us.
Consequences be damned, we were about to kiss—throw the whole “just friends” thing out the window.
A loud clank startled us.
We blinked hard as two identical plates slid onto the varnished wood, and we instantly pulled our arms off the table to make room. Both of us took a deep breath, gazes locked, as we reclined back to our respective sides.
She licked her lips, then tugged a side of the lower one behind her teeth. Her eyes darkened, lids drifting slightly closed, as if she could taste me even though we hadn’t yet touched.
But we almost had. She’d wanted to. Fuck, I’d wanted to.
The air between us hung thick with tension.
I pursed my lips, let out a hard breath. “So, yeah.” I raked a hand through my hair. “Seems like today is the day for it.”
“New beginnings.” Her words had gone soft, tone flattening them into a statement.
Because it didn’t matter that we hadn’t touched physically. A line had already been crossed.
On a deep breath, she finally broke our gaze, then blinked, glancing around as if she’d been in a trance. Then she looked down at her plate. Her brows twisted downward, expression growing doubtful as she leaned forward sniffing the air above it.
“Doesn’t look edible.” She poked at the mushrooms and onions with her fork.
And just like that, things between us lightened. Veered back into friend territory.
I let out a relieved sigh, comfortable with things staying safe between us. For now, at least. “It’s good for you.”
“What is it again?” She leaned left and tilted her head, examining it from the side.
“Chipotle ranch burger, no bun.”
“How can it be a burger with no bun? It’s ground steak, at this point.”
“Try it. We’ve got all the food groups here. Fuel for our bodies.”
She eyed her food with suspicion. “Since when is grease a food group?”
“Eat, smartass. Then you can judge.”
Only after I took a hefty bite of my mushroom-and-onion topped burger, complete with its layer of grease and chipotle ranch sauce, did she venture a bite. She took a good sized one too.
Then her eyes drifted shut, head tilting back. She let out a low moan while chewing slowly.
Something hit me, low and visceral. Arousal, and more. I wanted to be the one to have that effect on her. If that was what one bite of a halfway-decent burger did to her? I wanted to explore every kind of reaction she had to pleasure.
Realizing my brows had lifted, I swallowed hard. Then I blew out a lungful of air, regaining some semblance of composure.
Get your shit together, D.
Her eyes suddenly blinked open as she swallowed down her food. She began fanning the air in front of her wide open mouth. “Hot! So hot!”
I choked out a surprised laugh; the woman had me on an emotional rollercoaster.
“Here.” I dipped a sweet potato fry into her honey mustard dressing and handed it to her. “Puts the fire out.”
Then I let out a long sigh and watched her devour her food.
Yep. Kiki Michaelson had me up and down. Turned on, then turned inside-out. Torture one minute—teasing laughter the next.
I’d never had anything close with anyone else.
In just a couple of weeks, she’d twisted my view of the world into something unrecognizable—scary and unpredictable.
Yet inadvisable as it was, I wanted it.
I wanted her.
The only problem?
I wasn’t sure I had a right to want her—let alone have her.
Kiki…
The vibration of the truck seat turned me on as the imported beer-and-a-half buzzed through me. And a sky that had been a smoky purplish-gray minutes ago finally shifted into full-on darkness.
We were in Darren’s truck at night, him driving me home. Again. Alcohol obliterated my inhibitions. Again.
No matter how many lies we’d told ourselves between that last nightclub drop-off and now, no matter how afraid I was of the powerful attraction between us, what it could do to me…how it could devastate me…I wanted to get closer.
I wanted him. No amount of logic changed that fact: My body had an agenda completely separate from my heart and mind.
He shifted his leg wider, pressing a knee against mine.
Turned on beyond reason, the near-shock of the contact jolted an electric current outward. Upward. The sensation sizzled up the inside of my thigh until it reached right between my legs. My pulse throbbed there. Hot. Heavy.
I stared at the seemingly innocent spot where knee touched knee. Then I swallowed hard and sucked in a shaky breath.
Only after a slow, long exhale did I dare speak. “Is your skin prickling?”
He’d been a marble statue for the last few minutes, inches away, yet only moving his hands on the wheel to make slight driving corrections.
But at my comment, his low chuckle boomed out. Then nothing.
I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile. Because it wasn’t funny. Even though it was. “It’s like the air in here has supercharged.”
“The air in here.” His deep voice spoke the words slow and flat. Like he pondered each word, searching for hidden meaning.
I moved closer, pressing my entire thigh along his, making him adjust left for the intrusion. “Maybe it’s not the air.”
“Probably not.” He stole a glance at me.
Even in the dim light, I caught it. Hard to miss. In that brief moment, with the supercharged air—that wasn’t really the air—a spark ignited. White hot and glowing. Even if neither of us could see it, in spite of the fact that we didn’t want to admit it, we both felt it.
A connection pulled taut between us. Always there, but undeniable and growing stronger.
Just like it had when we’d almost kissed.
His right hand released its grip from the wheel and lowered toward me.
On instinct, I reached toward him, wanting to grasp his hand.
Enough with the elusive thing we’d been dancing around, too afraid to embrace. Alcohol had dulled my senses. And I was tired. And lonely.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with him. Maybe he wasn’t like other guys.
A buzz stuttered into the tense silence.
His hand froze in midair a mere
inch from mine. He shot a quick glance at the road, then down at the carpeted floorboard. His phone screen glowed in soft blue up at us.
He leaned forward and scooped up the phone, pressing the side button to light it back up. “Fuck.” He spat out the word on a sharp exhale.
Without warning, he simultaneously spun the wheel hard and grabbed my forearm to prevent me from jerking toward my door.
“Gotta make a quick stop.” His brows pinched together.
I straightened, sobering instantly.
The formerly heat-charged air? Iced over.
Lines etched into his forehead as he gripped the top of the steering wheel, wringing the leather-covered metal so hard it looked ready to bend under the crushing pressure. His chest expanded slowly, froze when he held his breath for a beat, then collapsed with a hard whoosh.
I frowned. “Is everything okay?”
Clearly it wasn’t. I’d never seen him like this. Anger emanated from him. And something more. Something unidentifiable.
“No. But it will be. Has to be.” The last three words were barely audible.
Unsure what to do to ease his distress, I put a hand on his knee and squeezed. Wasn’t much. But when his next breath exhaled a little calmer, I was glad I’d made the effort.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
I shouldn’t have taken the curt word to heart. His rejection wasn’t personal. I got that. But we’d been so close only seconds ago. Now it felt like we were a million miles apart.
The moment the truck jolted to a stop alongside an old redbrick apartment building, he flung open his door and jumped out.
When I opened my door too, he popped his head back into the cab. He gave me a pleading look on a heavy exhale. “I’m sorry about the detour. But I need you to stay here.”
I shot him a deadpan look. “You’re kidding.” I glanced out the windshield at the sketchy neighborhood. Trash clumped the gutters. A couple of vagrants wandered the streets.
“Please.” As he stared at me, he started breathing heavy. And bouncing. Like his legs wanted to sprint toward his undisclosed destination, but he couldn’t race off until I fired the starting gun.
“Go.” I couldn’t stand to see his tortured expression. Not if I caused any part of it.