by Meghan March
“Stop. I got it.” I tugged it down and the sides fell free beneath the sleeve.
Shit, her skin was just as smooth and white as I’d imagined when I pictured tattooing it.
I needed to step away, but she continued to struggle with the dress. This had to be punishment for something I’d done in the past. My hands itched to touch her, but I knew I had no right.
Then again, I couldn’t keep watching her struggle, so I lifted her to her feet and slipped the dress up and over her head. I told myself I’d keep my eyes on her face, but even I knew I was a shitty liar.
Her tits were fucking perfect. Her bra was pale pink with white lace around the edges and completely sheer. Her nipples were a shade darker, and she looked as sweet as I’d imagined.
I had to stop.
I dragged my gaze to hers and she stared up at me. Her expression wasn’t horrified but heated.
She liked that I looked. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lower lip, and the combination of lust and innocence made my dick harder than anything I could ever remember in the past. That’s when her gaze dropped, and I knew she couldn’t miss my reaction.
She swallowed, and after long moments, brought her attention north, but she couldn’t quite meet my eyes. I lifted a hand to her chin and tilted it up the last few degrees.
I shouldn’t have touched her. Her skin was even softer than it looked. She leaned into my touch, and that’s what fucked me over.
Just a taste, I told myself. That’s all.
I lowered my lips to hers and her hands landed on my chest, her fingers gripping my shirt and pulling me closer.
So goddamned sweet. She moaned and my cock pulsed, reminding me that it was ready to go.
I tore my mouth away and stepped back.
What the hell am I doing? She was drunk. Could have GHB running through her system. I wasn’t going to take any more fucking advantage because that would make me just as shitty as the guy who’d dumped it in her drink.
Before she could say anything, I turned and crossed to her suitcase. Yoga pants and a T-shirt sat on top. “Here, put these on.” I tossed them to her.
I waited a full sixty seconds, hoping like hell she would have covered herself by now, and then I turned.
Mistake.
She must have been struggling with her bra like she had with the dress, because now she was naked from the waist up.
“Christ, woman. Put on some clothes.”
Hurt tinged her features, but I forced myself to push down the urge to tell her that she was fucking perfect and the edges of my control were fraying.
Eden tugged the T-shirt over her head and dropped onto the bed again before curling onto her side.
“Just go. I know you don’t want to be here.”
The hurt was in her voice too, and it pissed me off that my shitty judgment had put it there.
“Someone’s gotta babysit you tonight, and I’m sure as hell not letting anyone else do it.”
Part of me expected her to tell me to get the hell out, but the only response I got was a soft snore. Out.
I lowered myself into the desk chair, her taste still on my tongue. It was going to be a long fucking night.
“FUCK ME, CUPCAKE. I GOTTA eat you up.”
Palms landed on my thighs and spread my legs.
“This is going to be the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
I moaned and my eyes snapped open. I expected to see my fingers buried in brown-and-gold hair, but instead all I saw was . . . tangled white sheets and an empty hotel room.
No sign of the man who invaded my dreams.
I yanked the covers up over my head to hide the embarrassment burning my cheeks, and rolled over to smother myself in a pillow. A piece of paper crumpling against my face halted my movements. I peeled it off my cheek and forced my eyes to focus as the pounding in my head ramped up.
Had to go to work. Take the Advil on the nightstand and drink the water. If you think you’re dying, call.
A phone number was written beneath.
There was no doubt who had left the note. His handwriting was bold but crisp. No fifth-grader man-scrawl for Bishop.
He’d been here. It hadn’t all been a dream.
But which parts were real?
Laying the note aside after reading it another dozen times, I rewound the timeline in my brain and stumbled onto the most important fact—I’d been drunk and he’d rescued me, again.
Because I’d needed to be rescued. Again.
With a groan, I hugged the pillow and began the process of beating myself up.
I failed at following Vincent’s orders to stay out of sight. I failed at stepping outside my comfort zone. I was failing at everything.
All I’d wanted was to experience a slice of life outside my little bubble, and I’d ended up with drugs in my drink. A shiver of apprehension rolled down my spine, followed by the prickle of cold sweat. What would have happened if Bishop hadn’t been there?
I could only imagine how ridiculous he thought I must be. How naive. How stupid.
The women he was used to probably would have seen that guy drop something in their drink and would have slapped him across the face. Or maybe punched him with brass knuckles. What they wouldn’t have done was keep drinking like an ignorant idiot.
Why did I care about the women he was used to? I shouldn’t. But for some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Maybe because he was so completely different from anyone I’d ever encountered.
That’s why I need to put him out of my mind. If there was ever a guy I could point to and say “he’s totally out of my league,” Bishop was him.
I lay in bed for another thirty minutes, torturing myself by cataloging all the reasons I would never wake up to Bishop saying dirty things to me like Dream Bishop had this morning.
Not that I was carrying some kind of torch for Bishop. I didn’t even know him. At most, I had some weird fascination with him. That was all. It was never going anywhere. It was the same as having a crush on some unattainable celebrity.
Oh God, I said crush. I do not have a crush.
I rolled again, this time to the edge of my bed so I could sit up and make my next stop the shower, where I could drown any misplaced feelings I might or might not have about Bishop.
I spent the next hour alternatively trying not to throw up and trying to talk myself into leaving the hotel again rather than staying in this room until I was old and wrinkly and someone had to carry my body out for my funeral parade.
God, that’s morbid.
Although, seeing one of those jazz parades would be cool. I wondered if they had them for reasons other than death? I needed to look that up.
I swiped on mascara and lip gloss before adding some blush to make me look a little more human, and stepped out of the bathroom.
I would not stay in this room all day. I would see more of the city. I would not go drinking. I would not do anything else that would require being rescued. Today I was truly starting over.
A glance at the clock revealed it was already one in the afternoon, and I blanched. Jeez. Had I ever slept until noon before? Even in college? Not that I could remember.
When I gathered my purse up off the desk, the room-service menu stared back at me, reminding me I didn’t ever need to leave. I could stay hidden up here until they booted me out.
And how would that be any different from the life I lived in New York, watching the world pass by from the window of my apartment or the window of an SUV?
I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. I was going to live.
I looked down at my jeans, Sperrys, and rose-colored cardigan. First things first. I needed to go shopping so I could fit in here a little more. Then, it was time to check some things off my list.
I FOCUSED ON THE EXCITEMENT humming through my veins as I pushed open the lobby door and stepped onto Bourbon Street. The concierge had written down a list of shops that I should try if I wanted to get a true New Orleans shopping expe
rience, along with a map. Thankfully, the list jogged my memory. The place Delilah had mentioned was included—Dirty Dog. I had to resist the urge to pump my fist in the air at the familiar name. Small victories.
In the light of day, Bourbon Street was a completely different experience. It wasn’t empty, by any means, and given that Mardi Gras was right around the corner, that didn’t surprise me at all. Obviously, there were still the obligatory partiers who either hadn’t quit from the night before or were getting an early start, but it seemed that the crush of people from last night had moved on to sleep it off.
The concierge had also been so kind as to let me know that there were several other parades today, each put on by a different krewe, groups that organized parades and parties for Mardi Gras. I tucked the information away for later.
The first stop on the concierge’s list was only a block and a half away, and I breathed a small sigh of relief when I saw the black sign with red letters on a brick building. HELL’S ANGEL. I reached for the door handle and turned.
Locked.
I checked the hours on the window and groaned. It didn’t open until two. Well, that was disappointing. I peeked through the windows to see what exactly I would be missing if I skipped to the next place.
Everything looked either black or red or covered with skulls or spikes—or all of the above. Like the black-and-red corset with skulls on each boob that were covered in spikes.
“Oh wow,” I mumbled. “Maybe I should come back to this one later.” I caught my reflection in the mirror. Eyes wide, looking like I’d discovered an alien planet.
Maybe I could find something a little more . . . practical. That wasn’t unreasonable, right? I mean, how often would I really wear a spiked corset?
Dirty Dog had to be more promising, especially given Delilah’s personal seal of approval. Decision made, I twisted the map around to match the configuration of the streets ahead of me. It wasn’t far, only a couple of turns and a couple of blocks. Even I couldn’t get lost in this perfect grid of streets. I hoped.
The map also noted where I could find Anthropologie and H&M, but I wasn’t looking for the same kind of clothes I could buy in New York. I wanted something local. Something that wasn’t mass produced and sold in a thousand locations.
I set off down the street, only to be distracted by the delicious scent of coffee and fresh yeasty bread. My feet practically directed themselves as I stepped inside the tiny little café and selected a fresh croissant and the largest coffee they sold.
Nectar of the gods, I thought as I devoured the croissant in three bites and nearly burned my tongue on my sweet praline latte. Totally worth it.
Coffee cup in hand, I returned to the street and kept walking.
Distracted by the fabulous architecture, I made it a solid four blocks before I realized I had to be lost.
The pedestrians that wandered the streets of the Quarter had disappeared, and in front of me was a boulevard and a park. Thankful for the easy-to-find street signs, I pulled out my map again and twisted it around to try to figure out where I’d gone wrong.
The freaking café. It had been on a corner, and I’d gone in a door on one street and come out the door on the other street and kept walking. Honest mistake, right?
Not willing to let my minor detour get me down, I turned back around and walked in the direction of the café so I could find my way again.
Thirty minutes later, I found myself in front of a big teal-and-white sign with DIRTY DOG wrapped around the outside and a white bulldog in the middle. The front of the building was painted a cheery yellow, and the old dress forms in the window sported the cutest retro dresses I’d ever seen. One was pink with white paisley print and a white belt around the waist, and the other was the same dress, but in deep purple with black paisley.
Immediately, I wondered if I could get away with wearing either of them. Or both.
Please be open. Please be open.
My thoughts were answered when the door chimed and a girl poked her head out. “Hey! I’m JP. Are you coming in?”
“If you’re open, I’d love to find a dress or two.” I gestured down at my jeans and cardigan and Sperrys. “Actually, I need more than just a dress.”
The girl smiled at me. “Well, honey, you’ve come to the right place. Me and Yve will get you all set up. She’s got the cutest stuff in the whole city.”
I followed JP into the store. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
She nodded and clapped her hands. “Yve! We’ve got a live one!”
Her high-pitched voice screeched without warning, and another woman peered out from what looked like a back room, her arms full of dresses.
“Knock off the yelling about customers, girl.”
“It’s only one customer, and she doesn’t mind.”
Shifting the dresses to one arm, a gorgeous woman with golden tanned skin and dark hair stepped across the floor toward me.
“Ignore her. She still doesn’t have any manners. We’re working on it.” She unearthed a hand from beneath the dresses and offered it to me. “Welcome to Dirty Dog. I’m Yve, and this is my shop.”
“Eden. I’m . . . new in town. Delilah from Voodoo Ink sent me your way.”
Yve’s tawny gaze lit with recognition before sizing me up. “Ah, you’re the one she mentioned might be coming by. She said she hasn’t seen Bishop act like that . . . ever. He’s turned silence into just as much of an art form as the ink he puts down on skin.”
JP gasped. “Oh God, don’t tell me you’re the one who’s going to be responsible for breaking my heart and killing all my bearded and man-bunned dreams.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t mind JP. Her crush is a thing of legend.”
“And Bishop keeps shooting me down. He won’t touch any clients. Who knew the best artist I’d ever meet would be the man of my dreams with such a stupid rule?” JP’s tone was distraught, but clearly overdramatic.
I hoarded the little pieces of information about Bishop like a junkie. Because that’s normal.
“We’ve only met a couple times.” I didn’t want to bring up the fact that he’d rescued me from being possibly raped last night. Today was too nice and new to be focusing on that. Instead, I changed the subject. “So, I was hoping you could help me find some dresses. Actually, for whatever won’t make me look like a tourist. I just . . . I need a change.”
Yve appraised my outfit and nodded. “I can see what you mean. Let’s get started.” She spun away, her sunny yellow dress, the color of the outside of the building, swishing as she turned to a rack.
JP was already ahead of her. “As much as it sucks knowing that you can pull this off in a way I never could, and Bishop will probably fall all over himself when he sees it, you have to try it on.” She holds up a white dress with pink polka dots. “We have the perfect shoes to go with it too, if you’re not on too tight of a budget.”
I thought of the credit card in my purse. I had no idea what the limit was, but knowing my father, it couldn’t be less than five figures.
“Can I try it on?”
“Absolutely. I’ll start putting stuff in the fitting room. You’re going to want to try on way more than just one.”
“Let’s try the teal and the red too. Both of these are fun.” Yve held up a hanger in each hand. The teal dress had a boat neckline that managed to look both sexy and classy, and the red dress had a wide vee that would show a little more without making me feel overexposed.
She carried the dresses toward the fitting room, and I followed. Or I tried. I only made it three steps before a lavender leopard-print dress caught my eye. It reminded me of the one Delilah had worn the other day, but this color was softer and quieter but still fun.
“Oh, I love that one. Delilah has the neon version. She said this was too tame for her inner kitty cat.” JP followed the statement with a rawr and a clawing motion with her hand, and I could picture Delilah doing exactly the same thing.
It wasn’t like I�
�d be wearing it at the same time and place as Delilah, so . . . “I’ll try that one too, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. Try on anything you want. We’ve got cute lingerie, and some awesome skirts, and vintage tops and tees too.”
Yve slipped out of the dressing room to take the lavender dress from JP. “Don’t overwhelm the girl, just funnel some of it into the fitting room and she can try whatever she likes.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got a lunch date at noon, so I’ll let y’all get started while I fix my makeup.”
“Ooh, is that sexy hubby of yours coming to take you somewhere he can have you for lunch instead? And by have you for lunch, I mean bang you over a table for your nooner.”
A hint of a blush stained Yve’s cheekbones, and I couldn’t help but grin at JP’s unfiltered comments.
“I should fire you.” Yve narrowed her eyes. “Tell me again why I haven’t fired you?”
“Because I’m irreplaceable.”
“You’re lucky I love you, kid.”
JP puckered up and blew Yve an air kiss. “Love you too, Yve.”
Yve straightened and looked to me. “Right this way. And get ready to put a dent in your credit-card limit, because I know you’re going to fall in love with these.”
Fifteen minutes later, I knew she was right. All four dresses were on the fitting-room hook I’d designated as the yes pile. The lingerie that mysteriously made it into the dressing room, by JP sliding it between T-shirts and skirts, also fit and hung on the yes hook.
The only things I didn’t plan to leave the store with were the three packs of pasties she’d included and the T-shirts that had the names of bands on them I’d never heard of. They were cute, but if someone started a conversation with me about them, I’d feel like a total poser because googling them to learn their history and songs didn’t seem quite right.
I stepped out of the dressing room with my arms full and ran smack into the side of a tall man coming into the shop through the back hallway.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
“Looks like you could use some help.” He lifted the dresses from my arms and carried them to the counter, and hung them on the decorative hook beside it.