Steele

by Kelly Gendron

  “Guys like me?” I chuckle, examining her more thoroughly. She’s not like most women I meet on set. She’s a definite challenge—jumping out of an airplane without a parachute or a 220-foot free fall from a window kind of challenge. She’s that perfect stunt you’re always chasing but rarely execute due to all the red tape. “I can assure you, I’m a cautious man.”

  “I’m sure you are,” she says with a small, condescending grin.

  Hmm, I think I need to come at this from a different angle. “What if I live past thirty? Would you reconsider wasting a few hours of your life to go out with me then?”

  She takes a step back and tilts her head. Eyes like two softly moving hands brush over my body. “I might think about it.”

  “Well, you better start thinking.” I lean forward, catching a whiff of something sweetly familiar. “I turned thirty last April.”

  She smiles, her view moving from my mouth to my eyes. “Impressive.”

  “Oh, you have no idea.” Jelly beans, that’s it. She smells like jelly beans.

  “See, it’s that cocky attitude that winds up getting people in your occupation into trouble, Mr. Kane.”

  “I like to refer to it as confidence, miss.” I stand tall and note the half of foot between us.

  “I think you’ve confused confidence for reckless arrogance. You go on, though; you keep convincing yourself that you’re invincible, and perhaps, someday, you will be.” Leaving me in her dust, she starts for the door.

  “So, no date then?” I gotta give it one more try.

  She stops, turns, and lifts a delicate hand, slowly twisting it back and forth. The rock on her finger sparkles against the camera lights. Huh. I drop back against the window, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn’t expect that! She didn’t come off as being married. My damn detector must be off or, worse, broken. It happened to me once before when I was at a nightclub in New York. It cost me a punch in the face from what felt like the fist of Bruce Banner’s alter ego.

  Clenching my teeth beneath a broad smile, I nod and acknowledge my defeat. Her fingers wiggle a snide goodbye before she exits the room.

  Chris glances up from the camera light he’s working on and chuckles. Apparently, he witnessed the rejection. I shrug with a grin. The second I discovered she belonged to another, everything shut down. Married women do absolutely nothing for me. Hell, if I’d known the gal in New York City was married, it would’ve saved me from getting hit by the Hulk. Some chicks aren’t forthcoming about their marital status, or they get off on seeing their husband jealous. Either way, I want no part of it.

  After recovering my shirt from the room Kip and I were working in, I jog down the stairs and head for the temporary office in the back of the building to meet with the insurance guy. A lot of my stunts are excluded from the film’s cast and liability insurance policy. They need to be covered in a separate stunt buyout policy, which are when policies are underwritten individually, stunt by stunt, and the insurance company monitors the scripts and storyboards. The company usually sends someone who’s called a “loss-control expert” to the set to keep an eye on things. We already met with one insurance company, and they refused to cover my stunts. I know Jerry wants me to be on my best behavior today. If they really want to, the loss-control expert could jack up the price of the film with the policy costs.

  I enter the room and nod to Kip and Jerry, who are leaning over a table in the center of the room that has papers and storyboards scattered all over the surface.

  “Good, you’re here.” Jerry stands, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Steele, this is Jay Rigsby.” He stretches out an arm, pointing to the left with the pencil in his hand. I follow the direction, and my muscles tighten as I attempt to conceal my shock. “She’s the loss-control expert from Harper Insurance.”

  Well, this is going to be interesting. I smile at the married woman who just shut my cock down. Hopefully, she doesn’t do the same to my stunts. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rigsby.” I dip my head with a cordial smile.

  “Mr. Kane,” she says, and I feel her hand on my balls, squeezing them already. She’s not going to make this easy. It’s right there in her eyes. My reputation has reached her ears, and my earlier reckless arrogance probably didn’t help. Yeah, this cupid-eyed cutie is gonna give me hell. She’s going to challenge every one of my stunts, and after an hour into the meeting, she proves me right ten times over.

  “I got no problem with an airbag, but I’m not wearing a damn harness. The character wakes up in bed. He has no shirt on. This is what I do, why I’m Kip’s stunt double, Mrs. Rigsby,” I say between clenched teeth, pressing over the swollen vein in my throbbing temple with the tip of my finger for the fifteenth time.

  She smirks and crosses her arms over her annoyingly perfect tits, holding that look of confidence on her beautiful face. Fuck, like all the other stunts, she knows she’s going to win this battle too.

  “Just look at it this way, Mr. Kane. Your makeup artist gets out of having to cover all your tattoos.” She scathes, taking another, quick once-over of my upper body as if it’s a deadly weapon and not a tool. I work hard to keep in shape for my job, and I know most guys might not want to be viewed as a tool, but my body is a fucking tool, and it should be viewed as one! A strong, courageous, and flexible tool!

  “Oh-ho.” I lay my palms on the table and lean into her. “No need to worry about that, Mrs. Rigsby. Nadine doesn’t mind covering up any of my tattoos.”

  “I’m sure it’s the highlight of her day.” She smirks. Her patronizing tone claws up my back. I round the table, stopping close enough for a victorious chest bump. Our bodies don’t touch, though. There’s no need. The triumphant gleam in her eyes is bump enough. Like every other, she’s won this battle, and the little she-devil knows it! Fuck. I want to … to … bend her over my knee and beat her ass. Teach her a lesson.

  My cock jolts. What the fuck!

  Her chin lifts. “Go ahead. Keep it up. I dare you to take me on, Mr. Kane.”

  I glare down at the raven-haired beauty who just walked into my life, wrapped her long slender fingers around my balls, and squeezed. She’s got me, balls and all. Her eyes flash to my mouth. I press closer and whisper just over her lips, “Challenge accepted.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “And how did this happen?” the doctor, who appears no older than me, asks as his eyes roll over the tight black bustier, pushing my breasts up to my neck, before venturing down to the garter belt that holds up the one remaining sheer black stocking on my right leg. The left one had been pulled off earlier by the paramedic so he could inspect my foot.

  “I … ah …” Biting back the pain in my ankle, along with the steady flow of embarrassment pacing through my disheveled body, I say, “I was pole dancing and fell.” I lower my eyes to my lap, silently cursing Lucy for buying me the damn pole dancing class for my birthday. She even sent the sexy little stripper getup I have on. Not that she’s solely to blame. Steele Kane has a little to do with my awkward situation. The second I met the man, I got all worked up in so many forgotten ways—the kind my body hasn’t felt in years. So why not try a little pole dancing before I go home and pull out my vibrator in hopes to rid myself of the sexy yet oh-so annoying Mr. Kane? Well, that was the ridiculous thought, anyway.

  After a long, uncomfortable stare, probably pondering which local strip club I work at, the doctor turns his attention to the tablet in his hand. “Well, your X-rays …” His finger scrolls across the screen prior to looking back up at me. “You don’t have any fractures, but there’s a lot of tissue swelling around your ankle. You probably sprained it.” He glances at the ring on my hand and clears his throat, peering at me from the rim of his glasses. “You might want to call your husband and have him pick you up.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not married. He’s been gone for a while. I mean, he didn’t leave me, not on purpose or anything. He’s dead. He died, and we … well, I’m not … anyway, this”—I lift m
y hand—“just helps to keep the unwanted advances away.”

  The doctor stares blankly at me again. I lower my hand and press my lips together, releasing them with a loud, nervous poppysmic sound. The doctor’s eyes narrow, and his forehead wrinkles, making him appear a few years older than me now, which in turn, makes me feel a tad adolescent for the inappropriate lip-smacking sound.

  Oh, shit! Wait! Did I just grant myself a psych consult?

  “Wow. Okay. I get it. I know what this looks like, but I’m not crazy. Well”—I flick my brows, rolling my eyes—“maybe I was, temporarily, for taking that pole dancing class. Yeah.” I nod. “Now that I think about it, I was. See, my friend, Lucy … well, if you knew her, you’d understand. She sent me it as a gift, the class, that is, and the instructions were very specific. You must wear your favorite lingerie for the first session. And Lucy”—I wave my hand down my body—“she also sent me this little ensemble, and I wore it, not thinking that I’d fall, the paramedics would be called, and when I couldn’t stand, I’d be rewarded with a ride to the hospital in an ambulance. I know. I know.” I hold out my hands. “It sounds insane, but I had a really, really bad day at work, at the insurance company I work for,” I include, to clear up the whole I’m not a stripper insinuating looks, “and I thought if I went to this class, I don’t know, maybe in some anomalous way, it’d help.”

  “And”—the doctor’s lip tugs—“did it?”

  “Obviously not.” I grimace.

  His eyes warm with a bit of understanding, and my mortification decreases a smidgen, a very minute smidgen. “Okay, Miss”—he glances at the tablet—“Rigsby, I’m going to discharge you, but you’ll need to ice your ankle for the next twenty-four hours and keep it elevated. I’ll have a nurse wrap it up before you leave, and we’ll see if we can get you some crutches.”

  I push through my remaining humiliation with a small smile. “Thank you.”

  “Do you have someone who can pick you up?”

  “I’ll see if I can reach anyone.”

  “Sounds good, and maybe next time you’re having a bad day, go for a walk”—his voice lowers—“or have a glass of wine.”

  “Yeah, I’ll try that.” I hold my smile as he closes the curtain back shut around me.

  Thankful I remembered to ask for my purse before the paramedics scooped me up off the floor, I scroll through my contacts on my cell. I have no family in Chicago. They’re all in New York. I glance down at my breasts overflowing from the bustier. Who am I going to call? I can’t call a colleague. Wait, there’s Wendy from the Claims Department. We went out for drinks a few times. She might be understanding and keep her mouth quiet about this at work. I click her name and take a deep breath, releasing it quickly when she answers.

  “Hi, Wendy. It’s Jaylyn Rigsby from work.”

  “Oh, hey Jay. How are you?”

  “I’m good. You busy tonight?”

  “Actually …” She pauses, and I hear a hint of hesitation in her voice. “I’m on my way to my daughter’s swim meet.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I …”

  “Did you need something?”

  “No, no.” I glance at the curtain surrounding me. “Just a crazy day. Thought maybe you’d want to meet for a drink or something.”

  “I’m sorry, Jay,” she says, and there is that sound of sympathy, the one I usually see in people’s eyes. People who know me, who know my past, all regard me the same way—pity with a side of compassion. “Another night perhaps?”

  “Sure,” I say, trying to put a smile on, hoping she’ll hear it through the cell. “That’d be great.”

  “See you tomorrow then.”

  “Yeah, have a good night.” I click the cell off and rest my head back on the flat pillow. “Shit!” I should call Lucy and tell her to pick me up. I start to calculate the time it’d take her to book a flight and get here. I hear the cubical curtain tracing the steel runners. Okay, I blow out. Time’s up. They’re going to want a name and a relationship title like Mom, sister, or friend of who’s picking me up. I snap my eyes open, prepared to explain there is none, and that I’ll most likely need to occupy one of their beds for the night.

  The vision before me nooses my tongue. Hot damn! What kind of pain meds did they give me? I sit up straight and blink a few times. It can’t be.

  Standing in a tee shirt and jeans, Steele Kane’s powerful muscular frame puts a break in the safety of my cubicle. All muscles and swaggering grin, he’s encased by the pale blue hospital curtains. Jaw locked, the noose tightens around my tongue. The remainder of the curtain whips open, and a young nurse comes into the small space.

  “Well”—she smiles at Steele and, dammit, if she sees him, then he must be real—“looks like you found a ride home.”

  “Yes, she did,” Steele says with a wink. He turns back to me, his eyes running over the evidence of my wilder, more carefree years. He scans the tattoos on my shoulder, arm, and leg, all the ones I normally conceal under my clothes at work.

  “Great,” the nurse chirps. “I’ll let the doctor know so he can do your paperwork. Then I’ll come back and wrap up that ankle.” She spins back around, and before I’m able speak, protest, or respond to what’s going on, she leaves.

  Dragging the imaginary rope from my tangled tongue, I lift my hand and point my finger at the unexpected surrogate for my absent title. What would I call him anyway? My friend? Co-worker? My next mistake? “No! No! No! No!” I repeat the word with each digit shake.

  “Yes.” He smiles. “Yes.” His near black eyes sparkle as his body sways a little closer. “Yes! Missssss Rigsby,” he taunts in a low rasping voice.

  The emphasis in the sss’s of my title clues me in to the fact he must’ve heard my conversation with the doctor. Oh, God! I want to shrivel up and disappear, but shrinking into the insignificant amount of silk and lace covering my body is not an option.

  My eyes follow as he walks over to the sink and opens the cupboard above it, closing it quickly after he inspects what’s inside. He looks under the bed and comes up with a hospital gown. “What are you doing here?”

  “I cut myself and needed a few stitches,” he says, unfolding the gown.

  “I hope it wasn’t work related,” I respond, letting him pick up my hand and guide it into the arm sleeve of the gown.

  “No, Miss Rigsby, it wasn’t work related,” he says, directing my other hand into the gown and then tying it closed in the front.

  I swat his hand away and pull the gown tighter together, the cloaking of my indecent exposure recharging my confidence. “This is not appropriate.” I scoot up in the bed.

  “No?” The tip of his finger touches the thin layer of silk covering my thigh. My leg jolts up from the mattress. “Neither are these.” His large hand slides around my thigh. He releases the back clasp of my garter belt with one quick smooth motion. A warm sensation, one that I haven’t experienced in some time, packs unevenly between my legs. I gasp from the unfamiliar carnal awareness my body has previously refused to recognize from any other man. “Not in the hospital, at least.” His fingers move around to the front of my thigh, unsnapping that clasp just as effortlessly. He drags the stocking down my leg, and all I can think is how pleased I am with myself for having shaved my legs this morning. “Though, I can’t help but imagine where and when these might be appropriate, Miss Jaylyn Rigsby.” He grins, wadding the sheer material into his large hand before shoving it into the front pocket of his jeans.

  “Well, I’d recommend you stop imagining, Mr. Kane.” I flash for a second to his crotch where my stocking rests so close to his … “It’ll never happen.”

  “Please, Steele.” He bends down, bringing with him that expensive scent, the thigh-clenching one that swarms around him wherever he goes. “Please, call me Steele.”

  “Like this situation, that would be inappropriate, Mr. Kane.” I press back against the mattress to further our distance and give my nose some stale hospital a
ir breathing space. “I’d prefer to keep our relationship professional.”

  “Babe.” His dark eyes sway to my mouth, and during the brief pause of silence, my hormones dare my fingers to reach out and touch him. “We passed professional a few minutes ago when I heard about your secret pole dancing stunt, not to mention, seeing your intimate apparel. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head with a low tsk-tsk. “There’s just no going back from that, Jaylyn.”

  “You must try.” I clutch the gown to my chest, loathing the way my name sounds spoken in his low, raspy distinctive voice … loathing the way I want to hear him whisper it in my ear while he’s …

  “Not gonna happen.” He taps my thigh as though it’s been settled. “Now, you need a ride home, and I’m here, willing, and able.”

  “I don’t want a ride home from you!” I don’t want anything from him, nor do I want to be alone with him. I don’t want him at my apartment, the very place where I need to go to put some clothes on. I need clothes. I need my yoga pants and a tee shirt—a stained, already worked out in, smelly, offensive tee shirt. The getup I have on, the way Steele Kane’s looking at me … God, I haven’t felt this sexy since …

  “No, maybe not, but the way I see it, what you want really doesn’t matter right now, does it? Or would you rather stay here for the night?” His head tilts back, and a wolfish grin strikes his mouth as though he already knows the answer. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold this naughty little stunt against you. I like to play dirty, but I’d never resort to blackmail, extortion, or using force. At least, not the unwanted kind to get what I want.” He winks.

  “And what exactly do you want?” I sit up straight, ignoring the sexy little twitch of his left eye.

  “Only to get you safely home.”

  I glare at him, tightening the gown around me. “And that’s it?”