That always worked for Trine, Sister #4. She was always on the move. Constantly busy. Found it hard to shut down. Even as a kid.
When they were little, Mo would sit with her and whisper, “Start with your toes, Treenz. Point. Flex. Then put ’em to sleep.”
Always, by the time he got to her belly, Trine was out.
“Say what?” Lottie asked.
“Start with your toes,” Mo said. “Point ’em. Flex ’em. Then put ’em to sleep.”
He gave it a sec.
“You doin’ that?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she told him.
“Now your feet,” he ordered into the dark. “Point, flex, then feel ’em get heavy and let them go.”
Another second and he let that go to two.
“Now your calves,” he continued. “Tighten ’em. Let them go. Feel ’em relax. Then put ’em to sleep.”
Mo gave it another sec.
And another.
And one more.
“They asleep?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she answered. “I think so.”
“Now your knees.”
“Is this what you do?” she asked.
“It doesn’t work if you talk through it,” he told her.
“Right,” she muttered.
“Knees, Lottie.”
“’Kay,” she mumbled.
It took to her shoulders, Mo making his voice quieter and quieter, giving it more time in between, before he started on the neck and she didn’t answer.
Good.
She was asleep.
Mo stared at the ceiling but could see nothing but Lottie in that nightie.
The nightie morphed into her dancing.
Fuck.
Torture.
He rolled to his side and closed his eyes.
And saw her face, terrified, eyes filled with tears.
He opened his, moved his hand, found his gun under the toss pillow right where he put it.
Mo drew in a big breath and released it.
He tried that again.
After that, he started with his toes.
They were still in boots.
He gave up after getting all the way to his scalp and fell asleep two hours later with his hand curled around the butt of his gun.
Chapter Four
Whitening Strips
Mo
The next morning, Mo sat on the couch he’d slept on while Lottie was in the bathroom doing whatever she did first thing in the morning.
He was on his phone with Hawk.
It was eight thirty and he was surprised she was up that early.
He’d been up since six.
“No on the prints. Got a sample to the DNA lab to see if we can catch something on that, but if he’s not in the system for his prints, even if they can pull some, he won’t be in the system for DNA,” Hawk briefed him. “FBI is still running the language. That might take some time.”
“And?” Mo asked.
“And, customers Smithie, Jorge, Joaquim and me tagged as possibles got tails home last night. We’re goin’ into their places today to take a closer look.”
“I’ll take odds that he didn’t send that letter and knows Smithie’s gonna get it around about yesterday and he’s gonna show at the club. He’s gotta know Smithie is gonna call someone in.”
“He’s also probably expecting cops.”
“You and Jorge don’t look like titty bar regulars, Hawk.”
“You want us to work this situation or sit on our hands for a coupla days?” Hawk asked.
Mo shut his mouth.
His boss was older than him, not by much, so it wasn’t like he was a father figure.
Mo had given up on a father figure a long time ago.
It was that he was his commanding officer, as such, and Mo had been trained not to disappoint his commanding officer.
And right then, Hawk didn’t exactly sound like he was thrilled with Mo.
“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours, Mo,” Hawk noted. “Is she already getting under your skin?”
She was definitely a challenge.
But she wasn’t under his skin. That couldn’t happen. And he knew it the minute she opened the door to him and took a step back like she was getting ready to flee.
This was not an unusual reaction people had to him.
It just kinda sucked Lottie had had it.
“I’m good,” Mo muttered.
“Stay good, stay sharp and ask her out after we know she’s safe,” Hawk ordered. After that, he gave Mo an, “Out,” and he hung up.
But Mo was staring at the couch across from him.
Ask her out after we know she’s safe?
He knew Hawk had seen his mug frequently over years. He also knew the man had 20/20 vision.
So why was he saying shit like that?
“Yo.”
He turned his head and got smacked in the face with the view of Lottie in nothing but that nightie, her hair up at the back of her crown, but it was slapdash, so some of it was tickling her jaw, cheeks and neck.
All of those last, and including the rest of her face, looked like it was covered in shaving cream.
“Jesus,” he mumbled.
“Firming mousse,” she explained the shit on her face. “You want breakfast?”
He was starved.
She was in a nightie.
Was she intending to cook in that nightie?
“No,” he answered.
“I do and you’re covering my ass so if you don’t eat, you get to watch me cook…” she tipped her head and smiled at him through foamy goo that was slowly melting into just goo, “then eat.”
He realized, with the smile, and the way he was noticing her words sounded funny, that she had something on her teeth.
“What’s wrong with your mouth?” he asked.
“Whitening strips.” She bobbed out a hip, a move that felt like a sharp tug on his balls, and sassed, “Honey, all this,” she swept an arm down her length, “doesn’t come for free by any definition of that word.”
With that she turned and bounced out of the room, the satin hugging her ass, the cream edge waving like an invitation.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.
He had to get up and follow her.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck…him.
Mo got up and followed her.
His legs longer, he caught up with her on the stairs.
She headed direct to the kitchen.
“Nespresso?” she asked, but she had a sort of lisp so it came out, “Nethpretho?”
Christ.
He wanted to laugh.
Laugh while walking across the kitchen to her, dropping to his knees and shoving his face under that lace.
“I’ll make mine after you have yours,” he replied.
“Coffee after whitening strips,” Coffee after whitening thtripth. “Least twenty more minutes. I’ll make yours now. Cream?”
“Yeah,” he grunted, leaning a hip against the counter opposite where she was and watching her move around her kitchen.
He hoped dressing came after whitening strips too.
“Sugar?”
“No.”
“Good boy,” she murmured, opening a cover and grabbing a big clear bowl filled with pods.
He didn’t want to be her good boy.
He wanted to be her good boy.
She turned to him. “I do natural cream. I try not to fill my body with too many chemicals.”
Just strap them on your teeth and slather them on your face.
He did not say that.
He dipped his chin.
She got the coffee brewing, turned and leaned her back against the counter.
“Egg white omelet with herbs, mushrooms and machego. Turkey sausages. Hash browns. You wanna change your mind about breakfast?”
Abso-fucking-lutely.
His stomach nearly growled.
He just nodded once.
She gave him a foggy-toothed smile and set about m
oving around the kitchen again, getting out skillets, bowls, a whisk.
Apparently, she was going to cook in that nightie.
Thank Christ for the goo on her face.
Before she really got down to business, she handed him his coffee and announced she was taking away the only defense he had by declaring, “I gotta wash this off my face. I’ll get on it when I come back.”
And then she was strutting out of the room.
The goo was going.
Terrific.
Mo pulled air into his nose and assessed the situation.
He’d locked up last night.
She had a security system.
It was on for doors and windows.
Before she got up, he’d done a walkthrough. Doors locked. Windows closed and locked. Blinds down. Security system functioning. Backyard empty. Cars parked at the front empty or folks getting in them, going about their normal business.
He could let her out of his sight for long enough for her to wash her face.
But after taking a sip of his coffee, he set it aside and walked to the foot of the stairs.
It took maybe five minutes, the last thirty seconds of those he considered jogging up to check on her, before she showed. Face clean and gleaming. Tits jiggling as she danced down the steps.
She stopped four from the bottom.
“If I can rinse my face without you in the next room, why can’t you shower with me somewhere else in the house?”
“I’m vulnerable when I shower. And unarmed. I’m not when you rinse your face.”
Another big, blurred smile and an, “Ah.”
Then more jiggling and dancing down the steps.
He’d lived a good life.
Clean.
Taken care of his mom and sisters.
Put up with them even after the taking care of them part was no longer needed (and they were a lot, every one of them).
Enlisted and was honorably discharged.
He did right by Hawk, never wheedled out of a mission (something that would get his ass canned, but that wasn’t why he didn’t do it), always followed orders, never fucked up.
The two long-term girlfriends he’d had, he’d treated them like gold. Living with five women, you learned a lot of shit. And he’d given it all and then some to the women he’d claimed. It had been them who’d scraped him off for something better.
So no cheating. No excessive gambling or drinking. Absolutely no drugs. No nights out carousing with his boys and not checking in. No getting up in their shit about how expensive their handbags were or why they couldn’t rinse a damned plate and put it in the dishwasher rather than leaving it in the sink.
How he’d earned this punishment with Lottie, he did not know.
Maybe it was beating the shit out of his sonuvabitch dad.
Yeah, that had to be it.
He followed her back into the kitchen and she did her thing, in her nightie, while he watched, and it was while she was sautéing the mushrooms, and he was taking a sip of coffee, when she asked, “What do you think about my tits?”
He nearly did a spit take.
To avoid that, he swallowed hard, not like he was swallowing coffee, like he was swallowing a boulder, and he stared at her.
She was at the stove, wooden spoon in her hand, but twisted to look at him. “I’m going natural. Next month.”
He tried not to look at her tits.
Swear to God he did.
He couldn’t not look at her tits.
He then forced his eyes to her face.
He knew her tits had to be fake.
Still, they were fucking awesome.
“Your body, your choice.”
“Do you think I’ll lose customers?” Do you think I’ll loth cuthtomerth?
Christ, she was too much.
He really should not have beaten the shit out of his dad.
“No.”
“That’s what I think.” She turned back to the stove and fussed with the mushrooms.
“You want me to make you coffee?” he offered to have something to do that was not looking at her ass, her legs, her hair, her neck, her tits or her at all.
“Yeah. By the time it’s done, strips will be about ready to come off. Splash of cream.”
He moved to where he’d seen she kept all the stuff for coffee.
It was done brewing and he was sliding her mug on the counter by the stove next to her when he made mistake number five in his job protecting Charlotte McAlister.
“You don’t need the strips, the goo or the tits, Lottie,” he told her.
There was more to that message, he just didn’t verbalize it.
She was beautiful and would be beautiful without all that shit.
She got the rest of his message and he knew it when her head slowly turned, tipped back (and then back some more) and she stared into his eyes looking shocked AF.
“You gotta know that,” he continued.
And she did. For shit’s sake, her living was her looks and her body.
“Maybe,” she said in a sweet voice that played all kinds of havoc with his crotch. “But it’s nice to hear it.”
“Just sayin’,” he muttered, moving away from her again.
She turned to face him. “You want toast?”
If she was going to ask him to make it, and it meant getting close to her again, the answer to that was a big, fat no.
“No.”
“Good. Bread is bad,” she declared and shifted her attention back to the stove.
If she thought that, did she even have any?
He’d learned therefore he didn’t open his mouth to ask.
Mushrooms done, she got rid of her whitening strips right there in the kitchen before she started on the omelets, all this while the fresh potato hash browns from a bag were sizzling in olive oil next to turkey sausage.
Mo was a doer so he couldn’t stand still for long.
This meant he got out the plates and cutlery, opening and closing doors and drawers to find it, and brought them to her.
She served up and he took his plate and fork all the way (which wasn’t a long way, and that sucked) across to the opposite counter from her.
Lottie put the sole of her foot against the ankle of her other leg and tucked in at the counter.
Mo did the same, without the foot action.
“So which branch of the military were you in?”
“Army,” he muttered, shoving omelet in his mouth.
Well, hell.
It tasted good.
That took chops, making an egg white omelet taste good.
“How long?”
“Full term.”
“Did you, uh…see some action?”
Mo turned his head to her, got a load of legs, nightie, tits, hair and a pretty face with a hesitant and earnest expression on it.
And he’d had enough.
More than enough.
He wasn’t playing this game and it was seriously fucked up she was trying to make him do that.
He was done.
“We’re not doin’ this,” he announced.
“Mo—”
“No,” he clipped. “And rules. You put some goddamn clothes on while I’m with you. I know this is an inconvenience and you know I’m gettin’ paid to do this job. But have some respect and cut a man some slack. You know precisely how fuckable you are. Every night, you dance, and you got a huge room full of men gagging for it. Do you honestly need that in your kitchen?”
The look on her face made him wish he could net the words that just came out of his mouth and set them on fire.
She blanked it right before she retorted, “I think I prefer Quiet Mo.”
“Great. I prefer that too. So let’s do that.”
“Fine,” she spat.
He dipped his chin.
She picked up her plate and took it to the apron-front sink which was two feet in front of him. She then dumped the whole thing in it, hardly eaten omelet and the rest sliding off onto t
he white enamel.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” she declared. “I suppose, cutting you some slack, you don’t need to be around for that?”
“No,” he ground out.
“Awesome,” she snapped.
And then she marched out of the room, every muscle in her body screaming she was pissed off.
Or hurt.
Fantastic.
Mo drew in another breath through his nose.
Then he finished his breakfast and cleaned the kitchen.
Chapter Five
Trading Up
Lottie
Things did not go well after Mo was a supreme asshole.
If I wanted to look on the Brightside (which I did not), him making it plain how fuckable he thought I was, was not a bad thing.
Him completely missing the pass I was throwing at him was.
I mean, did he honestly think I was wearing my nightie making breakfast with a man I hadn’t slept with just so I could be a huge-ass tease?
No!
I wanted the big lug to ask me out.
Jerk.
Asshole.
Fuckface.
Obviously, considering I was an adult, I realized a route to rectifying this situation was to explain where I was at, and considering he thought I was fuckable, he’d probably get with the program.
Fat chance of that.
I couldn’t be an adult at the best of times, even actually being an adult.
Sure. I got to work on time.
I paid my bills.
I kept my house.
I got oil changes when I was supposed to (though I thought that was a huge scam, every three months? come on).
What I did not do, for three days, was talk to Mo.
Yeah.
Not very adult.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly true.
We talked because I was my mother’s daughter. I couldn’t start my day with someone in my house silently trailing me and not offer him coffee.
So I’d said, “Coffee?” to him the next two mornings after he’d been a consummate jackass.
Other than that…
No.
Why?
Two reasons.
One, I was the kind of woman who held a grudge. I just did. I knew that wasn’t right. It had cost me friendships and boyfriends and maybe I should work on that.
But not with Mo.
Oh no.
Not with Mo.
Two, because he didn’t like strippers.
Quiet Man Page 6