by Abby Knox
What the fuck is going on with me?
Dash trudged down the street quickly and headed toward his basement apartment.
What had he been thinking, trying to kiss Harper? She had not enjoyed it the first time, judging by the way she marched off. Why had he wanted to do it again?
As he made his way down the street, he passed by the school they'd both attended as kids. Even back then, they couldn't stand each other. Yet she was always around, just on the edge of his peripheral vision, waiting for the chance to get him riled up about one thing or another.
Dash needed to go home and get some rest before his shift that night.
By the time he arrived at his apartment, he was fully engulfed in his obsessive thoughts, giving in to them instead of trying to put that infuriating tiny woman out of his head. He unlocked the temperamental lock by sheer force of will and his meanest face. Sometimes that worked.
He looked around his dwelling, and it was like a slap of reality. He loved his childhood home, but this was not going to work in the long term.
He had no business going around kissing women when he was dwelling in his mom's basement.
He paid rent and then some; his job at Crow Bar and the factory in the suburbs helped support his mom more than adequately. He liked being close to his mom, who was now a widow. He needed to look out for her. But his needs were changing and growing, and he hadn't been paying close enough attention to that part of his life.
He could do better with his life. He had to do better if he wanted to settle down.
Did he want to settle down?
Or was he just all turned upside down from that encounter with Harper?
God, she was exasperating.
He hadn't set out that day to kiss her, but she'd started it, just like she started all of her bullshit. She'd tilted her face up first, hadn't she?
In the bathroom, Dash unbuttoned his shirt in the mirror and saw a couple of red splotches where Harper had thumped him.
The memory of her small fists and how surprisingly strong she was, made his dick hard all over again. Just that tiny amount of physical contact had gotten him all riled up. He didn't want her to hit him, but then a part of him did. Some dark part of him that liked the verbal sparring also kind of dug the idea of her beating his chest, pushing against him. Resisting.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Dash?"
That was not who he was. He didn't chase after women who didn't want him. He did not and would not ever hold someone against their will.
But another part of him was emerging, and it was time for a reckoning. He had to admit that he liked riling her up, and he liked it when she did the same to him. He enjoyed watching her look at him like he was out of line. He relished the moments when she shouted at him. Insulted him. Beat him.
All of these things together made his dick so hard he could not stand it.
"Fuck me," he growled, unzipping his jeans and pulling out his hard, overheated dick. He stared in the mirror at the marks on his chest, cursed, and pumped himself…wondering how she would react if she knew what he was doing.
Chapter Six
Harper
* * *
Sitting with the copy editor and going over his questions was not as bad as Harper had feared. She watched the entire production process alongside the staffers who flowed stories on the page, created graphics, inserted photos, wrote headlines. She even learned a lot of new jargon.
After that, she met briefly with Greg to talk about the possibility of writing a story about the sinkhole on Tenth Street. "I think it's a great opportunity to investigate why the city is so slow to respond to problems in some of the less affluent neighborhoods," she said.
Greg nodded enthusiastically, but there was something behind his eyes that looked sad.
"That would be a great story," he said. "Maybe someday, when the climate around here changes, we'll be able to—"
But Greg never finished that sentence, as he was interrupted by one of the press crew with an urgent question. "Sorry, gotta go," he said, looking nervously at his phone. He told her he'd see her bright and early on Monday and that she'd done a great job on her first day.
Harper had hoped to hash over her day more, but she figured they'd have more time to do that on Monday.
When she gathered up her things to leave, she ran almost headlong into the news desk receptionist. "Have you seen Greg?" he asked. "The mayor's office is on the phone."
Harper nodded. "Yeah, I think he had something urgent in the press room."
The receptionist frowned. "Well, he has a call with the mayor's office scheduled, and he's boiling about something."
Harper had a sixth sense at that moment that maybe Greg had been trying to avoid speaking to the mayor's office for some reason. "Oh," she said. "Uh, send it to my desk; I'll take the call."
Maybe I can get a quick quote from the mayor about the sinkhole situation, she thought.
The receptionist, who looked like he just wanted to get out of there and go home, shrugged and transferred the call.
"Who is this?" The gruff man on the other end was not the mayor; of that, Harper was sure. She watched the man like a hawk on TV every night; she knew what he sounded like.
She introduced herself and informed the person on the other end that she was filling in for Greg, who had an emergency.
"I'll bet he did. This is Mayor Wilhelm's chief of staff, and he wants me to send the message to Greg that he needs to tell that red-haired little piece of ass to stop sticking her nose where it don't belong."
Harper gathered many things from this statement. One, the person on the other end had no idea he was speaking directly to the nosy red-haired piece of ass. Two, there was no way anybody legitimately working for the mayor would ever talk like that.
Not wanting to give herself away but also still feeling extremely curious, as was her nature, Harper egged him on. Right after attaching the old-timey telephone recording device to the receiver. She stalled long enough to get it working and did a little celebration dance when she saw the little red light flicker to life. "Remind me again who you're referring to and what she's not supposed to stick her nose in?"
She braced herself for the person on the other end to lose his temper. She knew his type, and his kind was most definitely not a pencil pusher at City Hall. That was a wise guy of some sort or another. There were just too many to name these days.
Instead of blowing up, the voice dropped to a deep register and went quieter. The hairs on the back of Harper's neck stood up.
"Listen very carefully, sugar tits. Those tunnels will get filled when they get filled. Streets get fixed when they get fixed. It takes money, and we don't got it yet. You tell Greg the mayor's office called to remind him who runs this city. It ain't that rag of a newspaper. You tell Greg, and have him tell that little chippy, to leave it alone or end up so far underground nobody will ever find 'em. You tell him that."
Click.
Harper sat back down at her desk and downloaded the audio recording to her work-issued laptop, attached it to an email to the real mayor's office, and hit send, with the words, "Is this how your staff addresses the public? Please reply with a comment for a story I'm writing. You have 48 hours until I go to press. Thanks!"
After such a long-ass day, Harper knew she should just go home and spend the weekend resting and avoiding Dash's lips. Monday would undoubtedly bring fallout over her email to the mayor's office.
Still, her car seemed to drive itself to the place her treasonous body could not resist going to.
"You can't be here, Harper."
Harper leaned against the bar and addressed the bartender, ignoring the tall beanstalk of a man glowering down at her with his silly Crow Bar Brute Squad tee-shirt stretched over his ripped chest.
"Griff? Do you want me to leave?"
Griff, the bartender, handed Harper her usual—a whiskey sour made with her family's special recipe—and said, "Nah. I don't want to piss off our bourbon suppli
er."
Harper took her drink and swiveled toward Dash, shooting him a victorious grin.
Dash shook his head. "Unbelievable."
"Look," Harper said. "I just came to tell you I'm sorry I hit you."
He glared at her. "Oh, that's right. You did hit me."
Harper looked around and noticed that the pool tables were surprisingly unused. The usual rowdy types had taken the night off, she supposed. "Can we go somewhere and talk?"
Dash looked down at her, and his glower turned into more of a suspicious frown. She stared back, mimicking his face.
"Fine. Let's go."
Leaving his station, Dash led her to the nook in the brick wall around the corner from the pool tables. The spot was a favorite for the Brute Squad when they needed some one-on-one time with a customer. It was shadowy and oddly quiet.
"I'm sorry I kissed you like that," Dash started.
Harper asked, "Why, how did you intend to kiss me?"
"I mean without asking permission."
She sighed dramatically. "I accept. And I'm sorry I hit you."
"Don't be sorry for hitting an asshole who kisses you without permission. You should always defend yourself."
She looked at him oddly. "But you didn't. Not the first time. I kinda wanted to kiss you, too. It makes sense that you'd want to do it again."
He ignored this and went on. "I'm sorry for telling you the world revolves around you."
"I know. I knew you were sorry as soon as you said it."
"Then why did you stomp off after I said that?"
"I was still mad about it," she said, taking another sip of her drink. The aged liquid warmed her insides, lubing her up for whatever else she and Dash needed to discuss.
"But you're not mad now?" Dash asked.
"Not really. Truce?"
"Truce. But you can't keep coming around here, Harper."
Exasperated by his one-track mind, she blustered, "I don't even have a petition this time!"
Dash shook his head and lowered the register of his voice. "That's not why."
"Then why don't you fucking tell me?"
"Because it's not safe!"
She reared back. "Excuse me? Why is everybody suddenly trying to protect me? Are you telling me you know something about the disappearance of those women—"
Dash cut her off. "Did I say I did? All I said was—"
"You said it wasn't safe. That implies that there are sketchy characters around. Unless, of course, there's some trap door underneath me, and I'm about to vanish into the gaping maw."
Dash snorted. "You're so weird!"
Harper chuckled. "You mean I'm funny."
"Whatever."
"You know, I owe you another apology. I shouldn't have called you guys gorillas."
Dash dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "I didn't even register that, I—"
Suddenly, his eyes cut to the end of the hallway.
"What is it?" Harper asked.
"Nothing," he said, grabbing Harper under the arm and dragging her into the storeroom. "But I'm serious when I say you can't be here talking about that shit."
"What are you doing? Where are you taking me?"
Dash grunted in frustration. "There's only one way to shut you up."
Her traitorous sex responded to his gruffness, plus the hitch in his breath when his lips slid against hers again. For the second time in one day, Dash's mouth claimed hers in a forceful kiss.
She knew she should not let this continue. But there was something about being back there, in the storeroom, in the dark, with this angry, inexplicably stressed-out man who turned her crank. Also, that day had been the longest fucking Friday in her entire life, and she was bone-deep tired; yet these stolen moments woke her right up. Those juicy lips gave her life.
The two of them wasted no time in sliding their tongues across each other. The warm, wet, urgent kiss spiked all of Harper's feelings. Her stomach fluttered. Her heart pounded. Her palms itched to grab him and yank him closer. Her legs wanted to climb him like a tree. But she didn't know if that's what he was trying to get to at the moment. She wondered how they had jumped from apologizing to arguing again to kissing in the storeroom. But after that day, she needed the physical outlet. Harper craved someone and something familiar. But he knew her and understood her. He accepted her exactly as she was, even if he didn't like her nosy behavior.
The kissing felt like a reminder of all of that. Dash smelled like stale beer, and his beard needed some serious moisturizing, but everything about it felt strangely right.
The kissing felt like coming home.
Her hands traveled over his shoulders, neck, and everywhere else as the kissing carried on. He groaned softly into her mouth when her hands grazed his chest.
Dash's hands had been cupping her head but then moved down to hold on to her hips. He pulled her in tight against him, and the warmth of his body radiated into hers.
The temperature in the room seemed to rise and kept rising the longer they kissed. Soon, Dash had Harper pressed so close she could once again feel his erection. Her mind told her hands to reach down and touch it. Her body ached for his hands to touch her everywhere.
The excitement went through the roof when she realized Dash was going to try to touch her breasts. His hands seemed to hesitate as they massaged her somewhere around her ribcage.
She didn't know why he should hesitate. From her understanding, the bouncers made out with people at work all the time.
Harper pulled away from the kiss. "Is this happening? At your work?"
Dash only answered with a "Yup. Unless you want me to stop."
She shook her head and said, "No. Keep going."
Dash wasted no time after that. He caressed her breast; the contact made her gasp, and he groaned in pleasure. She understood that reaction. Her tits weren't huge, but they were pleasant to touch. Even Harper herself enjoyed feeling them when she masturbated; she couldn't remember the last time someone else had manhandled them.
When Dash's thumb grazed her nipple, her body twitched, spiking his intensity into another level. He pressed her against a pallet of boxes, driving his pelvis against hers.
His tongue dove in deeply, then pulled out seductively, daring hers to follow.
He planted one hand on her ribs and the other in her hair, cupping the back of her head. It would almost seem sweet if it weren't clear he was using that as a support to drive his tongue farther down her throat. Not that she minded.
God, how long had it been? Who was she kidding? Nobody had ever touched her like that. She was no virgin, but heavy petting in the past was a means to an end. Dash kissed and touched her like he was sending a message. And that message was "Mine."
God, she wanted that hand on her ribs to go back up and do what came naturally.
As if he read her mind, he was back to cupping her breast, this time squeezing it in response to her sudden intake of breath. He coaxed out her nipple with the strumming of his fingers, provoking an audible moan from her.
She'd refused to let herself moan until now, even though every cell in her body needed that release. When she had no will left to hold back, she sighed, and her noises released a floodgate of passion in Dash. Suddenly her legs were wrapped around him, and together they jostled the pallet. Their tongues continued their mad, erotic dance, lashing each other in deep, wet kisses.
He drove his pelvis against hers; through their jeans, she felt his arousal. The hard rod in there was because of her. Her? Wow.
Then she had the thought, Are we going to do it, right here in the storeroom? Was that what he meant to her? Was that what she meant to him? Did she care? Harper rolled her hips into his, and he pulled away from the kiss.
Dash stared at her so intensely, his eyes could have lit up the room with their fire.
He wanted her to see his face when he smashed into her like that. He moved his hips slowly. Almost filthily. He wanted her to feel every inch of him.
Harper fisted the fro
nt of his tee-shirt. When he responded by emitting a guttural growl, she asked, "Sorry, did I pinch you?"
"Yeah. Do it again."
Heat crackled through her. She was relieved it was so dark in that room so he couldn't see her blushing. With her hands on his chest, she squeezed again, more demandingly, gathering more material into her fist. Dash growled again and rolled so firmly into her pelvis she felt the friction of his body against her clit.
"Lynwood Dashell Fitzgerald."
She knew she shouldn't use his full name like that; he hated it. But she was dead curious about the physiological reaction. The way he reacted to her aggression fascinated her.
His vocal response came through gritted teeth. Harper could almost see the way his veins protruded in his neck and forehead. "My name is Dash, you rude little…ugh!"
Her body shivered at the way he rammed her; if they'd been naked from the waist down, she was sure his dick would be splitting her in two. Harper had to bite down on her lip to keep from moaning.
She rolled into him once more, squeaking when he tweaked her nipple with two of his fingers.
They were just trying to outdo each other now, seeing who could do more damage. Dash could split her in two if he wanted to.
Dash released a grunt from deep in his chest, let go of her tit to pull her flush against him. He thrust forward with his most immense effort yet, and then…
The sound of a glass bottle shattering broke apart their embrace. "What the fuck?" Another crash followed, and then another and another in quick succession.
When Harper had gathered her thoughts, she realized that their grappling against the pallet had pushed off an entire box of bourbon whiskey. Each bottle toppled to the floor of the storeroom, one after another.
Amber liquid pooled under their feet.
"Fuck," he erupted, then planted another long kiss to her lips, as if he wanted to make it clear he could ignore that disaster and keep it going.
She put her hand on his chest and pulled away. All she could think about was the scent of her family whiskey filling the air of the entire room, and it reminded her of working…and of her moms. "I'll help you clean it up."