The Complete P.S. Series

by Renshaw, Winter

  My face turns numb. Shock? Disbelief maybe? I’ve never gone off on anyone like that before, but I had to say those things. He needed to hear them. People like that need to hear words like this.

  “Jesus.” He exhales. “You’re, uh, you’re kind of intense when you’re angry.”

  “Now you’re just being offensive.”

  “Offensive?” He jerks away, fighting a smirk.

  “Yes. I’m trying to be real with you and you’re not taking me seriously,” I say. “And now you’re laughing at me.”

  His lips press together, like he’s stifling another grin, and I have half a mind to slap him and I’ve never slapped anyone before.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just hard when you’re trying to be so angry and all I can think about is how you’re kind of sexy when you’re angry.”

  My jaw hangs.

  Somewhere in the past five minutes we clearly took a wrong turn.

  Or he’s severely under the influence.

  Yeah. Alcohol. It’s got to be the alcohol talking.

  “You ever get tired of being like this?” I ask him. “So … douche-y?”

  “You ever get tired of being so perfect all the time?” he asks. “Clearly you never do anything wrong or have a bad fucking day in your life because if you did, you wouldn’t be so quick to write off someone’s apology.”

  “I’m not perfect, Isaiah. I’m nice. There’s a difference. I treat people the way I want to be treated.” I stand, my finger pointed in his face, and while I’m trying not to raise my voice, I can’t help it. My blood is boiling, my skin on fire, my palms aching to smack him across his impossibly gorgeous face. “I’d rather be nice than a fucking prick like you.”

  In an instant, I lose it.

  I just want him out of my space.

  I lose all control and I do something I’ve never done in my life.

  And by the time I open my eyes, I confirm that I have indeed thrown my ice water in his face.

  Oops.

  The two of us are wearing matching horrified expressions and Isaiah looks like he’s two seconds from uttering some kind of profanity in my direction when a man’s voice booms in our ears, “Enough!”

  We both turn to find the six-foot-seven behemoth standing over us, his arms folded across his barrel chest as he peers down his aquiline nose.

  “You guys are done,” he says, pointing toward the door with a meaty finger. The muscles bulging out of his black “security” t-shirt are enough to make me not question his authority. “You’re out of here.”

  Isaiah and I exchange looks and despite the fact that his gray t-shirt is drenched and his hair is ruined and I still have the urge to smack him across his arrogant mouth, he’s still annoyingly attractive.

  “We’re fine,” he tells the security guard. “She just got a little worked up, but we’re cool now. Right, Maritza?”

  “Yep. We’re cool,” I say, forcing my voice steady despite the fact that my entire body is trembling with little adrenaline-fueled aftershocks.

  The giant’s expression doesn’t soften or budge and he moves behind us, herding us toward the exit.

  “Are we really being kicked out?” I ask.

  The man doesn’t answer. Isaiah stays quiet, respectful. Hopefully with his connections he can get us back in … then again, he doesn’t exactly owe me any favors and we’re not exactly on pleasant terms right now.

  The second we’re outside, the door slams behind us. Isaiah checks it, pushing on the handle but with no use. We’re locked out.

  “Hope it was worth it,” he says under his breath. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he makes a call, then sends a text, then shoves it back in.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Trying to get us back in, but Case isn’t answering.” He runs his hand through his dark hair before staring toward a traffic light in the distance. “He probably doesn’t have his phone on him. Great. This is really fucking great.”

  “How was I supposed to know calling you a prick would get us both kicked out? What the hell kind of archaic rule is that?”

  “You didn’t just call me a prick. You yelled and pointed your finger in my face and then dumped your water on me. The situation was escalating. They just did what they had to do before it got out of hand.”

  Shaking my head—at him, at the situation, and at myself—I dig into my tote to locate my phone so I can order an Uber and get the hell out of here …

  … only I don’t feel the familiar glassy screen or smooth plastic case.

  Stepping beneath a street lamp, I dig deeper, unearthing my wallet and various lip balms and travel-sized perfumes—but no phone.

  “Shit. I left my phone in there.” I rise on my toes, staring at the blackened windows of The Mintz and the closed sign on the door. A moment later, I’m pounding on the glass. I wait before pounding again. And again. And again. They’re either ignoring me or they can’t hear me.

  Isaiah stands back, quiet and contemplative.

  I’m sure he doesn’t want to give me a ride home any more than I don’t want to ask him for one, but right now I’m stranded.

  “Is there someone you can call?” he asks, yawning.

  Exhaling, I shake my head. “I don’t have anyone’s numbers memorized.”

  “Seriously?”

  I wave my hand at him. “Now’s not the time.”

  Digging into his pocket, he retrieves a set of keys, lifting them. “I’ll take you home.”

  Eyes wide, I lift my brows. “You sure? I live an hour from here. And you live an hour from me. You won’t get home until after three AM.”

  “I’m not going to leave you here, stranded in downtown LA,” he says. A Yellow Cab whirs past us and we both steal a glance. “You’re not taking a taxi. It’d cost you an arm and a leg to get home from here. Come on.”

  He looks both ways before darting across the street, and I follow, keeping a few steps behind.

  “What about my phone?” I ask.

  “I’ll text Case and see if he can have someone look for it.”

  His white, dented Porsche stands out amongst the flashier cars in the parking lot, but in a good way. Painted in warm moonlight under a starless sky, we hit the road with windows cranked and tunes playing softly from his old speakers. Sinking into the worn, buttery leather passenger seat and decide that maybe … just maybe … he’s not all that bad.

  4

  Isaiah

  “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. And I still think you’re a miserable asshole,” she says as she leans over me and punches in a code to a gate outside a sprawling Brentwood estate. The smell of her citrus perfume mixes with the sweet tang of liquor, filling my lungs until she returns to her seat. The gate swings open and I pull ahead. “But you were yawning every five minutes the whole way here and I can’t, in good conscience, let you drive another hour home. You’re crashing on my couch tonight.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” She points to the left. “Around back there’s a guesthouse. You can park out front.”

  Passing a circle drive and a bubbling fountain and rounding the rambling hacienda-style mansion, I spot a smaller version of the main house positioned next to a turquoise pool lit up like Christmas for no other reason than to look pretty. First impressions are everything out here amongst the rich and fabulous locals.

  I have no idea how some diner waitress can afford to live in a guesthouse next to an estate like this, but I’ve seen crazier things in LA, and to be honest, it’s none of my damn concern anyway.

  I let the engine idle as she climbs out but when she realizes I’m not following, she crouches down, sticks her head back inside the car, and reaches for the ignition, yanking my keys out.

  “Come on,” she says, not giving me a choice.

  My eyes are heavy and a cool pillow sounds like heaven right about now, so I surrender and follow her inside.

  The place is dark, window shades pulled. There’s a faint light f
rom the kitchen leaking toward the entryway and living room, as if someone left a bathroom light on, but other than that I can’t make out much besides outlines until my eyes adjust.

  “There’s the couch.” She points toward the living room as I kick off my shoes. “Let me grab you a pillow and blanket.”

  The gentle tinker and click of nails on hardwood precede some small furry critter trotting toward me.

  “Oh, that’s Murphy. My roommate’s dog,” she says.

  I glance down at what appears to be a little pug with a smooshy, alien-like face and eyes round as saucers. He pants, head tilted like he’s confused as to why I won’t pick him up.

  “Come here, Murph. Let’s go back to Melrose’s room.” She swoops down to grab him before telling me she’ll be right back, and I hear her open and close a couple of doors.

  I take a seat, running my palms along what feels like velvet. The tick of some clock in another room echoes in the dark, quiet space. Several minutes later, Maritza returns, a folded blanket in her arm topped with a white pillow.

  “Thanks.” I take them from her and begin converting her sofa to a makeshift bed. All I need are a few hours of shut eye and then I’ll be out of her hair before the sun comes up.

  Maritza saunters toward the kitchen a second later, opening the fridge to retrieve two bottles of water, and it’s only then I notice she’s wearing a skimpy, damn near transparent pink tank top with matching shorts. She must have changed when she grabbed my bedding. How I missed this, I have no idea, but now I can’t stop staring at her long legs, the curve of her lower back, and the way her top clings to her perfect tits.

  I shake myself out of it when she returns and hands me a bottle of Fiji water.

  It’s funny … an hour ago she was ripping my head off and spitting down my neck and now she’s doing everything she can to ensure that I’m comfortable and can get home safely.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask.

  “Don’t get it twisted. The pillows and blankets are so you don’t drool all over my velvet sofa cushions and the water is so you don’t wake me up in the middle of the night stumbling through my kitchen just because you’re thirsty.”

  “Thank you,” I say, silently admiring her comeback. I deserved that.

  “Sorry about your shirt,” she says a second later. “You want a different one?”

  I shake my head. “It’s dry now.”

  My eyes adjust enough that I can see the velvet I’ll be sleeping on tonight is a vibrant shade of what appears to be emerald green. I’ve slept a lot of places in my life—buses, airports, pup tents, floors … but never on the emerald green velvet sofa of a complete stranger who served me pancakes and rear ended me and then threw a glass of water at me after I so generously secured her a VIP pass to see her favorite band perform.

  “Thanks again for the ticket,” she says, one hand resting on her hip. The hem of her tank top lifts up just enough to expose a hint of soft skin. “I had a good time. All things considered.”

  I smirk. “All things considered meaning … me.”

  Maritza rolls her eyes. “Basically.”

  “You still mad at me?”

  “I can’t be mad at you, Isaiah. I don’t know you.” She exhales, head tilting and dark hair curtaining the side of her face.

  Part of me can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had this night gone in a different direction and she hadn’t blown up at me. Maybe I had her all wrong. Here I thought she was this doormat, this Pollyanna ray of sunshine but it turns out there might be more to her than meets the eye.

  Not to mention the best sex I ever had was with a girl who hated my fucking guts.

  Talk about fire and ice.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, shifting as she adjusts the fallen spaghetti strap on her left shoulder.

  I don’t answer, I simply shrug. What am I supposed to tell her? I’m looking at her because she’s standing there in sheer pajamas and I’m a fucking red-blooded American man who gets instantly aroused by the fact that she doesn’t want me?

  Maritza rolls her eyes. “What are you thinking about?”

  “You don’t want to know.” I release a held breath and my gaze falls to her full mouth for a fraction of a second. But I’m baiting her. You tell a girl she doesn’t want to know what you’re thinking and it’s only going to make her want to know that much more.

  Reverse psychology 101.

  “Try me.” Her head tilts and I decide it’s adorable as fuck.

  Yeah. This girl is sexy. I’ll admit it. When I first saw her in the restaurant two days ago, I silently appreciated her finely crafted exterior, the curves and the lingering glances, but a couple of interactions with her and I knew she wasn’t the kind of girl I was in the market for, so I pushed the thought from my mind.

  But this … this is a pleasant little twist in our strange little story.

  My fingers form a peak as I blow a breath through them and our eyes catch. “I was thinking about how if you were any other girl and you didn’t make it crystal clear that you despise me, I’d have kissed you by now.”

  The silence between us is palpable until she swallows and clears her throat and breaks eye contact. Her hand reaches for her neck as she focuses on the rug between us.

  “Look. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in your own home,” I say, resting my elbows on my knees. “So … I guess this is goodnight.”

  She doesn’t leave, doesn’t so much as move a muscle.

  “I don’t despise you, Isaiah,” she says, voice half broken. “Actually, I was thinking earlier … that I might have misjudged you.”

  She has my full attention. If she’s saying what I think she’s saying … I think I just found my second wind.

  “It’s funny.” Her lips bend upward for a second before she lowers her chin and looks away. “There was a moment tonight when I wasn’t thinking about slapping you across the face, and instead I was thinking about what it’d be like to kiss you.”

  I smirk, like a lion who has his prey exactly where he wants her. “I bet you were.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I feel like you were overcompensating all night,” I say, shrugging.

  “Overcompensating for what?”

  “The fact that you can’t stand me but you’re crazy attracted to me.”

  “Cocky much?”

  “Nope. Just perceptive.”

  “Anyway, you’re right. I’m attracted to you and I can’t stand you.” Her arms fold across her chest.

  I rise, slow and careful, coming toward her, bringing my hand toward her face and cupping her pointed chin, I angle her mouth into the perfect position. “All loathing aside, do you want to know what’s it like? Or do you want to spend the rest of your life wondering?”

  Her cherry lips twist and she exhales through her nose.

  “You infuriate me,” she says, our eyes holding. “But at the same time … you kind of turn me on. And that makes it really hard for me to walk away from you right now.”

  “Then don’t.” I twist a strand of her dark hair around my fingers before letting it fall to her soft shoulder.

  Her perfect teeth rake across her lower lip and she drags in a slow breath, a wordless surrender of sorts.

  “For the record, sex with you is going to mean absolutely nothing to me,” she says, head cocked and eyes playful.

  “As it should.”

  “And this is a one-time thing.” She lifts a single, manicured finger.

  “Perfect.”

  Dragging in a ragged breath, she tilts her mouth toward mine, waiting … almost hesitating, as if I’m some fire she might burn her finger on if she isn’t careful.

  Smart girl.

  My hands drop to her hips, pulling her body against mine, and I crush her full lips as her body melts against me.

  I’ve been told I have that effect on people—I can make them love me or hate me. Sometimes both at the same
time. It’s a blessing and a curse, but mostly a blessing of the convenient variety. Most of the time I can use it to my advantage.

  The taste of toothpaste on her tongue mixes with a hint of the sweet liquor she was sipping on all night, and when her hands lift to the back of my neck and her nails trace against my scalp, my cock strains, growing harder with each graze of our mouths.

  Sliding my palms down the sides of her thighs, I lift her, wrapping her long legs around my hips as I carry her to the sofa and lower myself, keeping her straddled in my lap.

  Her mouth presses against the underside of my jaw, peppering hot kisses into my flesh as she trails down my right shoulder, her nails digging into my skin. Maritza’s hips rock against mine, grinding on my cock, tempering the ache.

  Taking the flimsy hem of her tank top between my fingers, I lift her top over her head before cupping two of the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen in my life. I twist a single pink bud between my thumb and forefinger before lowering my mouth and giving it a taste.

  Maritza tosses her head back, slow and intentional as she offers her body to me. When she sits up and our eyes meet, she reaches for my shirt, tearing it off before running her palms down my chest and abs, her fingers tracing the grooves and ridges of each muscle.

  “You’re so … hard,” she says, bending forward and tracing the tattoo above my heart with a single finger. “What does it mean?”

  “Nothing,” I say, sliding a finger beneath the waistband of her shorts. “It means absolutely nothing.”

  Tugging them down her thighs and letting the scent of her arousal fill my lungs, I switch places with her, letting her lie down as I grab a rubber from my wallet and unzip my pants.

  “Holy shit,” she says when she sees what I’m working with.

  I smirk, proud. The reaction never gets old no matter how many times I see it.

  Sitting up, she takes my cock in her hand, pumping the length as she struggles to wrap her soft palm all the way around it. Bringing her mouth to the tip, she swallows as much as she can fit, her tongue circling the tip before swirling just beneath the head.