Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel

by Erin St. Charles

  "Yes, we have no obligations tonight," Hannah overshares. "We're going on a pub crawl. It's Samantha's birthday today."

  "It's your birthday?" Lincoln says, an odd expression in his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Oh, it's not that big of a deal," I say. "I never make a fuss over my birthday…"

  "Well, have fun, dear," Marcia says in a tone suggesting I am being dismissed. She tightens her grip around Lincoln's waist. "Darling, let me introduce you around."

  After our run-in with Lincoln and Marcia, I feel a bit let down. What was the nature of Lincoln’s relationship with Marcia? Why did he let her paw him like that? Were they business partners, or what?

  Hannah peppers me with questions all the way home to my condo to drop my car off, then during our Uber ride to Deep Ellum, and even over loud club music.

  All the questions come down to Lincoln.

  "Why didn't you tell me how hot he is?"

  and

  "Do you think he and Marcia are more than business partners?"

  and

  "How old do you think he is?"

  and so on.

  Frankly, I am capable of mind-fucking my relationship with Lincoln all on my own. I do not need any help or encouragement on that front. But try as I might, I cannot dissuade my BFF from prattling on about the man.

  "Did you see how he looked at you?" she asks over drinks provided to us by two men we do not know. We chat with the dudes for a few minutes, and perhaps sensing a lack of enthusiasm from us, they move on.

  Before I can stop to think how this might sound to Hannah, I take the bait, asking, "How does he look at me?"

  She rolls her eyes suggestively, sips from her green, frozen drink, and says, "Like he thinks you're his midnight snack."

  I am sipping my own drink when Hannah lays this on me, and I both spit-take and snort alcohol out of my nose.

  "You told me he calls you Smack," she deadpans. "Maybe it's because you’re his snack. Or maybe it's because he wants to smack you."

  I give her a confused look while dabbing my nose with a cocktail napkin.

  "Smack you on the ass," she cackles.

  At this point, I've had enough. We've been on this pub crawl for a couple of hours, it's not even midnight, but I'm thinking it might be time to wrap up the evening. Hannah doesn't get out much anymore, and she's already a few drinks ahead of me. This is how celebrating your birthday in your 30s differs from celebrating your birthday in your 20s. I am all over the drinking and carousing and instead, look forward to watching Love is Blind on Netflix and maybe snuggling up with a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

  We take an Uber to Hannah’s place. I wait in the Uber until she’s inside before I take the Uber home to my condo. As I trudge up the stairs to my unit, I reflect on Lincoln, Marcia, and the strange happenings of the evening.

  Later, when I am snuggled on my couch with my ice cream and wrapped in a blanket, I start watching my favorite dating show couple, Cameron and Lauren.

  I make it through half an episode when I hear a knock at my door. When I go to look through the peephole, I see something—someone—I don't expect to see.

  Lincoln.

  Chapter Twelve: Lincoln

  On my way to Samantha’s condo, I tell myself that I’m not heading to her place to check up on whether she’s brought someone home from her pub crawl, but rather, to wish her a happy birthday. And to clear the air regarding Marcia Pittman. I brought a prop in the form of an attractively wrapped gift I picked up at Wal-Mart on the way to her condo. Smack comes to the door wearing a tank top, pajama pants festooned with teddy bears, and not a stitch of makeup on her face. She is braless and wears one of those blankets with sleeves draped loosely around her shoulders. The blanket is red and covered in white hibiscus. Behind her, I see a comfortable-looking beige sofa illuminated by a floor lamp.

  "H—hello?" she says, blinking up at me with a pint of ice cream in her hands and a confused look on her face.

  "May I come in?" I ask, as if it is perfectly normal for one's boss to show up late on one's doorstep on a Friday evening.

  She squints at me. She looks like she wants to ask me what the hell I’m doing on her doorstep, but I’m still her client, and she won’t be rude to me.

  "Do I have a choice?" she asks, opening the door wide enough to let me in.

  God, I love her smart mouth. I also love the fact that she is clearly settled in for the evening and not off getting laid by some hook up she found in a bar while out carousing with her friend.

  My feelings of apprehension dissipate when she allows me in—even reluctantly. I hold the wrapped package behind my back, and as I enter her small foyer, I present it to her.

  "What's this?" she asks, squinting at the wrapped package. She reaches around me to shut the door, and I catch a whiff of her wonderful scent.

  "Open it," I say. "It's for your birthday."

  She gives me the side eye. Then she takes the package and looks at it, bouncing it in her hands like she's testing its weight. "It's kind of heavy, isn't it?"

  I shrug. Doing this seemed better when it was still in the planning phase. Now, uncertainty dogs me.

  I wrapped the gift in Snoopy and Woodstock wrapping paper, which I thought would amuse her.

  "My birthday?" she says, shuffling to the living room and sitting down. She has her television paused. On screen, an attractive couple are on a bed, the man on top of the woman, neatly settled between her legs. Both are wearing plush white terry cloth robes and have big smiles on their faces.

  I'm looking at the screen, confused, and she must see my expression because her skin flushes, her eyes go wide, and reaching for the remote, she clicks the television off.

  "Uh, why don't you have a seat?" she says, waving a hand at a chair across from the loveseat where she's sitting. I think about what she must think of me and Marcia being together. I think about how gorgeous she looked at the gala in the dress I bought her. I think about her letter to Dear Ida. I think about the slutty thong underwear that went flying out of her purse the first day I met her.

  I think about all of these things.

  I look at Smack sitting on the loveseat. I look at the chair she wants me to sit in, across the expanse of the coffee table. And I make a decision.

  I sit next to her on the love seat.

  She is taken aback. She scoots over, evidently to give me more room. I scoot with her. I let my arm drape over the back of the loveseat. She shifts on her seat, gives me another side eye, and turns the package this way and that like she’s trying to determine what’s in it.

  Her makeup-free skin glows with health. Her hazel eyes smile at me. She smells like the type of fragrant soap women typically use. She also smells like woman.

  "Open it," I smile at her.

  There is a small trace of a smile on her lips. She gives the package a shake and holds it up by her ear, like it might be a bomb and she's trying to determine if the timer is still going.

  "What is it?" she asks, still not opening the present.

  "Open it," I repeat.

  This present has not simply been dropped into a gift bag, then stuffed with brightly colored tissue paper. This present is actually wrapped.

  "You did a good job wrapping this," she hedges. I'm getting the impression she is reluctant to open my gift.

  "I won't mind if you mess up the wrapping," I say, still smiling at her.

  Finally, finally, she opens it. Inside is a toolset in a case. Inside the case are cut outs made of durable foam that specifically house each tool.

  "It's… A set of tools? You didn't have to do that."

  "Yeah, I wasn't sure what to get you," I say. "I guessed at your age, then I looked up appropriate gifts based on anniversaries. I figured every single woman needs a toolset."

  "Um...thanks?" she says, pursing her lips. We sit there for a few awkward moments before she says, "Um, have you been drinking?"

  Did I smell like booze?

  "Marcia and I had drink
s after the open house at the community garden," I say. An odd expression passes over Samantha’s face, and she purses her lips.

  "I didn't know y'all were business partners," she says.

  I sigh, roll my eyes, run a hand through my hair, and pull on it.

  "That's because we aren't," I say. "That's all in her mind. We haven't signed anything, and I'm not sure I want to now."

  I go on to tell her about my expansion plans for the chain, which involves establishing a chain of intimate pubs down-market from the Cooper brand. With a smaller footprint, the pubs will be easier to get up and running, and the investment involved much less than it would be for a full-fledged restaurant.

  As I tell her of my plans, she stops me often to ask questions and make suggestions. And she relaxes a bit as we chat. My guess is talking about work is easy for her

  "What will you do if you don't get the investment?" she asks.

  I shrug, lean back on the loveseat, and stretch my legs out. I let out a harsh breath.

  "I've already signed leases on several locations," I say. "I'd have to sublease them, or try to break the lease."

  "Or find new investors," she says.

  "Yeah, but I've already exhausted those possibilities," I say.

  She considers this for a moment. "I could ask some of my B-school classmates, see what they say."

  "B-school?" I ask.

  "Business school," she says. She gets up, picks up the container of ice cream, looks in, and purses her lips adorably. "Melted."

  She pads into the kitchen, still bundled in her sleeved blanket, and I hear her drop the container into the trash. She's out of sight when she calls out, "Can I get you anything?"

  Fellatio, I think. On your knees in front of me, licking my cock like a Popsicle...

  "A glass of water," I call out.

  She returns with the glass of water.

  "I didn't know you went to business school," I say, taking a gulp of the water. I am parched from the drinks Marcia and I had.

  "Yep," she says, a wistful smile on her face. "I graduated about five years ago, and I worked in corporate logistics before that. My last gig was with an ad agency.” For some reason, I hadn't thought much about what Samantha did before she came to work for me. Now, I want to know more about her.

  "Why did you leave?" I ask. Her mouth twists when I ask, and I think I've hit a nerve. She looks down at her hands, her eyelashes flutter, and a small crease appears between her eyebrows.

  "I didn't want to be beholden to one employer anymore," she says, looking away. I suspect there’s more to the story. "By having my own business, I don't have to count on a single income to support myself."

  Her lips twitch slightly when she says this, and she fiddles with the edge of her blanket. She smiles, but it’s a brittle smile. She has the blanket pulled around her, and she looks uncomfortable.

  "Are you okay?" I ask.

  "I guess I'm a little confused about why you stopped by?" She doesn't look annoyed, just curious.

  "I thought you might have the wrong idea about Marcia and me," I say.

  Samantha looks surprised at my statement. "You mean, the fact that you aren't business partners?"

  "Well, that and the fact that the way she behaved with me at the community garden might have given the impression we were dating," I say carefully, watching her reactions carefully. A small flicker of awareness passes over her face.

  "So, you're not dating?" she asks. Her interest in my answer is more than casual, so far as I can tell. But she's still rather buttoned up, the blanket pulled protectively around her body, hiding from me the things I most want to see.

  I scoot closer to her on the loveseat. "No, we aren't dating," I say. I lick my lips before I continue. I'm about to cross a line that before now had not been crossed between us. "I'm only interested in one woman, and it's not Marcia Pittman."

  Her downcast eyes flick up to meet my gaze. Her hazel green eyes are large and round, like a doe's, and the worry line between her eyebrows wrinkles. I put out a hand to cover hers, and she lets me.

  "Really?" Her one-word answer comes out in a squeak. I move a little closer to her. She goes still. But she doesn’t move away.

  My heart thrums in my chest. The fantasies I've had about this woman rush to the forefront of my mind, and I feel almost dizzy with anticipation. I have walked all the way up to the line of what is acceptable between a client and a service provider. I will go no further without her permission.

  We sit there for several long moments—seconds that feel like minutes. Curiously enough, the pause is not awkward. It's expectant. Like we both want this, but know this is a line we cannot uncross.

  When she doesn't say anything, I decide to push a little more. "Because this woman I'm interested in sort of works for me, I really have to let her make the first move."

  I inch closer to her on the loveseat, so close that I can feel her shapely thigh underneath the bulk of the blanket. I rub my thumb over the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. Her skin gives off waves of electric heat, and given the slightest encouragement, I would dive into her heat in a hot second.

  She continues to stare at me. Her pupils dilate with desire. Her plump lips part, and her tongue slides over the corner of her mouth. Her lips twitch again.

  "What would that first move look like?" she says. Every word that falls from her lips is deliberate. Careful.

  "It would be great if she just said yes," I say. She licks her lips again. I move in closer, drawn in like a magnet. I'm completely incapable of resisting her. Our lips are less than an inch apart.

  She places a hand on my chest. "Your heart is beating so fast," she says.

  I screw my eyebrows together. "It's because of you," I say, and then I hold my breath because she's like a doe, and I do not want to scare her off.

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” she says.

  “Why not?” I ask, covering her slender hand with my larger one. The most intimate touch I’ve shared with her.

  “Because we work together,” she says. “We have to be careful with each other.”

  Her eyes roam over my face. Her lips part, and she licks them, the appearance of her pink tongue mesmerizing me.

  "Kiss me, Lincoln," she says.

  And so, I do.

  Chapter Thirteen: Samantha

  I can scarcely believe I said it, but on the other hand, it's surprising that this hasn't happened before. All the weeks of working closely together, all the lingering looks and accidental touches led to this moment. The low simmer of our mutual attraction quickly coming to a boil.

  I think part of me knew it would come to this. I didn't have to let him in the door today. I didn't have to attend his gala. When I saw him with Marcia Pittman, my jealousy bubbled up like a pot with the fire turned up too high. Even though I didn't say anything to him directly, he probably sensed from my body language how I really felt.

  Kiss me, Lincoln.

  With these three words, my relationship with this man changes forever.

  Our faces are so close they nearly touch. Lincoln is suddenly on me; all traces of restraint having left him. He takes my face in his palms, and his lips crash into mine. There is no warm up. There is no easing into this kiss. His tongue invades my mouth, stroking it in long, wet sweeps. I taste the faint traces of alcohol on his tongue, smell his masculine scent, feel the rasp of his beard on my sensitive skin. He uses one hand to shift me around on the couch, the other to part my Snuggie and fit himself between my legs.

  Our teeth clash together, my lips are bruised, and it feels like he's sucking the air out of my lungs. I want our mouths to connect like this forever, only I can't breathe, can't catch my breath. The moment I start to pull my face away, he breaks the kiss to press our foreheads together. He breathes heavily. His warm breath fans over my face, and his chest heaves like a bellows blasting air into a fire.

  "Samantha," he says raggedly. He pauses to look into my eyes, then his mouth crashes in
to mine again, and I get another breath-stealing kiss. It is more urgent a kiss than I've ever had before, and distantly, it occurs to me that I might not have been properly kissed before.

  "Lincoln," I say against his lips, but the word is muffled, so it comes out like "mmm hmmm!"

  He pins me in place with his body. We are crowded together on a couch that already barely holds one person. His hand sneaks into the opening of my blanket. He grabs my thigh and hitches it up, and I wrap my leg around his waist. He drags his mouth away from mine, then nuzzles my neck.

  "Samantha," he breathes against the sensitive skin on the curve of my neck.

  "Mmmm...Lincoln," I say, my voice breathy in a way I have never experienced before. My mind fogs up sensation and desire, my hips undulate against his, and I abandon rational thought.

  "Do you know how crazy you make me when you come to the office?" he mumbles in my ear. His lips brush the shell of my ear, sending goosebumps all over my skin.

  "Mmmm?" I moan, only dimly aware of his words. It's not like I dress provocatively at all for work.

  "Those jeans hug your curves like a Formula One racecar," he says into my neck. "And when you bend over, your ass is a perfect heart shape."

  Lincoln apparently has keen skills when it comes to low-key perving on me. I have only caught him checking me out that first time in his office. I, however, have spent plenty of time checking out his ass, which is muscular and firm. And he always wears tight slacks that emphasize the attractiveness of his butt and tree-trunk thighs.

  "I never noticed you doing that," I say.

  "I have this fantasy of spanking your pretty round ass, then fucking you from behind," he says. "I want to see my handprints on your ass, then hold your hips as I fuck you."

  My whole body flushes with excitement at his filthy words. I arch into him, trying to create some friction.

  "We don't have much room here," I say. Lincoln's mouth opens, his breath on my skin hot. He revs up a spiral of passion in me. My body vibrates like a tuning fork.

  "Lincoln," I say. " Let's move —"

  He interrupts me by slipping his hands underneath the waistband of my pajamas. I am wearing no nonsense white cotton undies. So not sexy.