Park (Archer's Creek Book 4)

by Gemma Weir

  “Tonight we’re gonna party like this is the last night on earth. We’re gonna party like the reaper is coming for our asses. K.C. turn up the music and everyone grab a shot, because tonight we are celebrating our club, our brotherhood, and our fucking family. Because we are Sinners, and Sinners look after their own.”

  The roar that follows Smoke’s words is deafening and a sea of men swarm to the bar as the music trebles in volume and the bass ricochets through the floor. On mass, shot glasses are handed out and as one they’re raised into the air. “The Doomsday Sinners,” Smoke yells and every single person shouts back.

  Emotion clogs my throat. How the hell am I going to give this up? Smoke hands me another shot and we both raise our glasses in the air again, silently saluting the fact that soon this might not be my life anymore.

  I don’t want to leave my family, but the idea of not being with Rosebud is worse. Somehow, she’s become vital to me. I’d rather talk to her than anyone else; I’d rather be with her than anyone else. I fucking love her, when I thought love wasn’t possible. I’m obsessed, addicted to her, and I don’t want a cure, I just want her. If that means leaving this life behind for a future with her, I’ll do it.

  I drop her a quick text letting her know I’m at the club and that I’ll try to call her later. She replies almost immediately telling me to have a good night. After the tenth shot, I lose track of the toasts we’re making and so does everyone else. From then on we all just throw back our shots whenever someone raises their glass into the air.

  We drink and toast and celebrate. It’s messy and loud and by the time the sun begins to rise, my family is sloppy drunk and reminiscing about old times. It’s a perfect lost night, one I’ll never forget, and if I am leaving this town, the club, then I can’t image a more perfect night to end on.

  When I walk into the arrivals lounge, there’s a uniformed driver holding a sign with my name on. I walk toward him, and he smiles. “Miss Dalby?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” I say awkwardly.

  “Let me take your bags. Your car is just outside; if you’d like to follow me.”

  I let him take my rolling overnight case from me and follow him out of the terminal and toward a shiny black town car. I’ve travelled in a car service many times with Taylor, but no matter how many times I do it, it still makes me feel a little uncomfortable, like I’m playing at being rich.

  The driver plays soothing jazz music and smoothly pulls into traffic. A few minutes later the lights of the strip come into view. I’ve been to Vegas once before while I was in college, but even though I know what to expect, the sheer extravagance of the strip still makes me gasp. The lights, the people, the hotels, everything is ostentatious and loud. Love it or hate it, the place is an experience, and as we pull up to the drop-off outside the Waldorf Astoria, excitement is humming through my skin.

  Towing my bag along behind me, I make my way to the desk and give the guy behind the counter my name. A few minutes later, armed with my room key, I exit the plush gold elevator and walk down the corridor until I reach room 367. I push the card into the entry lock and wait for the light to turn green. When it does, I push open the door and enter a beautiful room with a view of the Las Vegas lights.

  For a few minutes I stare, mesmerized, just taking in the scene through the huge glass wall of windows; it’s beautiful and intimidating all at once. The vastness and intensity of the street below makes me want to lock the doors and hide from the craziness, but I’m also itching to explore and experience the freedom.

  Even short plane rides always make me feel a little grubby. There’s something about the way the recycled air settles on my skin that makes me want to wash it away the moment the wheels hit the ground. My meeting isn’t for another couple of hours, so I take my time showering and getting ready. When 7pm rolls around, my anxiety is at an all-time high. Doubt and uncertainty are battling with my desire for something new, something more.

  My cell rings and when I see it’s Park, a wave of longing washes over me.

  “Hey,” I say answering the call.

  “Hey, baby. I’m sorry I didn’t call last night; it turned into a pretty wild one,” Park says, his voice rougher than normal.

  “Are you okay? You sound a little hoarse.”

  “There was a lot of toasting, singing and cheering last night, plus a shit ton of whiskey. I’m amazed I can speak at all.”

  I laugh. “Oh wow, sounds like one hell of a night.”

  “It was. I fucking miss you, baby. You sure I can’t fly out to Vegas to you?”

  My heart pitter patters. “I wish you could, but there’d be no point. I’d be home before you got a chance to fly out.”

  “I could charter a jet. I’d be there in a couple of hours.”

  “No, you couldn’t.” I say, shaking my head at his ridiculousness.

  “What time is your meeting?”

  “Seven-thirty. I’m a little nervous.”

  “Why would you be nervous? They’re gonna love you.”

  I want to tell him that this meeting could mean a job closer to him, that we could be together properly, not just a couple of days at a time with constant goodbyes. “It’s an important meeting.”

  “Want me to help you relax, my wee Rosebud?” Park says, his voice going liquid and sultry.

  My clit pulses. I’ve never been affected by another man the way I am by him. “And how would you do that?”

  “What are you wearing?”

  A burst of laughter escapes me. “Are you serious?”

  “Skirt or pants, baby? I need to know what I’m working with.”

  I bite my lip. Should I play this game with him? “A dress,” I whisper.

  “Are you on your bed?”

  Kicking off my heels, I climb onto the bed and settle against the cushions. “Yeah, I am now.”

  “Good girl. Now slide your skirt up your thighs.”

  I do as he says, the phone clamped to my ear with one hand and the other fisting the skirt of my dress and sliding it up until I can see my panties.

  “Push your hand into your panties and rub your fingers down your cunt. Are you wet, Rosebud?”

  My fingers slide beneath the waistband of my panties and I push down, parting my slick folds with my fingers and skimming over my clit.

  “Tell me, baby, are you wet? Are your fingers coating in your juices?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, running my fingers up and down, brushing over my clit then away, teasing myself while his voice tells me what to do.

  “Push one finger inside, just the tip, then back out. Tease your cunt, baby.”

  I slide my fingertip into my sex and groan, letting my eyes fall closed as I pull it out, then push in again. I want more. I want to push my finger deep inside, then rub at my clit until I come, but I wait for his words, needing him to tell me what to do, imagining it was his fingers not my own.

  “Circle your clit, pinch it, then circle it again.”

  I do as he says, my hips rising, my body seeking more.

  “Slide a finger all the way into your cunt, then fuck yourself with it nice and slow. Grind the heel of your hand against your clit, let me hear how good it feels. I want to hear, Rosebud. Tell me how it feels.”

  My fingers move on their own, following his instructions.

  “Tell me, Rosebud,” he rasps.

  “Oh god, it feels good, so good. But I need more, I need to come. I need you to make me come.”

  “Slide a second finger into your cunt, baby. How does it feel? Is your pussy full and stretched, or do you need more?” Park says, his voice taking on a stern tone that I’ve never heard from him before.

  “Full, so full,” I gasp.

  “Fuck your hand. Ride your fingers like it was my cock, make yourself come,” he demands.

  I thrust my fingers in deeper, grinding my hips against my hand. My clit brushes against the heel of my hand with every grind, and I gasp and moan as an orgasm starts to build.

  “That’s
it, baby. Fuck, I love the way you sound. If I was there, I’d flip you onto your stomach and pull you onto my cock. I can’t wait to watch you push yourself onto me, meeting me thrust for thrust; your greedy cunt so desperate for me, you fuck yourself on my cock.”

  “Oh God,” I groan, just as my orgasm detonates, my sex clamping tightly around my fingers as my body tenses and an explosion of pleasure ricochets through me. My breathing is labored and the cell falls from my hand as the pleasure consumes me and I collapse back onto the pillows, my body lax and unable to move.

  Eventually, I slap my hand around on the bed beside me, until I find my cell. Lifting it to my ear, I rasp. “Park.”

  “Yeah, baby,” he says with a chuckle.

  “I think I need a nap.”

  “Sorry, Rosebud. You’ve got fifteen minutes to get yourself cleaned up and get to your dinner.”

  “I can’t meet with her now. She’s gonna know I just got some.”

  Park laughs again. “No, she won’t. Good luck, baby. Call me later if you can.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, my voice still a little shaky.

  “Goodbye, my Rosebud,”

  “Goodbye, Park.”

  Ending the call, I drop my cell back to the mattress and exhale loudly. My body is so relaxed, I could just curl into a ball and go to sleep. But I can’t, so with sheer force of will, I roll myself off the bed and into the bathroom to wash my hands and freshen my hair and makeup. Bracing my hands against the sink, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My pupils are dilated, and my eyes look glassy, my cheeks are flushed, and my hair is a little more tousled than it was before Park called. But the smile on my face and the racing of my heart makes me feel alive and happy and all of my nerves are gone.

  There’s a little more spring in my step when I slide my feet back into my heels and leave my room. When I reach the restaurant Erica and I are meeting in, all I feel is excitement and confidence. The hostess shows me to a table, advising me that I’m the first to arrive. I order a Martini and settle into my seat to wait. A few moments later, I spot Erica at the entrance and she waves enthusiastically, shooing away the hostess and making her way straight to our table.

  “Rosie, so lovely to see you again,” Erica says, holding her hand out for me to shake.

  “Hi, Erica. Thank you so much for meeting with me again.”

  “No. Thank you. I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear from you again, but I hoped so. I’m delighted that you got back in touch. Have you ordered a drink?”

  The waitress arrives with my Martini, just as Erica settles into the chair opposite me. “Oh yum, can I get a Porn Star Martini please?”

  I choke on the sip of my drink I’ve just taken. “A Porn Star Martini?”

  “Oh my god, they are to die for,” she says excitedly. “Make that two please,” she says to the waitress who nods and quickly leaves.

  “So,” Erica says, steepling her hands and looking at me expectantly. “You asked for this dinner?”

  “I did,” I say, a few butterflies bursting into flight in my stomach. “I wanted to know if the job offer was still available?”

  Erica stares at me for a moment, her eyebrows furrowing together slightly. “What’s changed? When we met last, you very politely told me you had no interest in relocating.”

  Pulling in a deep, affirming breath I smile. “That’s true, but recently I’ve come to realize that my current job, as stable and predictable as it is, has made me a little complacent. I thought I was happy with being content, but I’m not. I need more, and I think I could find more at your magazine. I want the freedom to write about more than parking fines and apple price-fixing. I want to be challenged and to really explore my potential as a writer, and I can’t do that in my current role. When we last spoke, the idea of relocating wasn’t something I’d ever considered, and I was scared. I’ve always lived in LA, but I’ve come to see it doesn’t mean there isn’t more out there, and I think it’s time.”

  As I speak, Erica’s smile spreads and by the time I stop talking and take a much-needed sip of my Martini, her grin is wide and infectious. “Welcome to the team, Rosie,” she says, reaching her hand across the table. “I saw so much potential in you the last time we met. The only thing you lacked was fire, but it’s there now and I am so very excited to work with you.”

  For a second, I just stare at her hand, shocked. Then I reach up and take it. My fingers wrap around hers, and we shake. Just like that, I have a new job, at a new magazine, in a new city. For the next hour we eat fabulous food, drink Porn Star Martinis and iron out the terms of my new job.

  “So your salary will be this,” she says, pointing to a figure on the back of a business card she just pulled from her purse. “We’ll provide you with a small relocation package, but I’m afraid it will probably only cover the time you’ll need to spend in a hotel until you can find an apartment. Most of our writers come into the office two or three times a week and then telecommute for the other days, although you’re welcome to come in every day if that suits you better.”

  I nod, still a little shocked by the generous salary. “That’s great. I’m not sure where I plan to settle. I’m not much of a city girl, so I’ll probably look for somewhere a little further from the chaos of Houston.”

  “Well, if you need any help, I know a great realtor.”

  “I might just take you up on that,” I say.

  We eat dessert, then Erica insists that we head to a club for some celebratory drinks. We drink, we dance, and when I stumble back to my room at 3am, I have a new job and a new friend. The next day I make the most of the breakfast buffet, then pack my case ready to fly back to LA. The same driver collects me from the hotel and delivers me to the airport in plenty of time for my flight.

  The airport is packed full of Vegas disheveled bachelorette parties and groups of college aged kids who are still partying even on their way home. As I search for the check-in desk, my eyes land on the departures board and I search for my flight. Scanning the board, I find my flight number then three below it is a flight headed to Houston.

  I sigh wistfully, Texas is going to be my new home. It’s where my new job is, it’s where Park is. An idea starts to form in my head. He wanted to fly out here to me, so what’s stopping me flying out to him? It’s only a short flight and we could have the rest of today, then all of tomorrow together. I could get the Red-eye back home and be at my desk in time to hand in my resignation on Monday morning.

  The more I think about it, the more the idea appeals to me. He’s come to me twice now, what’s stopping me from jumping on that flight and surprising him? I know he’s working today so I could go to him at the shop. My feet are walking and a moment later I find myself at the airline’s desk, buying the last ticket to Houston, Texas.

  The air is balmy when I step out of the airport and into the bright afternoon sunshine. There are a row of cabs waiting at the curb, and I wait in line until it’s my turn. Opening the door, I climb in and the driver smiles at me from the rear-view mirror. “Where to, darlin’?” he asks.

  “Sinners Tattoos. It’s in Archer’s Creek, please.”

  “Okay,” he says, and we pull away into traffic.

  The cab ride feels like it takes forever, but in reality, it’s probably only thirty minutes. When we pull up outside the shop, my stomach is in knots and I pay the driver and fumble with the door in my haste to get out of the car.

  When I push open the shop door, the buzzing sound of tattoo guns fills the air. Greg, the shop’s receptionist, is sat behind the counter and when he sees me, he smiles. “Hi, Rosie. I didn’t know you were back in town.”

  “Hi, Greg. It was a spur of the moment thing. I thought I might surprise Park, if he’s around?”

  Greg smiles a knowing smile and tips his head in the direction of Park’s studio at the back of the shop. “He just finished up with a client, so I bet he’s in his studio cleaning up. Go on back.”

  “Thank you,” I say with a smile, as I walk past
the front desk and head to the back of the shop. The door to the studio is open but the room is empty. “Hey, Greg, he’s not back here,” I shout.

  “He’s probably just popped up to his apartment. Go out through the storeroom and it’s the door off the courtyard on the right-hand side.” Greg shouts back.

  “Thanks,” I reply, already pushing open the door and making my way out into the enclosed courtyard behind the shop. I spot the doorway that must lead to Park’s apartment, I knew it was above the shop, but I’ve never been inside. The door is open and there’s a pile of stuff leaning against the wall.

  As I step closer, I can hear Park’s gorgeous accent singing, or should I say butchering, a song that’s playing in the background. He’s just a few steps away from me and my stomach leaps with excitement. Towing my case behind me, I step up to the door and my case clips the corner of the pile of what I can now see are canvases leaning against the wall.

  The whole pile wobbles, then falls backwards with a crash that echoes through the cobbled courtyard. “Crap,” I curse, letting go of my case and bending down to pick up the pile of canvases and restack them against the wall.

  As I lift the frame, my eyes fall to the image painted on the stretched fabric, something about it seems familiar. Placing it against the wall I lift the next, then the next, my eyes raking over the brushstrokes of each image. All are dark colors with harsh streaks, creating an intense image. Each is a snippet of a woman, a glimpse at her features in a sea of black and grey.

  The final picture causes a muffled sob to escape from my throat. I know this woman. I know her because I’ve seen this face a thousand times. I’ve seen her sad and happy, drunk and laughing, pouting and broken. I recognize this face, because the person featured in these achingly beautiful pictures is Taylor.

  Dropping the last canvas back to the floor, I step back, needing to distance myself from something I wish I’d never seen. Park painted these. He painted these pictures of the woman he loves, the woman he’ll always love, the woman he can never have but has never moved on from.

  I thought we had something. I thought the connection we shared was special and unique and maybe it is. But I can never compete with a lifetime of love. He painted her; these images are so expressive, so haunting and painful. So beautiful that they unmask him. These are his emotions, his thoughts stripped bare and immortalized in oil. He told me he’d moved on, that he felt nothing for her, but these paintings aren’t about young love or a passing fancy. As I stare at them again, one word springs to mind. Heartbreak.