Inside Out: Behind Closed Doors

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “You don’t know that,” he murmurs, his hand coming down on mine.

  “Good always wins.” I almost choke on the words I don’t really believe, though somehow they came out of my mouth. Maybe because I want them to be true, just like I wanted there to be a Santa Claus when I was a kid.

  “Good doesn’t always win.”

  “It should,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” he agrees, “it should.” His eyes darken, and seconds tick by before he murmurs, “And I shouldn’t have kissed you, just like I damn sure shouldn’t have tried to fuck you in my office. But you know what?” He pulls me close, tangling his fingers in my hair. “I don’t care. I still want you.”

  Heat surges through me at the declaration he seals with the touch of his lips to mine, his tongue caressing past my lips, delving deeply, and I feel the stroke that follows in every part of me, in the heaviness of my breasts and the ache between my thighs. The taste of him, the edge of his mood, his need to escape that he’s trying to sate, the burn for sanity in the midst of insanity, burns through me and calls to me on every level. I understand this. I’ve felt it, lived it all too well. It is this that draws me to this man. This knowing I have with him that defies being a stranger. And for a moment it is me who needs saving, me who is where I need to be in his arms. Me who is panting when, too soon, he pulls his mouth from mine to say, “Pack a bag and come to Vegas with me.”

  I gasp with the unexpected question that is barely a question but more of a demand. He wants me. I believe that, but I am beyond fairy tales despite the desire this man has stirred in me. He doesn’t just want me; he wants inside that unit. What if he’s trying to lure me away to get access to it? What if that’s why he came after me when I left his house?

  I press against the wall of his chest. “No. Let go. This isn’t okay.”

  “What isn’t okay?”

  “I can’t come with you. I don’t even know you, and—”

  “We’ll fix that.”

  “You have a million groupies—”

  Molly’s door starts to open.

  “I don’t have time to chitchat,” Jason says, reaching around me and opening the door, giving me no time to object as he walks me inside the town house, never letting me go.

  He kicks the door shut, and any space his actions created in between us is removed as he drags me back against his abundance of muscles and hotness, making it really hard to think. “I don’t want groupies, Skye. I want you. Come with me.”

  The very fact that I want him to mean those words has alarm bells ringing in my ears. “You want me, or you want to get inside that unit?” I ask, holding nothing back. I’ve lost everything, and once you do that, there’s no reason to play games. But he has every reason to do just the opposite.

  “Both.”

  I am stunned by the honesty that answer seems to hold, and it empowers me to return the same. “Sex won’t dictate my decision on what to do about any of this.”

  “That doesn’t make me want you less.”

  “We could have sex. Great sex. Lots of sex, and I’ll still want to feel right about all of this to let you in that unit.”

  “Believe me, baby, I read people and read them well. I know.”

  “You could have someone break into the unit while I’m gone.”

  “There are security cameras and the building locks.”

  “So you’ve thought about it.”

  “Yes.”

  Honest again. For a girl who’s known lots of lies, this honesty thing he’s got going on is winning me over. “You could pay someone to get rid of the security feed.”

  “You’re right, but if you stay here, what are you going to do to prevent that? Sleep at the storage unit?”

  He’s right. I can’t, and I wouldn’t, when what he wants is on my bed, in that box. “I could call the police.”

  “That could cost me my life, and my father’s as well.”

  That is a possibility. I inhale and let it out. “I won’t call the police while you’re gone. I’ll wait until …”

  “Until what?”

  “Until I understand what’s going on more fully.”

  “Until you know me and hear my story and believe it and me. That means spending time with me.”

  “No. I mean yes, but that doesn’t require I go to Vegas with you.”

  “The sooner you get to know me, the sooner this is handled for both of us.”

  Why am I not saying no? “This is crazy.”

  “And sometimes crazy is exactly right.”

  And insane. And dangerous. And … insane. So why am I even considering it?

  “You want a reason to trust me,” he says. “I want to give you one. Or ten or twenty.”

  “I promise you, I won’t hand the unit to the police or Stephanie or—”

  “Damn it. No.” His fingers flex in my arms. “That’s not why I’m asking you to come with me. I could just have a private investigator watch you.”

  “But that wouldn’t stop me from calling the police. And despite my telling you I won’t, you don’t know me any more than I know you.”

  He doesn’t deny my statement. “Come with me to Vegas. Hear my whole story and then decide what to do.”

  “In bed,” I say skeptically.

  He releases me and steps back. “I’ll get you your own room.”

  I laugh at that. “Oh, please. Let’s not pretend you’re going to save my nonexistent virtue. Just be honest with me.”

  “I’m being as honest as time allows.” He glances at his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock. I have to be at a table at five o’clock. It’s a television show that I’m contracted for, and I have to be there on time. Come with me.”

  “I don’t have a plane reservation. You don’t have time to deal with that.”

  “I chartered a private jet.”

  “If that means small with propellers, I’m out.”

  “No propellers. It’s a jet plane and a smooth ride.” He arches a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of flying.”

  “I am afraid of flying.”

  He steps to me again, those really amazing hands of his settling back on my arms. “I’ll keep your mind off the flight.” He softens his voice and says again, “Come with me. You can decide on the room when we get there.”

  “When do you get back?”

  “When do you need to be back?”

  “I didn’t say I was going.”

  “When do you need to be back?” he presses.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Then we’ll come back tomorrow night.” He cups my face. “Look, Skye. What do you have to lose? Tell Molly next door you’re going with me. She’ll blab to everyone, and you know that will make you safe.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.” It’s the truth. I just don’t know if that makes me right or stupid—but he’s given me insurance by suggesting Molly. That matters.

  He kisses me, hard and fast, and settles his hand on my waist. “Say yes, and then go pack.”

  Life is short and I’m barely living it, while he fears his life may soon end. If I can stop that from happening, I have to do that. My decision is made; I’m going to gamble for the second time in two days. “Yes. I’ll go with you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  INSTANT APPROVAL LIGHTS Jason’s eyes at my acceptance of his offer, warmth radiating from their depths, and it pleases me far too much, but I tell myself this is an adventure. A long overdue adventure I deserve, and I have a chance to do some good in the process. I can either save this man and his father or save … someone else. I don’t want to think about what that would mean about Jason. I turn, fully intending to rush up the stairs to my bedroom and back down. I’ve managed all of one step when his fingers intimately wrap around my waist, branding me through the thin teal silk of my blouse, his big body framing mine as he leans in close and whispers, “Thank you.”

  There is a low, raspy quality to his voice that tells me he’s not thanking me for coming with him but
rather for daring to trust him. I don’t know how to reply, and I don’t get the chance. He releases me and smacks my backside, just hard enough to create an erotic sting that reaches beneath my black slacks to my skin, and I yelp in response. “Hurry,” he urges. “Our plane awaits.”

  I race up the stairs, my legs a bit wobbly in my high heels, the tingle of his palm on my backside the only thing controlling the panic “our plane” creates in me. And instead of my mind going to some sexy, erotic place, it betrays me, going to me hiding in a closet in darkness and fear, a place I don’t go. Ever. And yet the idea of flying has superseded the idea of a hot man smacking my backside for just a few beats, and I’m there in the past, huddled in the corner and crying.

  Reaching the living room, I shove aside my bad history as good sense prevails, my mind shifting to the box on the bed. And I tell Jason, “You can’t come up—”

  “You’re right,” he concurs, heat glimmering in the depths of his eyes. “I can’t or we won’t make it to my tournament.” He glances at the thick brown leather band of his watch. “I’d like to be out of here in the next fifteen minutes.”

  Relieved, I am quick to offer an agreeable, “No problem.” In a flash, I move my still warm backside up the second set of stairs to my bedroom, the idea of Red Bull’s touch there again delivering the erotic charge he intended. Dashing inside my room, all too aware that I have no door to shut, I cannot resist pausing and turning to check on Jason. Sure enough, he’s still planted at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me, and the man is so freaking hot I forget everything but the bed behind me. Or really, any bed with him and me in it. And I just stare. And he stares, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been this into a man—which is quite a terrifying thought considering I’m pretty sure he defines the term man slut. And … well, I’m not into that at all. But holy hell, maybe I can learn something from him about being removed and guarded, and about hiding in sex and sin, and gambling on life. Yes. He says he’s not a gambler, but he is. I like that about him.

  “Hurry, Skye,” he says, and his voice is a soft, seductive command. While I still fully intend him to notch my belt, not the other way around, I am not beyond seeing how easily his allure to women could be what led him to trouble. And now, me to Trouble, but unlike other times in my life, my eyes are wide open.

  “The TV remote is on the coffee table,” I say, and as soon as the announcement is made, I have the horrible thought of how humble my home is compared to his, and I feel immediately frustrated. Yet who is he to judge me? He only has the ability to make me feel bad if I give him that kind of power, and I’m done with allowing people to make me feel inferior.

  I turn and take several steps, only to stop dead in my tracks as I stare at the box I was worried about in the first place. I can’t leave it anyplace obvious, in case Jason somehow ends up in my bedroom again, which could happen at any moment based on our short track record. Darting forward, I grab it and carry it to my small, rectangular closet, and then, changing my mind, I move it toward my bed, my intention being to cross the room to my equally small bathroom. I stop again, feeling torn. Which place is a hot man more likely to look? If he was here for the night, not that I think he would be, but if he was, he’d go in the bathroom.

  I turn back to the closet and set the box on the floor, grabbing the envelope with the note and poker chip from it, along with the storage unit key that I’d also placed in it this morning when I thought I was headed to the police station. I fold the envelope and push to my tip-toes, grabbing my one brand-name purse, which I never carry for reasons I’d prefer not to think about, from the top shelf. I unzip it and stick the envelope inside, returning the purse to its place. Using a combination of my foot and body weight, I shove the box into the corner and pull a few items of clothing off hangers, fold them, and set them on top. Hopefully the box now looks like extra storage for items I don’t have room to hang up.

  Task complete, I snag a small overnight bag from the shelf by the purse, the only thing I have for travel, and toss in several outfits. Jeans, a variety of shirts, a pair of black Keds, a black dress just in case I need it, though I’m not sure why I would, and black high heels. I dash to the dresser and add socks, underwear, and a couple of bras, and then make my way to the bathroom. In a matter of minutes my toiletries are packed and I’m done, still managing to keep my bag light. Impressive, since I’ve packed for several days when I’ll be gone one, but a girl needs choices in case something that looked great the day before suddenly makes her feel fat or ugly. I’ll never understand how that happens, but it’s a fact of life.

  Sliding my bag to my shoulder, I inhale. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m running off to Vegas with a hot poker player, and with two agendas: Getting naked and finding answers.

  Who am I? Deserving, I answer. I deserve this. And besides, the responsible part of me isn’t absent, I assure myself. It’s right here, figuring out how to deal with this storage unit ethically without getting anyone killed. Killed. The word takes the fun and escape out of the weekend. And it’s a reason to talk to Molly before I leave.

  Not giving myself a chance to change my mind, I walk through the open archway to the steps and stop dead in my tracks as I find Jason facing me, leaning on the wall between this level and the next. “Anxiously awaiting me?” I call out, starting on the downward path.

  He pushes off the wall and gazes at me, more of that effortless sex-and-denim thing that does all kinds of things to my girl parts.

  “You know it, baby,” he assures me, reaching for my bag. “I’ve got it,” he says, taking the bag from me. His fingers brush my shoulder, and Lord help me, I feel that touch slide down through me and land heavily between my thighs.

  “Thank you,” I manage, hiding my reaction with a quickly diverted look at his broad chest that is just as impressive as the last time I managed to inspect it.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  My gaze jerks to his, my mind irritatingly going to my barren walls and used furniture, rather than what could simply be his raw curiosity. “Why?”

  “How long?” he immediately repeats.

  “Six months.”

  “Are you in law school?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not ready,” I say, barely containing the defensiveness in my tone. “Is this twenty questions, or what?”

  “So the answer is money,” he says, ignoring my smart remark and nailing the answer as to why I’m not in law school, but I’m not about to tell a total stranger my personal business.

  “That’s really not your business.”

  Those green eyes of his glint. “In other words, I can strip you naked and have my way with you, but I can’t ask about school?”

  “No tomorrow, remember?”

  “Except we’ll be together tomorrow.”

  “Semantics,” I counter, my hands settling on my hips. “And you know it.”

  “Answer the question,” he urges softly, but there is another command etched in his tone.

  My first reaction is to play dodgeball again, but the man is being blackmailed. He’s looking for reasons to trust me, just like I am him. “I have a plan for school,” I finally say. “I’ll start in two years.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Now isn’t always an option.”

  “Which means what?”

  My brows dip. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. I want to work only part time during law school, thus I work two jobs now.”

  “What two jobs?”

  “Why does that matter?” He just stares at me, and wanting this over, I give in. “Oh, good grief. I wait tables at night and on most weekends and work for an attorney during the day.”

  “I offered you ten thousand dollars for the unit.”

  “Your point?”

  “That would help your situation.”

  “I don’t want your money.”
r />   “What if I make it one hundred thousand?”

  It’s a test. Or a bribe. Whatever the case, it’s offensive, and I take a step back. He drops my bag and follows, fingers splaying on my back, pulling me to him. I flatten my hand on his chest, holding him at bay. “I don’t want your money,” I hiss, “and I don’t want to go with you to Vegas.”

  “That money would make your path to law school easier.”

  “I can’t be bought. And easy always has a price.”

  “There is no price but that unit.”

  “I’m not making you pay for the damn unit. Actually, if I decide you can have it, you can have it for the seven hundred dollars it cost. My friend loaned me the money and I have to pay her back. And you know what? If I were sure Stephanie was alive and that you broke no law, I’d just give it to you now and make you go away.”

  “And if I were sure you weren’t involved with Stephanie—”

  “You still think—”

  “You still think.”

  I inhale and let it out. “We don’t trust each other, yet I was about to climb on a plane and into your hotel bed.” I look up at the ceiling. “What the hell was I thinking?” He cups my face and forces my gaze to his, and before he can speak I say, “Either you’re a low-down asshole who’s manipulating me or you’re a fool because sex is what got you in trouble in the first place.”

  “I told you I’ll get you your own room in Vegas. In fact, that’s probably the smartest thing for both of us.”

  “I’m not going.”

  He kisses me, a soft brush of warm lips gone too soon. “I’ll get you your own room,” he repeats.

  “You convince me of this by kissing me?”

  “I didn’t say I’d keep my hands or mouth off of you.”

  “You’re always kissing me.”

  “You kissed me first,” he says.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  His lips curve. “I’m going to remind you.”

  My fingers curl around his shirt. “But you accused me of blackmail.”

  “You accused me of murder. That trumps blackmail.” He releases me and grabs my bag again. “Molly will know you are with me. You’re safe. I’m the one at risk if you’re up to something.”