“Ouch.” She smiled slimly. “No wonder you hated me. Not exactly the best first impression, is it?”
“That’s twice you’ve used that word. Hate. Let’s make one thing clear, I’ve never hated you.” He smoothed his hands over the top of her head. “This you.”
Her smile remained, but nothing about it was genuine. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Look…” In a gentle line, he ran his thumb up and down the edge of her jaw. “I admit I’ve been a little hot and cold. For years I’ve—”
He stopped just before the next word formed on his tongue. Hated. Hated, hated, hated. Hell, how was he going to explain without using that word? Because the truth was, he had hated her—everything about her.
But that was before he’d met her.
Before he’d decided he liked the quirky girl he’d helped home from the Dirty Bird.
Pushing a breath out from his nose, he started over. “For years, I’ve disliked the idea of you—this selfish brat who ditched her sick father.”
“I didn’t know he was sick.” Light from above glistened in the tears welling in her eyes.
“I know that now. But up until a few days ago, or shit…yesterday, this was the image I’d had of Jenny Carlson. The daughter-turned-druggie who’d ruined my chance at becoming a pilot.”
A small wheezing sound blew out of her mouth, her neck tensing against his hold in an attempt to recline away from him. “You blame me for that?”
Yes, but telling her so would surely bring the waterworks, and—he didn’t know—but his chest tightened with the thought of that. “No,” he said instead.
“Wow.” Stepping back, she stiffened. “You’re a horrible liar. What else do you want to lie about? Maybe the real reason you brought me here tonight? To pawn me off on the owner—she’s a real gem of a glass cleaner, you know you want to hire her—so I’ll leave you alone?”
“No.”
Her face crumpled. “Get out of your face and your bar and your life and…and—”
Goddammit, this wasn’t where he’d meant for the night to go. Ryan drew her close to him and pressed his lips hard against hers to get her to stop talking. Her eyes widened, and he stared into them, neither of their lips moving. Just holding. It took a few seconds, but she eventually figured out what he was doing.
Beneath his mouth, he felt her lips form a smile. “I suppose there could be worse ways to tell me to shut up.”
Dragging his teeth along her lip, he fought the sudden urge to usher her into the back somewhere and pin her to the wall. Press his body into hers. Run his hands up and down the softness of her skin. Lord knew, he was aching to.
“Sailor,” he warned, her name sliding awkwardly along his tongue, but if there was ever a time to show that he could say it without repugnance, it was now. Using that name instead of her first signified she’d changed, that she was no longer the irresponsible teen she’d been when she left Marty years ago. Maybe it was time he started accepting that. “The Alibi’s at fault,” he said, the heat from her lips still haunting his. “Not you.”
“Did he say that?” That hopeful sound in her voice, there it was again.
“In so many words, yes. He knew the bar took up all of his time. And he knew if he hadn’t been so immersed in running it, he would’ve noticed his daughter slipping away.”
Standing still and quiet, she let that settle. Ryan watched her face—the heavy guilt and brightness warring against each other in every crease and crevice. It was so strong he wanted to close his eyes, turn away from it…because her pain was seeping into him, clawing at his chest and down into his stomach.
The moment stretched on, and slowly the crowd around them came back into focus. The chatter of voices, clinks of glasses, echoes of laughter.
Sailor broke away from him, reached for her drink, and downed the rest of it. “How did you meet him?”
Her underlying question lingered in the very breath she took. How had he gotten close enough to Marty to be the one the bar was willed to? “In a restaurant supply store,” he told her. “I was in asking about jobs at the same time he was picking up an order. He overheard and offered me a job as a busboy.” Ten years since that day, but the memory was still crystal clear. “Pretty sure he felt sorry for me—a homeless kid looking for work.”
“You were homeless?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I wasn’t sleeping beneath freeway overpasses or eating out of trash cans or anything, but, yeah. I bounced back and forth between some friends’ houses, stayed with Micah when his dad was gone. I tried to hide it from your dad, but he figured it out pretty quickly—caught me sleeping at the bar a few times. Eventually, he insisted I stay with him until I could afford a place of my own.”
“He replaced me with you.” Flattening her hand against the counter and tapping her finger, she tilted her head, her eyes searching his. “How long after that did he get sick?”
“Two years. It started with little things—back pain, unexplained weight loss, problems with digestion. He blamed it on the stress of running the bar for a while, but when things got worse, he finally went to the doctor. It was too late by then, though. The cancer that had started in his pancreas had already spread to other organs. Doctors gave him six months, but stubborn as he was, he lived double that.” It hurt to remember Marty, especially how weak he’d become in those last few months. But what hurt more was seeing Sailor’s face twist with the realization that she didn’t even have those memories.
Silence swilled between them, slow and heavy. He expected that she’d want to go home, dwell on the fact that she hadn’t been there for her father like most girls would have been. What he didn’t expect was the way she caressed the back of his hand with the tip of her finger, the thankful smile she lifted just before she stood on tiptoes and softly pressed her lips to his, or the words, “Let’s do shots.”
Ryan caught her shoulder as she stepped back. “You don’t have to drown your problems in alcohol. I can take you home.”
Shrugging, she stared into his eyes. “Ryan, it’s not a problem if I can’t fix it. What’s done is done, and while I appreciate that you were the one to be there for him, I can’t bring him back. I can never tell him how sorry I am for leaving him. All I can do is try to make it up to him in any way I can.” She lifted a grin. “Which means testing out this bartender.” Leaning onto the counter, she caught the bartender’s attention and waved her over.
“Another?” the woman asked as she approached, tucking her curly hair behind her ear. The Alibi had never had a woman bartender before, and suddenly Ryan was wondering why the hell not. Eye candy behind the bar might increase sales.
“Actually,” Sailor spouted, “I’m thinking a shot, but I’m not really a drinker, so I don’t know where to start. Maybe something fruity?”
Thirty minutes later, Sailor slammed her third shot glass onto the counter and smacked her lips. “That one was my favorite. What was it called?”
Brooke, the bartender Sailor had befriended, swiped the glass and set it in the tub of water to be washed. “That one was a Blow Job.”
“Oh, a Blow Job. I’ll have another.”
Ryan quickly spun Sailor around to face him. “Maybe you should wait a few minutes until that one settles first?” The last thing he needed was Sailor pulling a Marissa tonight. And any more than three shots in an hour was sure to do that.
She puffed out her lip. “Hey, party pooper, I was just starting to get the hang of this whole drinking thing.”
A dot of whipped cream sat in the corner of her mouth, and he wiped it with his thumb. “You mean you were just starting to get drunk, so no more Blow Jobs until you finish a glass of water.”
Hands out to her sides, bracing her weight along the edge of the counter, she rolled her head to the side and drew up a seductive smile. “All right then, boss. If I can’t have another Blow Job, you have one.” Her glassy gaze locked on his.
Fuck, if that wasn’t the sexiest thing that’d com
e out of her mouth all night. “Carlson,” he leaned close and growled. “If—and when—you give me a blowjob, I sure as hell won’t want it here.”
“So let’s go back to your bar then.”
Goddamn, she was cute when she was clueless. “I was thinking somewhere a little more private.”
Crinkles crawled across her forehead. “Priva—oh.” Pink deepened the rounds of her cheeks and she blinked, and then laughed. “You meant a real one.”
Ryan stared, unable to answer because those words triggered the image of her mouth on him, sliding up and down, licking and sucking. His pants grew tighter and a deep ache to turn that fantasy into reality slammed into him.
He reached for her, tipping her face up to his with a finger under her chin. Strands of blond framed her face, the light from above lightening the deep color in her eyes to a golden brown. Beautiful. He kissed her once, running his tongue over her lips, tasting the sweetness of the whipped cream in her last shot. As he stepped closer to claim more of her mouth, her purse started barking.
“Sailor,” he said, his face just millimeters from hers. “Why does it sound like there’s a dog in your purse?”
Her entire face brightened. “Because there is.” Quickly, she searched her purse and pulled out her phone. “I have it set to alert me when new videos or pictures are posted.” Swiping the lock on the screen, she turned her shoulder into his so he could see, too. “It’s from a blog I follow.”
The words “dog shaming” scrolled across the screen, and then a picture of a spotted Great Dane with some sort of plastic square stuck around its head. At the bottom of the picture was the caption, So…about the litter box in the linen closet. And under that was a description from the person who’d posted the picture. Apparently, I’ve been blaming the wrong dog for snacking at the Kitty Cat “Buffet” and leaving a mess on the floor.
Sailor let out a giggle. “That thing is really stuck on his head.” Another giggle. “Drex did that once. Not with kitty litter—I don’t have a cat—but with a decorative pot I’d had. His head was jammed inside it when I came home, and it took a bottle of olive oil, a hunk of Gouda, and a whole lot of coaxing to get it off him. Have you ever had a dog?”
Ryan smiled at the image of Sailor bribing her dog to take off the pot with a chunk of fancy cheese. “No.” But he’d seen plenty of pictures like this. It’d always been one of Marty’s favorite pastimes, but especially so in those last few months when he was too weak to leave his bed. When the disease was stealing everything he had. When it took every ounce in him to lift a smile. Ryan could tell her this—that something she and her father likely shared when she was younger was what kept him in higher spirits toward the end. Instead, he shook his head. An untroubled smile sat on her face now, and he didn’t want to take that away. “I’ve never had a pet,” he answered.
“No pets?”
“No pets.”
“Not even a fish? A hermit crab?”
“Nope.”
Her eyes drifted to the space above his shoulder for a moment, her focus dissolving. When it came back to him, she said, “You never told me why my dad had to take you in. Why you’d been staying with friends and bouncing from place to place. Did you…” She swallowed, her face puckering as if it tasted bad. “Didn’t you have parents?”
“Unlike you, I didn’t get to choose to be alone.” He let that sit, hoping she wouldn’t ask him to explain, but she just stared. Waiting. He sighed. “I’ve never met my father. I’m guessing I was the product of a one-night stand, but I never got the chance to ask my mom.” Sailor opened her mouth, likely to question why, and Ryan gently pinched her lips together. “She overdosed on heroin when I was in high school, which led to her diagnosis of schizophrenia and a permanent home at a halfway house in Bridgewater. The only parent I can really remember is Marty. He took me in. And he taught me how to be a man.”
Sailor blinked and slowly backed away from Ryan’s hand, at the same time clasping onto the edge of the counter. No smile, just a press of her other hand to her chest as if she were trying to hold in the pain his words were likely causing. Earlier, she’d been right. Her dad had replaced her. And if it were the other way around, he’d surely be punching shit right about now. But Sailor stood in front of him, looking wounded but controlled. It took a moment, but she eventually said, “Ryan, I’m glad he had you. And I’m glad you had him, too.”
Then she shifted onto the tips of her toes, tugged the end of his beard, and kissed him. She parted her lips, slid her tongue against his, and he sighed into her. Forget checking out the competition tonight. He caressed her sides, sliding his hands from her hips up to the space beside her breasts. There was something else he wanted to check out.
Chapter Six
Truth #25: For the record, I wasn’t kissing him. I was whispering in his mouth.
Oh God, oh God. “Oh God! Ryan, I’m never going to make it!”
Warm lips dragged from the crook of her neck up to her ear, exploding tingles over her skin. “You’re going to have to, Carlson,” he whispered. “I can’t move any faster.”
Honestly, she didn’t want him to move faster. The rubbing of his body against hers had her nearly gasping for breath. Alcohol still buzzed in her system, making every little touch of his hands delicious and wonderful and downright sexy. And then she felt the pressure low in her belly again. “You don’t understand,” she said as they approached the front door, his hand still wrapped around her waist, his front side still grinding against her backside with every step they took.
Delicious. Had she mentioned delicious?
“I’ve never had to pee this bad before. I think it’s going to start leaking out of my ears if you don’t hurry up and get us inside.”
Warm breath on her ear again. “That would only help me in my quest to get you naked and in the shower.”
She elbowed his chest. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He chuckled, and with slow precision, slid his hand lower and pressed over her clit. The feeling that she was going to burst ebbed, and she sighed, sagging more into the firmness. Note to self: always stop in the restroom before leaving the bar. How many drinks had she had? One? Two? Plus a handful of shots? It was hard to remember when all she could think of was the conversation they’d had about Ryan and her father.
Knowing her dad had taken Ryan in stung, but seeing the appreciation in Ryan’s eyes when he recounted it lessened the pain. He hadn’t had it easy when he was younger, and she was glad he’d been able to make something of himself. What would’ve happened to him had her father not stepped in?
Ryan could’ve been homeless. Taken in by a group of druggies to use and be used.
Suddenly, another sensation budded out from the firmness of his hand. Tendrils of want—of need—swirled and twirled low in her stomach. The slow ache for feeling Ryan inside her building.
Wait. That was just her bladder.
Or was it wanting to cross into OG Town?
Oh God, pee or orgasm, pee or orgasm? What if she did both? At the same time? Was that even possible?
The lock on the door clicked, and Ryan shoved open the door. Sailor bolted through the front room and down the hallway, not slowing to take in his space one bit. Only one door sat at the end of the hall, and she blasted through it. Right into his bedroom.
Bad guest etiquette? Probably. Though being on the verge of peeing her pants quashed any good manners she might’ve had otherwise.
She ran past the unmade bed, pushed against the center of the wall, hurdled over the pair of jeans strung across the carpet and beelined for the door that had to be the bathroom. Most apartments were set up that way, weren’t they?
Light on and toilet in sight, she worked as fast as she could.
A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom. Ryan stood propped in the doorway. Arms folded over his stomach, shoulder resting casually on the frame, and a teasing smirk lifting to the edges of his face. “Better?”
I can think o
f a few things that would make it even better. Like returning your hand to where it was before I tore off to the potty. “Your room is really messy,” she said, ignoring the way her mind seemed to divert to all things sexual when he was near, focusing instead on the pile of clothes in the corner, the unmade bed, the stack of books and magazines acting as a holder for a pair of shoes. The only part of the room not looking like a pigsty was the wooden dresser stretched along the side wall topped with a small metal tool chest.
“Wasn’t expecting company.”
Huh. Really? Based on their first encounter, she would’ve guessed otherwise. “So your one-night stands are always at the woman’s house?”
His eyes locked on to hers. “Or her cousin’s.”
“But…I’m here.”
“You’re different.” Slowly, his arms fell to his sides, and, yes, seeing him like that—leaning and open and staring—was undoubtedly hot. “And you aren’t a one-night stand.”
The last of his words deflated the growing tension in her lungs. And in three steps, he closed the space between them and rested both hands on her waist. Fingers tightened, his thumbs slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. With the feel of his skin on hers, it was suddenly hard to find her breath.
She was different all right. “Because of me, you didn’t get to follow your dreams. I should be the last one you want here.”
He started to move his fingers again, burrowing under her shirt, scraping her stomach, and lifting the material until it was halfway over her head. Tendrils of cool air burned against her skin, climbing and crawling up to her exposed mouth.
The shirt stopped moving, the hem stuck just below her eyes, the material flopping limply over the top of her head. Hands—no, one hand—locked on to both of her wrists and pushed her arms above her head.
Without being able to see, the rest of her senses were suddenly thrust into overdrive. “What…what are you doing?”
A Moment of Madness (Boston Alibi) Page 11
