by Mel Curtis
In short, Esme had every reason to turn and leave.
Instead, she turned toward the bar, longing for the big, bold taste of Texas, knowing she couldn’t afford it. She had to keep E.R. Jones more myth than reality. E.R. Jones didn’t fraternize, much less bang uglies, with anyone in the fight crowd.
The crowd parted. Those at the bar elbowed each other and slid out of the way.
“Beer,” Esme said.
“The same.” Graham leaned on the bar and looked into her eyes, hidden behind the sunglasses. “How long have you been fighting?”
She could listen to his Texas inflection all night long. She could listen to it murmuring sweet nothings against her bare skin. “Some days it feels like I've been fighting forever.” Most days it felt as if she couldn’t afford to stop.
“And today?” He had a slow, deliberate way of looking at her, with a slow, deliberate smile that promised slow, deliberate sex.
Twenty minutes? Not this man. He was an all-nighter, which meant she really didn’t have time for him.
When had her life come to this point of secrecy and celibacy?
Her back twinged again, damn it.
He removed her sunglasses and tucked them into his coat pocket. “So much anger.”
“Yeah, well, now some of it’s directed at you.” She reclaimed her glasses and turned to find a bottle of light beer in front of her. She pushed the bottle toward the bartender. “Do I look like I drink light beer?”
Graham smiled. And it wasn’t a letchy smile either. Graham looked her in the eyes with a banked heat. He’d seen past the display of cleavage, blue hair and thick eye-liner to the anger.
Trouble, her brain warned again.
Worth it, her libido sang happily, doing a salsa across her lady parts.
“That is so not happening,” Esme said, taking the IPA the bartender offered her.
Graham clinked his beer bottle against hers and made no comment. He was a man of few words. That fact did things to her insides. The kind of things that had lost her virginity in the back seat of Harley Wilson’s Camero ten years ago. If that wasn’t a lesson about turning a deaf ear to one’s libido, Esme didn’t know what was.
She took a strong pull from the craft beer. It was cold and full and strong in her mouth. It’d be nice to sit in a hot tub and drink the rest of this with him. Him and his impressive package.
She glanced at Graham’s crotch, and quickly looked away.
“I don’t do one night stands,” Graham said, and boy, wasn’t that a sour cocktail of disappointment and relief?
People around them were drinking silently, listening in. The compulsion to leave warred with the desire between her legs. She couldn’t afford to become human to this crowd, but she couldn’t walk out now without putting on a show.
Esme leaned closer to Graham and said loud enough for their audience to hear, “You’d make an exception for me. If that’s what I wanted.”
People stared, no longer hiding their curiosity.
Graham effing-Richmond stared at her as if judging whether or not she was worth making an exception for. He didn’t realize he’d backed her into a corner. He didn’t realize he could tap out of this.
Men. Such pains in the ass.
Time to make an exit.
~*~
Graham hadn’t realized he’d followed E.R. out the door until she pressed the elevator button, turned, and frowned at him.
“Really?” she asked, as if she couldn’t believe he’d followed her out like a lost puppy. She stuffed the red purse Kyle had given her into a scuffed and faded workout bag. “We’re going to do this?”
Graham wasn’t sure if she meant fight or have sex. She looked angry enough to fight and sexy enough that he wanted to forget his rules of conduct and take her. When was the last time he’d met a woman as interesting as E.R. Jones?
She glanced at the closed elevator doors and then glared at him over the top of her Janis Joplin rose mirrored sunglasses. “Last chance to back out.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, calling her bluff.
Voices on the other side of Kyle’s door spurred her into action. She tugged him over to the stairwell, shutting the door behind them. “Damn it. Everyone in L.A. is a voyeur.”
The stairwell was dimly lit, a concrete floor and metal stair railings. Not exactly satin sheets and champagne. He was hard anyway.
Muffled words drifted to them from the other side of the door.
“Don’t move.” E.R. dropped her bag and began loosening his tie. “And don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She let the tails of his tie hang loose and then started on his shirt buttons.
A voice in his head was whispering a reminder: No one night stands. Nevertheless, his hands gravitated toward the curve of her hips.
She slapped them away. Not lightly. “Don’t touch.” And then she resumed undressing him, pulling the ends of his shirt free of his trousers.
This wasn’t hot. It was clinical. It pissed him off.
“Listen.” Graham snatched her sunglasses from her and snapped them in two, ignoring the warning flash of her bright blue eyes. “If you can touch me, I can touch you.” And oh, how he wanted to touch and taste and lose himself in her passionate strength.
Her eyes narrowed. With slow, deliberate movements, she placed her palms on his bare chest and dragged them toward his waist. And then she swiveled her palms so her fingers reached downward, ready to delve beneath his waistband.
“Touch my belt and it’s game on,” he warned in a voice that sounded like it’d been ground out of rock.
Without warning, she bodied up to him and spun him against the wall. Her palms had yet to test his threat. She tilted her head up to look at him. There was heat there, but also control.
Graham hated the control. He framed her face with his hands and brought his mouth down over hers.
She stiffened in surprise, but opened to him, tasting of beer and breath mints. He drew her closer and plundered her mouth, spinning them around so E.R.’s back was to the wall. And then he pressed his body against hers, reveling in the softness of her breasts and the strength in her hips as she rocked against him.
Sex. His body was taut with the need for it. His heart thudded in his chest with urgency. Now-now-now.
Her mouth broke free of his, kissing and nibbling a trial down the column of his throat. One of her hands cupped him through his trousers and he bucked against her like an inexperienced teen. Her mouth worked on the cord of his neck with a rhythm matched by her hand on his aching shaft. His fingers found the nubs on her breasts and squeezed through the thin material covering them.
“Game on.” He reached for the hem of her dress, ready to take her here, in the stairwell.
“Slow down.” She took his hands in hers and tugged. “Let’s get a room.” There was a different note in her voice, one he didn’t recognize, one lacking her swaggering anger.
He was tired of this dance around what they both wanted. He dropped to his knees, snagged a handful of her skirt and pulled it up, pausing in case she said no, pausing at the sight before him. E.R. wasn’t wearing underwear. He stared at her private curves between her strong thighs, and then pressed his mouth on top of her smoothly waxed lips.
It was her turn to buck, to moan, to writhe with need.
Her fingers speared into his hair. She spread her legs wider with a click of those thin, high heels. And then she arched against him, demanding more.
Graham smiled against her flesh. E.R. may be superhuman in the ring, but she was just a woman in the places that mattered. He nuzzled, he stroked, he suckled, anticipating her doing the same to him. After a few minutes, she drew out a deep moan and shattered. She stood above him like a punk rock version of a Greek goddess – bright blue hair, eyes lined thicker than a cat’s, a black dress bunched at her waist. He ached with the need to take her, to bury himself between her legs or in her mouth.
He pressed the heel of his hand against her pelvic bone.
; She shuddered once more, and then sighed.
Graham was going to have to reward Steve for bringing him here tonight. “Still want to wait for a hotel?”
She shoved him on his ass, the dreamy look on her face replaced by that of the warrior he’d witnessed in the cage. She grabbed her workout bag and opened the door to the elevator lobby.
He followed, rebuttoning his shirt.
She pressed the call button and glared at him.
Didn’t make him want her any less. His dick was still in the Red Hot Zone. He was shoving his shirttails in his pants when the elevator door slid open.
E.R. stepped inside first, blocking the rest of the doorway. She pressed a floor button. “This is where we say goodbye.”
He doubted that. “Aren’t you going to thank me? A kiss goodbye would be appropriate.” And given their chemistry, lead to other things.
The door to Kyle’s penthouse opened. Steve hesitated at the sight of Graham.
“Thank you, Graham,” E.R. said sweetly, blowing him a kiss as the elevator doors slid shut.
Laughing, Steve walked over and pressed the call button. “I guess that rule about no one night stands has been broken. What other debauchery can Hollywood put you through?”
She’d made Graham forget he never wanted to be like his father, who’d been the king of casual hook-ups, despite being married. Anger raged in his blood. Again, didn’t make him want her any less. She was unpredictable and sexy as hell, Smurf hair and all.
“What makes you think this was only for one night?” Graham asked coldly, wishing E.R. could have heard him say that. “Find her.”
Chapter 3
“Where were you last night?” Daisy turned the light on in Esme’s bedroom at Oh-God-it’s-early-thirty.
“Go away.” Esme pulled the comforter over her head. Not only did she want to go back to sleep, but she didn’t know what kind of bruises she’d have today. Best keep her body covered. Her twin couldn’t know what Esme did every few weeks. After the car accident, Esme had promised her she wouldn’t compete. But that was before Pop’s medical coverage turned him down for the surgery he needed to walk again.
“So touchy.” Daisy tugged at the foot of the comforter. “Were you out with a guy I wouldn’t approve of?”
She wouldn’t approve of anything Esme had done last night. “I’m twenty-six, not sixteen. My love life should be private.” Spoken by a woman who wanted to forget she’d orgasmed in a hotel stairwell. Her lady parts pulsed to life just thinking about Graham’s hot mouth between her legs. “Go away. I’m not working until this afternoon.” Esme plumped up her pillow, noticing there was some blue hair color on the pillowcase. Great. Last night, she hadn’t gotten all the color out in the shower.
“Amanda Williams wants to go shopping this morning.” Daisy was a full cup of coffee chipper than Esme was. Too chipper for their relationship lately. “And she requested you as her security detail.”
Esme hated guarding the actress. “She just wants to brag that she has personal security.” The aging B-movie has-been didn’t need protecting. “I was scheduled to cover Tyreese Larkin’s kids at the airport.”
“I’ll take the Larkin kids,” Daisy said breezily. “Amanda pays in advance. Her funds are already in our account. Dress for Rodeo Drive.”
Esme wasn’t bowing at Amanda’s altar today. The dress code would be whatever covered Esme’s bruises from the fight. She waited until Daisy went downstairs before getting up and surveying the damage in the mirror. There was a bruise on her knee, one on her elbow, finger imprints on her wrist and scratches on her knuckles. She selected her wardrobe carefully: black flowing trousers, a tight fitting camisole underneath a purple lace blouse with long bell sleeves that came down to her knuckles.
Pop was reading the newspaper when she entered the kitchen. Hank Hoyt had been their father’s partner on the force and later their mother’s boyfriend. After the massacre at sixth grade camp, he’d sheltered them from the media, who didn’t care about two broken, grieving girls. They only wanted their tears on camera for their ratings. The house phone had been flooded with calls of strangers wanting to adopt them, even politicians and celebrities.
In the weeks after Mom died, Hank had moved them to a rundown suburb of Los Angeles, hoping for anonymity with a name change, hoping to help them find a new normal and heal. With their grandparents’ blessing, a friend of his in court rushed through the adoption papers. It was Pop who kept the twins busy with judo and boxing and activities that relieved the stress and tension of their past. It was Pop who encouraged them to compete in mixed martial arts. Pop who told them they were beautiful on prom night. Pop who would one day walk them down the aisle.
Pop spun his wheelchair so he could face Esme while she poured herself a cup of coffee. Since the car accident eleven months ago, his legs had lost their muscle because hyperactive nerves – the ones that kept his legs shaking non-stop – made standing or walking a risky proposition. But Hank’s mind was still sharp, his arms strong, and his face still handsome.
“You look like the cat who ate the fat sparrow,” he said. “Who’s the man?”
“Spare me your wheelchair psychology.” Did she have the aura of a woman who’d recently had a Big O? She turned away from him and faced the coffee pot.
Marmalade, their big orange tabby, dropped a lint-sprinkled sock at her feet. Marmalade was more canine than feline. Esme threw the sock into the hallway. The cat trotted off to retrieve it.
“Esme, I’ll have you know, I’m using my licensed private investigator skills.” Pop’s teasing voice was as comforting as a grilled cheese sandwich hot off the grill. “Been using those a lot lately. Got a call from a woman who wants to investigate her spouse. Seems he’s been betting their son’s college savings at a local casino. She wants to know what else he hasn’t been telling her.”
“People’s stupidity amazes me. Why would he gamble his kid’s college fund?”
“He was up against a deadline. His kid got accepted to USC. He got desperate and tried to double down. Wouldn’t catch me betting against the house unless I had a sure thing going.”
Esme was against a deadline – four more weeks until the window for Pop’s surgery closed. She only had half the money the doctor had asked for. But she wasn’t stupid enough to risk it at a casino. Now, if she could bet on one of her own fights…
The thought gave her pause. Betting on herself? That had to be illegal or immoral or something, even in amateur, underground fights. She’d need someone to place the bet for her.
Esme glanced over her shoulder at Pop. Former detective. Owner of a private security firm. He’d never do it. And Daisy wouldn’t either. Which left her with...who?
The laptop open on the low counter in the corner pinged, announcing the arrival of an email to Hot Security & Investigation’s account.
Pop wheeled over, parking his chair beneath the counter. “I don’t know why you had me get a so-called smart phone. It’s at least five minutes slower getting email than this laptop.”
While he checked the company's messages, Esme pondered who she could trust to place a bet.
Pop pounded the keyboard in the distinct rhythm of a one-fingered typist. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.” Esme poured half and half in her coffee. “Just thinking.” About the impossible.
“If it’s a man you’re thinking about, I suppose that’s better than my other theory.”
Esme sighed. “Do I have to hear this theory?”
He chuckled. “I thought you might be fighting. You spend a lot of time at the gym.”
“I run on the treadmill," she said without the hesitation that would mark her as a woman with a secret. "I lift. But that’s as far as it goes.” Esme waited for lightning to strike.
“You’re at your fighting weight. But…given there wasn’t a sanctioned bout last night, I apologize for my suspicions.” Pop was the epitome of honor.
His principles gave Esme a pit in
the bottom of her stomach. Instead of stirring her coffee, Esme added a third teaspoon of sugar. “I like to dance.” The words sounded flat. She forced cheer into her tone, joy into her smile, and turned. “I dance. Would you rather I stay home watching movies with you?” She would.
“No.” Daisy came into the kitchen wearing a teal, geometric print mini dress. She’d gotten all the beauty genes in the womb – slender figure, delicate features and long white-blond hair. “Hot Security may be paid to look like Hollywood princesses, but we’re also paid to be able to kick the shit out of someone if need be. I should probably go to the gym with you.”
Daisy’s statement silenced both Pop and Esme. But not the refrigerator. It hummed along as if nothing had happened. It didn’t care that Daisy hadn’t worked out since the car accident they’d been in. It didn’t care that Pop had a brain stem stroke that caused paralysis on the right side of his lower body, or that the impact had compressed Esme’s vertebrae around her spinal cord. One lucky kick from an opponent and she risked paralysis.
Not that Daisy had walked away unscathed, at least physically. She’d been driving at the time and carried all the guilt.
Well, maybe not all. Esme had been arguing with Daisy, distracting her so she didn’t see the light turn red.
Marmalade trotted back in the kitchen, linty sock in her mouth. She dropped it and stared at the dysfunctional lot of them.
~*~
E.R. Jones had bested Graham.
Few people did that in business. And in Graham’s personal life? Never.
Unable to stop thinking about the fighter, her taste had lingered on his lips long into the night. His hands felt again the warmth of her silken skin. He awoke to the scent of her in his nostrils. He was like a bloodhound determined to imprint her into his memory banks.
