by Noir, Mila
“I’ve earned it,” he said. He was standing very close now, towering over her like an angry cloud. She stood defiant. And suddenly the air around them was electric, full of something other than anger. There was heat. Passion. His lips were drawn in a tight line; his body was close and she could feel its warmth. And suddenly she wanted him to grab her, kiss her, and take her right there on the dirty, stained floor.
Shit, Taylor thought. I have to get out of here before I do something really stupid. She waved a hand and laughed.
“Yeah, you probably have. Look, I’m not leaving town. My story deserves better and I’m not the kind of journalist who gives up at the first sign of trouble. I’ll just be more careful from here on out. You’ll just have to live with it,” she said. His jaw tightened.
“Then we’re still on for Friday?” he asked.
“Yeah, why not? I like to live dangerously. Clearly,” she said. Then she grabbed her bag and walked out, heading back up the main drag of town to find a cab.
Anton watched her go until she turned the corner. Then he sighed, wondering if there was any way to get Taylor Harlow to listen to reason. Or into his bed. Whichever came first.
***
Taylor sat in the common area at the inn and forced herself to think about what had happened with Anton and the car. It was absolutely absurd that someone would try to hurt her. She hadn’t exactly advertised why she was in town. And yet, she believed him. Someone had done something to her car that could have gotten her killed.
It was like something out of a movie. The kind of movie Taylor most definitely did not want to be in. They rarely ended well for the girl involved. Generally she became a body that was found in a ditch.
She’d gotten some tea and pumpkin cakes, which weren’t half bad. The common area wasn’t packed. Only a few other folks were sitting, reading the paper or having coffee. But now she was suspicious of everyone. Was someone in the room watching her? Who would want to sabotage her car? She’d barely talked to anyone in town. How could anyone know what she was doing there?
She sighed and looked out the window. She was going to have to be a lot more careful, and not just about her resurfacing crush on Anton. She’d come ridiculously close to launching herself at him today. What kind of a woman lusted after the man who had ruined her teen life? Was she deranged? It didn’t make any sense.
Taylor ate another cake and tapped her pen on her pad. She still had a lot of investigating to do, too. She was getting distracted by a pretty face and, it had to be said, spectacular abs. Was she a hard-nosed reporter or a slave to her hormones? At that precise moment, the latter was definitely more appealing. It wouldn’t cost her her life. Probably. Just her sanity.
She went back up to her room and got in the shower. Maybe hot water and a little girly pampering would clear her head. She stood under the stream of water, turned up to just shy of scalding, and let it pour over her. She imagined her feelings for Anton washing away down the drain.
Except that got her thinking about how hot he’d looked at the shop, especially when he’d been angry and trying to tell her what to do. He’d been downright delicious.
She shook her head, water droplets flying everywhere. The sound of the water against the tiles, tub, and curtain were like a roar. Why did anger and passion have to go so well together? Why did being pissed (or afraid) lead so inevitably to being incredibly turned on? Her whole body felt sensitive. She wanted to be touched. But no one else was around. So…
Taylor finally indulged in the fantasies she’d been having since she got to town.
She touched herself the way she thought Anton would, firmly, with confidence. Teasing. She cupped her full breasts, rubbing the nipples roughly. He would be impatient, eager to get to it. And she wouldn’t fight it.
Her hands slid to her round belly, then swiftly down between her legs. She was even hotter than the water down there, wetter. She pressed and groaned a little; she was more than ready. The sound of the water was loud in her ears, like a heartbeat.
Taylor bent forward in the shower, imagining Anton’s hands on her hips, pressing her back against him where he was hard and thick and ready. She started making circles around her bud and had to steady herself with her other hand against the shower wall. She imagined him gliding into her, fast and deep, and she came, harder than she ever had. She almost fell over with the force of her orgasm rushing at her, muscles tight, wanting more.
So she did. Instead of stopping she kept rubbing, kneeling on the tub floor. She slid her other hand along her buttocks, into the cleft, then to her opening. She slipped one finger inside, then two. She went slow this time, imagining Anton’s lips on the back of her neck, biting her, claiming her, riding her.
This time her climax soared higher, making her cry out, something she rarely did on her own. She shuddered and came again, gasping.
Finally done, she lay down in the tub and collected herself. Her body felt a little more satisfied but it still wanted him. She sighed, water falling all around her. Would Anton Quinn ever be out of her system? Did she need to actually sleep with him to get him out of her head?
She had a bad feeling she knew the answer to that.
Taylor dried off and came out into her room…and stopped. Her bag had been upended, contents everywhere. Her laptop was open, her bag’s contents scattered. The door to her room was hanging open; someone had used a key. She stared for a minute, trying to process it.
She went to her laptop and checked; it was still on the load screen. They hadn’t been able to figure out her password. That was a relief. They must have come in while she was showering. Her knees were suddenly weak, and she had to sit on the floor. Someone had been in her room while she was there, had gone through her things. They could have hurt her.
The contents of her bag were a wreck, but they hadn’t gotten her notes. She’d taken them into the bathroom with her phone because sometimes she had ideas when she was in the bath and liked to be able to write them down. She’d gotten so lucky, she felt a little like someone was looking out for her.
She dressed, went downstairs, and asked to have her room switched. Gave a vague excuse about the bed. The desk person, the most bored-looking teenage boy she’d ever seen, hadn’t questioned it. He’d barely looked at her. Which explained how someone had gotten in.
After, she lay in her new bed, dressed in sweats with her shoes right by the bed and her pepper spray within reach on the nightstand. The new room was down the hall from the other, and this time she locked the deadbolt. It helped a little.
Taylor was staring at the ceiling in the dark, unable to sleep. She missed the city and the lack of complications her life there had. She worked, she went home and pleasantly ignored her roommates, repeat. No emotional pitfalls. No hot-as-hell but also dangerous-as-fuck bikers. And definitely no one trying to kill her or breaking into her room. The irony that she felt safer in NYC was not lost on her. And yet somehow, she was ultimately more scared by her feelings for Anton.
She could hear her grams laughing at her, chiding her for trying to keep her life simple and free of emotions, good or bad. Grams had loved feelings, the intensity of them. She’d been a big fan of love, with a stack of romance novels always by her bedside. She’d often told Taylor life just wasn’t worth living without love, pain, and a good pie crust recipe.
And maybe she’d been right. Her life in the city might be easy, but it was lonely. And it was practically celibate. Which, quite frankly, she was tired of. Sure, self-love worked for your average distraction. But it wasn’t a warm body to curl up to. And there were some things another person added to the experience she just couldn’t manage on her own.
She hated to admit it, but Anton had been right. She was being stubborn. This story, her big break, was not worth her life. She didn’t want it that badly. Someone messing with her car was terrifying; someone getting into her room was beyond. She just didn’t want to be a coward. Someone should expose whatever was happening in Sweethollow, and if sh
e didn’t, no one else would. Things would just keep on as they always had. Some of the people who had died, liked the Coulsons, deserved better. So she needed to “woman up” and get this right.
But she also needed to make sure she didn’t get killed in the process.
And here she’d thought the toughest thing about coming back to Sweethollow were the shitty memories.
***
The rest of the week went by largely uneventfully. Taylor did more digging and found very little, and no more strange car issues or room intrusions occurred. She was beginning to think her story was going to end up one big dead end because no one was talking and she couldn’t prove any of her suspicions. Enough people had clearly been warned about her presence, they clammed up immediately.
The only thing that kept her in Sweethollow was her date. It was ridiculous, but she refused to back out. A part of her kept hoping Anton would call it off, but he didn’t. Friday loomed and she was getting nervous.
One afternoon she went for a walk in the wood along the same path her grams had taken that day long ago, just to clear her head. She knew it pretty well, although she’d been avoiding it since coming to town because it eventually led to her childhood home. A place she was trying very hard not to go to.
Instead, she walked to the cemetery, enjoying how the leaves rustled, the silence of the stones, and the way the light filtered through them in bright shafts. She’d never had a problem with the dead or their memorials. She’d spent time in the Sweethollow Cemetery as a kid with her grams, doing old grave rubbings and hearing stories about some of the residents. There were a few famous poets and writers and even an old film star in the cemetery.
She walked along the paths, admiring the craftsmanship of some of the old stones, the carvings that still retained their details after centuries of weather and wind. She sat by one she’d always been fascinated by—the smooth, beautifully carved bust of a plain young woman gazing with a slight smile on her stone lips at a mausoleum across from her. It was unusual because it only had the first name of Mary. Taylor was amazed it had never been vandalized, like so many of the other stones.
On the ground next to it she noticed a bright white flower had been placed. She didn’t know anything about horticulture, but it was a star-shaped flower with little pale purple lines near the center. She didn’t pick it up for some reason, just looked at it sitting there next to the stone.
She sighed, feeling quiet and peaceful for the first time all week.
***
Anton stood in his bedroom, eyeing himself in the mirror and wondering what on earth he’d been thinking, inviting Taylor out to dinner. She must be used to smooth-talking city guys by now. He hadn’t been on a real date in years. Mostly he met women, had some drinks, took them home, and had a good time, and then it was done. He wasn’t sure he could hold up a conversation for that long anymore.
Then he thought about her face, all those years ago, and decided it was time to man up. It was the least he could do, be a gentleman now when he hadn’t been before. He might be what this town thought of as a “bad boy,” but he could and would show her a night she wouldn’t forget.
It helped that he was incredibly attracted to her. Whatever it was that the city life had done, it was more than the cosmetic changes. She had this fiery wit and confidence that just made him crazy. And her face when she was angry with him was just too gorgeous. Flushed cheeks, actual flashing eyes. Channeled just a little bit differently and it would be killer in bed.
Which was exactly where he kept thinking about her. He’d never had this intense a reaction to a woman before. Been horny, sure. But really wanted someone? Not like this, that was for sure.
He also wanted to draw her, although he wasn’t sure how he’d manage to do her justice. Some things the page just can’t capture, and he wasn’t good enough, he didn’t think, to get that fire of hers right. He wanted to try, though. That was the other thing: she inspired him artistically, in a way he hadn’t been inspired in years. He loved tattooing, but he’d mostly been doing the kind of rote stuff people expected for the extra cash. But this woman…suddenly he wanted to paint and draw and never stop. He had this strange feeling that he could draw her every day and still never get every nuance or quirk of expression.
He sat on the edge of his bed and looked at his hands. They were big and rough, and sometimes he felt like motor oil and grease were permanently ingrained in his skin. They didn’t look like artist’s hands to him. They looked like the hands of a guy who didn’t know the difference between Picasso and Cassatt. But he did. He was a man of conflicts and sometimes he wished he could just pick one or the other: the bad boy or the artist.
Would Taylor be able to see past the tough older playboy exterior? She used to. Which had been the problem. But would she even look these days? He both did and didn’t want her to. It would be nice to be seen by someone, really seen. But then he’d be vulnerable. Open. Raw. And that wasn’t something Anton Quinn had ever been good about.
Maybe that’s why he’d gotten into so many pointless bar fights over the years. Did it really matter what some random jackass who’d had too much thought of him? No, but he still found himself swinging the punches anyway.
In a way, it was comfortable being the “bad boy” of Sweethollow. No one expected much from him, and his life was…fine. Nothing spectacular. But fine. The odd annoyance from the cops wasn’t fun, but it was something he could tolerate most of the time. Mostly because he knew he hadn’t done anything, and as much as they might hate him, they couldn’t do anything without proof.
He often wished he was as interesting as these small-town Gomers seemed to think he was. They clearly thought he was running some kind of secret drug cartel out of the cycle shop, which was pretty funny. He could just see Carlos or Drew trying to smuggle drugs, sweat dripping off them, spilling whatever all over the place and telling everyone about it in some kind of nervous word vomit the second they were caught.
It amused him to think of all these townies sitting around thinking he was some kind of drug kingpin, yet living in a tiny studio apartment above his own shop. But that was Sweethollow; why settle for the simple answer when a complicated myth was more juicy?
Anton knew he was the subject of a lot of gossip around town. And that there were quite a few husbands who would like to see him strung up by his nethers, but none of them were stupid enough to actually try anything. And as long as their wives didn’t leave and take half, well, they didn’t have a whole lot to complain about. Especially when most of them had something going on the side as well. In some ways, Anton was keeping them together, like a weird kind of marriage counselor.
When was the last time he’d been with someone he cared about? He didn’t like to go down that particular emotional road. Too many pitfalls and unpleasant memories. Especially of one girl with fuzzy hair and braces and a night he could never, ever take back.
He sighed and looked at himself. He’d made a bit of an effort, put on clean clothes for a start. Black jeans, as usual, and heavy motorcycle boots. But the less-worn pair this time. His shirt was button-down, something he generally loathed. Leather jacket, as usual, and he’d brushed his hair. That seemed like enough.
It was chilly out, so he wrapped a gray scarf around his neck and put on his helmet. He might be a “bad” rough-and-tumble guy, but he wasn’t stupid. And he didn’t love the cold.
As he drove out to the inn, bike making a smooth rumble, he wondered about her story for coming back up here. After ten years, it just didn’t seem likely she’d come all this way for a puff piece. Especially when it coincided with the deaths of some people who had been truly awful to her. Something else was going on.
In the rearview mirror he saw flashing red and blue lights and sighed. Great. Just what he needed. He pulled over to the side of the road, noting it was Kingston Lane and a patch with very few houses. He wasn’t far from the inn, where he’d be picking up Taylor. He had to keep track of things like that because
he never knew when the Sweethollow police might try to get…creative.
He watched the officer get out and guessed it was Greg Jackson, one of the few Saints left after the accident. He’d been more of a tertiary figure, a kind of hanger-on to the main group. Which in some ways made him worse because he always acted like he had something to prove. Guys like that were unpredictable, especially in a uniform.
The worst part was, most of the Sweethollow cops were fine. It was just this little group that made things annoying. But they had the ear of the mayor and a less-than-totally-honest judge or two, and there you were. They could get away with most anything.
Anton kept his right foot firmly planted on the ground and did not put his kickstand down. He doubted Officer Jackson had noticed, as he shined a largely unnecessary flashlight at Anton.
“Evening, sir. What can I do for you?” Anton asked. Jackson was alongside him, trying to look tough and scary. Anton would have laughed except he had somewhere to be and really didn’t need this aggravation.
“I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Quinn,” Jackson said. Anton nodded and waited. And waited. He supposed Jackson was trying to make him uncomfortable or nervous.
“What are you doing out tonight?” Jackson finally asked, when it was clear Anton would simply sit there until he did something.
“Date. I’ll be a little late now, I guess,” he responded.
“A date, huh? With who? Mrs. Craker or Mrs. Dun?” sneered Jackson. Those were the two married women Anton had been seen with the most. Anton shrugged.
“Neither. New girl in town,” he said and smiled crookedly.
“You don’t usually bother with dates. What’s she, your latest mule?” Jackson asked. And this time Anton did laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Officer Jackson asked.
“Well, I mean, if she was my latest ‘mule’ would I just tell you? Admit it out here on the road? That would be pretty stupid,” Anton said.
