“What?”
I have to yell to be heard. “I said they should be done in a week or two!”
“You shittin’ me?” I find my clothes and spiral down the iron staircase into the bathroom where the shower’s white noise drowns out the hammering.
He joins me, hogs all the spray, and laughs as I try to duck under his arm to stay warm. His cock jumps to attention so I reach out and grab it.
“Sugar, you keep doing that and we’re going to need a bigger hot water tank.” He steps in closer and when he cups my breasts, my clit swells, still sore from last night.
“We could take shorter showers.”
“Not an option.” His hand slips between my thighs and my knees go weak.
“Suds, honey, I have to go to work.”
“We woke up early, darlin’. We might as well put the extra time to good use.”
He steps behind me and whispers in my ear. “I could fuck you all day and never get tired of it.”
I turn my head and nip his lower lip. “We’d freeze to death.”
“And I’d die a happy man.” He places my hands on the wall and slides his thick cock between my lower lips while his index finger does its magic. “Damn, you feel fine.”
Squirming, I reach to the liquid soap, and one-handedly pump into my palm. Then, I circle my fingers around him, thumb on his tip.
“Sugar…” His groan sends a chill down my spine. “You are so fucking beautiful.”
Strong wet legs on either side of mine, he leans me over and plays with my clit’s rising blossom.
Pressure builds as he circles my nub and caresses my breasts. When he pinches one nipple and applies a little more force below, I erupt in this amazing orgasm.
I’d fall but he holds my hips, bends his knees, and thrusts up.
“Holy shit!” I try to push back to meet him but all I can do is hang on for the incredible ride.
Again and again, he dives deeper. No him and no me, we’re one as the water sprays around us. He sends me higher until I go off and scream in pure delight.
At my noises, he grunts and swells. Shouting, he explodes inside of me.
We both pant, hearts racing until the water turns lukewarm.
“Ten, nine, eight...” I squirm to break free as our shower grows chillier but he won’t let go.
We’re both doused with arctic spray before we can hop out of the stall.
Laughing, we dry off as Catrina peeks around the corner. “Meow? Meow? Meow?”
“Yeah, I’ll feed you. Give me a moment.” Suds snaps me with his towel and wraps it around his waist.
Kitty, tired of waiting, tangles herself between his legs until he has to balance on one foot. “If you trip me, you might starve.”
“Mrmph.” Our tabby pads over to the fridge and stares at it.
“Yeah, yeah, I know where it is.” After setting down her bowl, he pats her head and jumps a mile as the steel dumpster thunders next door.
Cringing, I towel dry my hair, and break a couple eggs into an iron fry pan warming on our hot plate.
Leaning close, I shout into his ear. “Don’t forget our meeting with Father O’Connell.”
He makes a frowny face. “I thought they ended the inquisition in the middle ages.”
“Today, we’ll only talk about the date. Please?”
He rolls his eyes. “Your monsignor is downright senile. Have you listened to any of his sermons lately?”
“Honestly? No.” I giggle. “His conclusions confuse the hell out of me, but I don’t think it’s his age. Aunt Marion said he always rambled.”
“Seriously?”
“Just come. I promise it won’t take long.”
“Fine but you owe me one.” He winks. “I accept all forms of payment.”
“Will do.” I put some bread in the toaster and grab some butter out of our office size refrigerator and glance at the time as the jackhammer starts up again.
Catrina scrambles under the couch and peeks out so I give her a kitty treat and wait for a break in the noise before trying to speak again.
“Poor kitty. She’s going to be traumatized.”
“Shit. Me too. I ordered us some earplugs online. I don’t think they make them for cats.”
I pour us both a cup of coffee, add cream, and try to talk between the noises next door. “At work… I’ll see what other gossip… I can dig up.”
Sebastian waits until the loud pounding stops. “On Mrs. Rossini?”
“Uh-huh. I’m going to ask my cousins and aunt about her. Maybe while I’m at the salon, you can see if you can find Mrs. Gallo’s husband. If he’s alive, that should put Martha’s mind at ease as well as our consciences for taking her money.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He grimaces when the hammering starts again.
“What?”
“Nothing!”
Grabbing my coat, hat and scarf, I kiss my beautiful man goodbye. Then, I walk down a flight of stairs, and at the bottom, pause to zip up. Even through the door, I can feel the cold damp wind blowing off the Atlantic.
Overhead and across the street, Manhattan commuters wait for the elevated train. Glad I’m not one of them, I rush along the sidewalk to my aunt’s hair salon. Before it was hers, it belonged to my nonna.
Alone, I stock all the stations with hairspray and shampoo before sitting down and enjoying a quiet cup of coffee.
I’m searching social media for potential clients when my two cousins arrive. Rose, the oldest, raises her brows as she stuffs her coat in the closet. “You look like something the cat dragged in. Did you have a fight with Suds?”
“No. I got woke up way too early because of a jackhammer.”
Mia covers her ears. “La-la-la, I’m not listening.”
Standing, I walk over and pull her hands down to her sides. “A real one not his cock.”
Her face goes red. “Oh. Sorry.”
My cousins are laughing hysterically as Aunt Marion comes in the door.
Her dyed black hair frames her olive skin the way it has for years. Only a few wrinkles around the eyes and mouth would give away her age.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was telling Mia and Rose about the construction next to my new apartment.”
“Ah yes. They’re turning the old church into condos.”
Despite the inconvenience, I see dollar signs. Millennials will have need for private detectives. If I focus on the positive, perhaps I can survive the b’jillion decibels. It’s only for a few weeks.
A few minutes later, the regulars shuffle into my aunt’s salon on walkers and canes. I wash hair while my cousins cut and style.
Aunt Marion putters.
During a mid-morning lull, I pour Rose a coffee and sidle over. “Hey, do you know a Martha Rossini?”
“Sure. Everyone does. Why?” Dark eyes lift to mine as her brows raise. “Did she come to you with new business?”
“Sort of.”
She laughs. “Oh my God. You can’t take that woman seriously. She must call the cops every other day.”
Mia joins in. “More like twice.”
Sighing, I drop into Rose’s chair. “Shit. I was hoping she was for real.”
“I doubt it, cuz.” She fluffs my hair. “Want a trim?”
“Sure.”
My younger cousin leans against the counter. “You should get highlights. You already got all these different shades of blond. We could really make it pop.”
Just what I need. To pop. I roll my eyes. “Maybe next time.”
Grabbing her shears, Rose pauses and purses her lips. “There’s one more thing I have to tell you about Martha Rossini.”
“I’m listening.” When hairs flies everywhere, I close my eyes and wait for more bad news.
“Her daughter is a fucking nightmare. She wants her mother’s inheritance. All of it. Know what I mean? She even gives us shit about charging for a cut. And a tip? Forget about it.”
“Awesome. Guess I’ll be saying goodbye to
renovations any time soon. Who needs a working kitchen and bathroom, anyhow?”
“You could always move back in with us? Josi moved out and your old room is empty.”
I picture me, Suds, the rickety bed, and how it bangs the wall when we make love. Oh God no, shoot me now.
Chapter 3
Suds
While Sam washes hair at her aunt’s salon, I dress. A few hours later, nerves frayed from the noise next door, I take my laptop to the nearby coffee shop.
There, I pick up my phone and call my boss at Patten Securities, “Hey Slate.”
“S’up?”
“Is next week still on?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I may need a few more jobs until Suds and Sam gets off the ground.”
“Huh.” In Slate-speak, when the line goes silent, it means he’s waiting for an explanation.
“I’m trying to stash some money away for a ring but holy shit. Every time I get a few pennies to rub together, it goes someplace else. I want to do right by her.”
“And Sam?”
“She says she don’t mind but I’m damn tired of her family making remarks about her naked left hand.” At my pathetic admission, a young woman stops cleaning tables and gives me a look of pure pity.
My friend, however has no such mercy. “The rock’s not important. Talk to her.”
“I’ll get right on it.” I picture myself on one knee and her disappointed face as she opens a fuzzy box with a tiny diamond. Damned if that wouldn’t suck wind.
“Check your emails. I sent you Dana Springfield’s contact information. He’s divorcing his third wife and wants proof of infidelity. I got to go.” He hangs up without saying goodbye and I grin. Unlike me, Slate spends words as if they were hundred dollar bills.
I send the famous actor an introductory email and put him on the list of folks to call later. Hopefully, he won’t nickel and dime us to death. The only thing worse than a cheating spouse is a rich one.
Thoughts of infidelity conjures my past and images flash in my mind’s eye. Still dressed in fatigues, my dad tousles my hair, grabs his green duffle bag and walks out the door.
“Daddy? Dad? Come back.” I run down the cracked sidewalk after him and he turns with tears in his eyes.
“I got to go, Sebby.”
“But why can’t you stay here with me and Mom?”
“Grown up reasons. I’ll come get you this weekend and we’ll talk.”
People ought not to get married unless they plan on staying together. They need to be damn sure, especially if there are kids involved.
Back at home, the jackhammer continues nonstop. Catrina yowls, my teeth grind, and I check the web for noise ordinances in Brooklyn. Apparently, it’s perfectly alright, between the hours of eight AM and seven PM to drive folks fucking batshit.
Online, I order two top-of-the-line noise-cancelling headphones, making sure they arrive tomorrow. We can deduct them from our taxes at the end of the year because we sure as hell can’t do business without them.
Not only that, we’ll have to figure out someplace to meet with our customers.
I suppose, not having clients in our office for a few days, could be a sign. The grout in the shower crumbled away at least fifty years ago and I’m sure the floor underneath is rotten. The dentist, the former occupant, used the area as storage.
After shutting off our water, I lift a few tiles with a crowbar and moan.
“Damn, Catrina. Would you look at that rot?”
The kitten comes in, sniffs, then dashes under the couch.
Closing the door so she won’t get hurt, I smash shit and don’t notice the passing of time until Sam pats me on the shoulder.
Her brown eyes widen and her jaw drops as she stares at the demolished room. “Oh my God! What have you done?”
“What?” Lifting my gaze, I view the scene through her eyes. Okay, I may have gone a tad overboard.
“You said a little tiling. This is… Oh shit. How long is this going to take?”
“A week, maybe two. Don’t worry. I got this.”
She moans. “Suds, you can’t tear apart our bathroom without telling me.”
“I did tell you.” What is it about women? You tell them important shit and because they ain’t listening, it’s your fault.
“Well, maybe you did but I didn’t understand the full implications.”
Covered in drywall dust and grime, I hug her to me and point out the rotten plywood. “I didn’t either, sugar. We’re lucky we didn’t drop into the tailor shop.”
Squatting, she picks at the wood. “What about the toilet?”
“Fully operational.”
“And our shower?”
“That might take a little longer. Sorry.”
Sam fingers the exposed bricks and pipes. “We could leave it this way. It’s very trendy.”
“Whatever you want. Let me get cleaned up and I’ll take you to lunch.”
At Petey’s Pizzeria, we sit at a table covered with a red checkered tablecloth. She waits until our waitress leaves to tell me what’s really freaking her out.
“I think our Rossini case is a dead-end.”
“Why’s that?” With an I-told-you-so busting to come out, I put on my poker face and sip my soda.
She rolls her eyes as she bites into a slice. “The ladies at the salon say she’s a nut job; sees crime everywhere. The only reason she came to us is the police won’t take her seriously. We can do a little investigating, then we should let her down easy.”
“No worries. I called Slate and he got us a new client, Dana Springfield.”
Her eyes widen and the first smile I’ve seen today blooms on her pretty lips. “Isn’t he the guy who hooked up with the reality-wives actress?
“You tell me, you’re the addict.” I chuckle and she punches me in the arm but not hard.
“Aunt Marion plays the show in the salon. I think she married him last season.”
“Slate said the millionaire thinks wife number three is cheating on him and wants pictures.”
Sam bounces up and down in her seat. “Great! I mean about having a new client, not his divorce. I’m sure that sucks for him.”
Opening her laptop, she types for a while before her eyes lift to meet mine. “Hmm. No kids. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“He gave us a password to login to her cell phone account. As soon as he sends a deposit, Slate suggests we get to work.
“Pretty careless of her to leave incriminating evidence hanging around where he can find it.”
“Most people are.” I almost tell her about the bodyguard job.
However, seeing how it may delay my bathroom work, it’s best we discuss it later, say after an hour or two of love-making.
Sam digs into her salad and points her fork in my direction. “I’ve been thinking...”
“I can smell the wood burning.” I grin and she throws a small tomato at me which I pluck out of the air with my hand and make a big point of placing into my mouth.
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Get serious. Part of what I messed up in my last relationship was the division of labor.”
Her ex was a leech who lived off her income, claimed to be the next Stephen King, and yet never contributed a dime.
She knows me well enough to see my jaw twitch so she quickly reaches across the table and covers my hand. “Don’t be mad. We need to be able to talk openly about stuff, say cooking, for example.”
I remember the day I came home and found a hardboiled egg burning in an empty pan while she stared at her computer screen. “Well, sure as hell, you’re not in charge of the kitchen or we’ll starve.”
She blushes a pretty shade of pink. “Okay, maybe food is not my strong suit but I can learn. We can’t eat out all the time.”
“How about we share that chore for now… and groceries, too. We good?” I figure I passed the test because she beams at me.
Before I can heave a sigh of relief, she continues with the unannounced quiz. “Who wants to
pay bills?”
“You do.” I’m not surprised she bobs her head in agreement because she’s a genius with figures.
“What about cleaning?” She glares and immediately, I understand.
She’s mad because I left dirty dishes in the sink and probably some other stuff, as well.
“I’m sorry, sugar.” I grab her hands across the table and gaze into the flecks of gold that have mesmerized me since the first day we met.
Her eyes soften. “I’ll do laundry as long as you throw stuff in the hamper.”
“What’s a hamper?” I rack my brain. I figured the corner of the loft was as good a place as any. Clean clothes go in a dresser, dirty do not. What’s wrong with that?
“I’ll mansplain it later.” One half of her lip turns up as she takes another bite of pizza.
After wiping her mouth, she opens her purse and unfolds a piece of paper. “The kitty litter and feeding? I will do in the morning, you do at night. Deal?”
“Absolutely but sweetheart, I may need some reminders, especially if I’m putting the bathroom back together.” My brows raise and she gets what I’m saying. If I’m doing chores, I can’t play plumber.
“Oh, never mind. I’ll tell you what. I got everything but only for now.”
Damn, that was close. Thank God my married buddies warned me about shit like this. I’m pretty sure I aced the first of my many exams to come.
We talk business for a while and when I stand, she stays seated. “Maybe I’ll work here for a while.”
Taking a step, I kiss her tasty lips, and put on my coat. “I’d stay with you but I have a floor to replace.”
“Okay. See you later. I’m going to do a little research on Mrs. Rossini.”
“Bye.” I wave to Big Pete behind the counter and almost run into Vincent Vitale standing in the door.
He eyes me up and down, then glances over at Sam, sitting alone with her eyes on her laptop. “She smarten up and leave you yet?”
“Nope. She’s already talkin’ how many kids we gonna have. I’m thinkin’ four but she wants five. We’re going to need a godfather. You in?”
At first, Samantha’s uncle pissed me off but I’ve decided to treat his comments as terms of endearment. It’s the only way we’re ever going to get along.
The Dead Gigolo Caper (Suds and Sam Book 4) Page 2
