by Kira Blakely
I strode to put the desk between us and tried to breathe around my shock. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t know him at all, but I doubted that he would play along. “Your coil still running hot?” Mr. Bogart wondered pointedly.
I looked at him like he was speaking Greek. “Yes,” I answered, unamused by the wordplay. I blinked and decided we would have to smother this smoldering flame between us and move past it swiftly. Acknowledge the history. Agree that it wouldn’t happen again. Focus our professional energies on the matter at hand. “Let’s just go ahead and get this out of the way.”
“Oh, thank God,” Mr. Bogart breathed, fishing in his pants for his cock.
Part of me weakened instantly, but a stronger instinct swelled up and I interrupted him. “That’s not what I mean, Mr. Bogart,” I insisted sharply. I forced my eyes to meet his and commanded myself to be a lawyer in this situation. “Yes, we slept together once, a few months ago. I’d like to establish that it was a huge mistake, and we’re just lucky nobody got pregnant. Moving on, Mr. Bogart, I hope we can focus on the matter at hand and get these charges dropped.”
Mr. Bogart half-smiled and said, “Call me Mr. Bogart one more time and watch what happens.”
“Wh-what would you like me to call you?”
Hs eyes glowed as if the question gave him carte blanche, but he simply answered with, “Call me Andrew.”
“Andrew.” Even his name felt right rolling off my tongue. A sudden tug in the crotch of his jeans caught my eye. He had hardened for me again. I opened my mouth and tried to continue speaking, but the words jammed in my throat and I pinned my eyes to the desk, thankful for the opportunity to rifle through some paperwork. “So,” I redirected loudly, “it seems as if you had an altercation with Deputy Chet Browntooth at a checkpoint on Richmond Avenue, Mr.—” I cleared my throat. “Andrew.”
“Yes. Yes. He told me that sleeping with me was a huge mistake, so you can understand why I might be upset.”
My eyes flicked to him, and he grinned impishly up at me.
“Um,” I whispered. I didn’t know how to banter with this man. I just wanted to do my job. If I couldn’t do that, then I just wanted him to leave. “I don’t want to flirt with you.”
Andrew frowned and stayed standing on the other side of the desk. I wished this room were bigger.
“Are you married?” he wondered. “Is that what it is?”
“Yes,” I announced brightly. “I’m married to my work, Mr. Bogart.” I flipped open his file and forced my eyes to the paper. I settled into my chair and went on. “Obstruction of justice is a serious charge.”
“It’s a misdemeanor,” he corrected me warmly.
“It could have been a serious charge,” I said.
There were a few beats of silence, and then, “So, you’re not married.”
I looked up at him. “No, I’m not married. I’m just...” I tried to summon the words as articulately as possible. “I’m a lady.”
“And I’m not?” I curled an eyebrow up at him. “A gentleman?” Andrew added.
“Of course you are, sir. You’re just—not my type. That’s all.”
Andrew furrowed his brow and cocked his head to the side. “That’s funny, because you are the one who kissed me, ma’am.”
I pursed my lips. “Yes.”
“I’m the same man I was,” he reminded me idly.
“We had nothing in common then, and we have nothing in common now.”
“We were in a room with a desk then, and we’re in a room with a desk now,” he said, and both our eyes went glassy for a moment, lost in the fantasy of melting together in another office.
I forced a hard, mean smile onto my face. He had to stop or I was going to fuck the shit out of him and I did not want to do that! “According to Deputy Browntooth, you became irate at his knowledge regarding your girlfriend, refusing to provide the proper documentation to proceed through the checkpoint? The ticket says...” I tugged my carbon copy from the open file. “‘Irate with jealousy regarding girlfriend.’”
“No,” Andrew answered. “He never even asked me for my license or my registration. There was no girlfriend in that conversation. All that dickweed did was suggest—” Suddenly, Andrew froze and a pained expression flittered through his eyes, out of synch with the anger in his voice. His face relaxed again, and he settled down into the seat across from the desk again. Andrew continued, drained now. “Deputy Browntooth merely—overstepped his boundaries during our banter. He brought my daughter into it. Chet’s just an asshole, taking things too far.”
“What did he say regarding your daughter?” I asked.
“He claimed that she wasn’t my biological daughter,” Andrew said, and he gained a new dimension in my mind. He wasn’t just a persistent mechanic, a one-night-stand with whom I’d become trapped. He was a father.
I nodded emphatically, relieved that I had actually found a foothold in what seemed like a hopeless case. “If we can access that dash-cam footage, you might actually have a solid defense on your hands.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Andrew muttered. “I might actually owe him an apology.”
I hesitated in the middle of scribbling the note about requesting Deputy Browntooth’s dash-cam footage from the night in question. “Oh? Why is that?”
Only silence answered me, and I glanced up from my notepad. Andrew stared off into the distance, his eyes hard and empty.
I swallowed. “Andrew?”
His eyes wouldn’t focus. “He was right,” Andrew croaked.
My eyebrows bent in sympathy, and I placed my pen on the desk.
“My ex didn’t want to involve Connie’s real dad in her life,” he explained in a soft voice. “So she picked me—and I fell for it.” He scoffed at himself and I stood, slowly circling the desk. I could never stand to see people hurt without comforting them. “There were signs I ignored,” he whispered, seemingly to himself. “The timing was a little off. But—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, blinking hard. “I was happy. I wanted it to be true.”
I settled across from him on the loveseat, but he didn’t seem to notice. I smiled gently in case he did look up and stretched out a hand to his kneecap.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. My thumb absently rubbed over his thigh. “That’s really terrible.”
“It’s okay,” Andrew assured me. “It doesn’t take anything back.” His hand smoothed over mine and an alarm bell went off in my head. “Thank you for your condolences, though.” His eyes finally focused again—on mine—and I forgot what we were even doing here. His thumb grated over my knuckles.
“Um,” I breathed, hunting for the right words.
“Obstruction of justice,” Andrew supplied helpfully. “Resisting arrest.”
“Yes! Thank you.” I nodded emphatically and pulled my hand away. “I’ll contact the sheriff’s office for that dash-cam footage, and I think we might be able to sway the sympathy of the judge on this one. What about resisting arrest?” I asked as I stood from the loveseat, smoothing my hands over my skirt.
Andrew stood with me, looming a full foot over the crown of my head. God, he filled this room up. I couldn’t move without bumping into him. My fingers went to my hair, self-consciously adjusting the few errant strands from my earlier foray into self-love.
“If you call getting elbowed in the face resisting arrest, then yes, I resisted arrest twice,” Andrew replied.
I paused and my eyes fluttered up to his. My hands were still smoothing over my bun, making my breasts protrude into his space. “He beat you?”
“Just a little. It was really nothing to write home about,” Andrew reassured me. He squeezed his index and thumb finger together to illustrate his point. “Browntooth is a small man. Tiny, really.”
I saw the way Andrew was looking at me—with too much warmth, too much fondness, we were complete strangers—and my hands came down from my hair, crossing instead over my chest.
“Here,” Andrew murmured,
reaching forward and sliding one finger gently behind my ear. “You missed one.”
“Um,” I breathed.
My phone bleated suddenly, breaking the spell, and I scurried gratefully to the desk, where I could extract the cell from my purse hanging off the chair.
It took a few seconds for me to understand the graphic I was seeing on my screen, and I realized that this was an app I’d never actually opened before. I’d downloaded a home alarm system app some months ago and never received any alerts—until now.
Someone had opened the window from the front porch to the living room.
“Uh, I’m sorry to cut our meeting short, but I’ve got to go,” I told Andrew, dropping the phone back into my purse and slinging my purse over my shoulder. I marched across the room but got stuck in front of Andrew again. “I’ve received a home invasion alert.” I moved sideways to scoot around him.
“What?” Andrew clutched at my arm before I could fully pass him. He held me gently in place and I scowled up at him like he was manhandling me. “Hey,” he said, and the space between us grew small and quiet, like we could just collapse into another world together, right here. “You’re really just going to go there and break up the robbery? With your glasses and your bun and your itty bitty hands?”
“Shouldn’t I?” I wondered in a small wisp of a voice.
“Fuck no, woman. Let me come with you.”
“The alert was already sent to the police station,” I explained. “Everything should be fine. I’m just going to go check it out.”
Andrew stared me down thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
It took me a second to recall that his hand was still holding onto me, and I placed my itty bitty hand onto his, pushing it away. I didn’t know Andrew—Mr. Bogart. Our work relationship was especially complicated. I couldn’t afford any possible repercussions from him knowing exactly where I lived.
“No,” I answered, maybe a little too firmly. “I’m fine. Thank you, Mr. Bogart. You can see yourself out, I’m sure.” I scooted forcefully around him, and our bodies brushed for a split second, then parted and I was free. I could breathe again.
I hesitated at the front door and looked back at him, unable to quell the urge to comfort Andrew. I saw the concern in his eyes. “I’m just going to see if the front window is really open.”
* * *
I slid my heels off and crowded into my car, turning the engine over. My heart pounded and I was thankful for the opportunity to get out of that pressure cooker and regroup. Don’t think about all that right now, I commanded myself. Right now, all you need to worry about is getting home and figuring out why that alarm is going off. My Volvo sweltered with the trapped heat of late June sunshine, and I unbuttoned and shrugged off my blouse while simultaneously rolling down the windows. I wore a thin white slip underneath and the kiss of the breeze on my skin relieved the humidity immediately.
Clutching the wheel and putting the car in gear, I rolled down the street, all the possibilities circling in my head.
Before I could clear the block, my car froze up and the steering wheel seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. I wrenched with both hands but I could barely turn it anymore. “Shit!” I cried, frantically and ineffectually twisting at the wheel. “No, come on! Not tonight!”
I drifted to the side of the road and bleakly put the car into park. Shit. I was stranded in the goddamn downtown of Pelham, several minutes away from my home, which was currently being robbed. Great.
Headlights filled my rearview mirror, and a massive Dodge truck parked behind me.
A broad silhouette came swaggering through the lights. I knew who it was by the proud shimmy of those hips alone.
“This is a sign, you know,” he called through my open driver’s side window. I wanted to scramble back into my blouse but I knew that would look ridiculously prudish to Andrew.
“I don’t believe in signs,” I said instead.
“Clearly.” He gestured to the No Parking signs running up and down this side of the street and grinned. “Want me to take a look?”
“I bet you’d love that,” I blurted.
“I’m not having any wet dreams about Volvo engines, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Andrew braced his forearms on my car door and peered in at me.
“You won’t be having any wet dreams about me, either,” I countered with a sniff. I knew what he really wanted. I knew what he was really inviting me to do when he asked to work on my car. He was hoping for a blowjob this time. A strip tease. It was my fault. I’d set the precedent. Now I had to reset it.
But Andrew scoffed at me and took his forearms off the car door. He pulled himself to a full stand. “You don’t know me, woman. What happened between us was—a one-time thing. You were right: it was a huge mistake. For this, I’ll bill you. Okay?”
My heart inexplicably sank, even though I guess it was exactly what I wanted.
“You know what?” I crossed my arms over my breasts and shook my head, breaking eye contact with him. “That’s all right. This happens all the time. This is a thoroughly used car. I’ll figure it out on my own.”
“But I thought there was a home invasion in progress? Aren’t you in a hurry? I’m a mechanic,” he said, bracing one hand on my door and another on my door handle. “And I’m right here.”
I closed my eyes and nodded. His logic was airtight. “I can’t seem to turn my steering wheel anymore. It’s very heavy,” I explained.
“Let me get in there and take a look.” Andrew took the liberty of swinging open my driver’s side door. I moved to get out, but he stooped beneath the steering wheel at the same time. I flattened my back against the driver’s seat and spread my legs unintentionally, just trying to keep him from touching my skin. He glanced up at me. “Does this thing ever whistle at you when you’re on it?”
“Oh, ha, ha,” I snarked at him from above my widespread legs. “Be serious.”
“I am being serious! I think your steering pump is loose. I might be able to do some work on this tonight if you wouldn’t mind parking at my place.”
“At your place?” I repeated incredulously. “Is that where mechanics do business now?”
Andrew let out an exasperated breath and placed one palm down on the inside of my thigh. I bristled. “Michelle,” he said, sounding unexpectedly calm. “Look at me. Look at me.” I glared down at him. “Let’s just forget that we ever had sex, okay? I’ll forget about it. I’ll never mention it again. It will never happen again. Okay? Are we okay now?”
My relief mixed with a toxic sort of bitterness, and I hesitated before a final nod. “I guess,” I allowed. “Okay.”
“Before I had my own garage, I worked from home,” Andrew explained. I stewed in my own mortification at how positive I’d been that this man would do anything to get me spread on a desk again. He did seem perfectly nice. In fact, what little interest he had in me had probably been dashed away by my shrill certainty that he wanted to plant more seeds in my uterus. “It’s my purely professional opinion that you should allow me to tow this vehicle to my garage for some more work—I mean, just work, not more work, because we just met and have never met before—because I’ve got a tow hook on my truck right now, and I’m just a couple miles that-a-way. Then I can take you to check out your house.” Andrew crawled from the floorboard of my front seat and pulled himself erect again, stretching out a hand to pull me from the vehicle next. “And I’ll completely forget the way,” he promised.
Chapter 3
Andrew
The tantalizing aroma floating from between Michelle’s legs swam around my head the whole damn time I was talking to her. Focus. Focus. How could a human woman smell so fresh and ready? I literally employed breathing exercises to talk my prick into a state of compliance. Crashing waves. Crashing waves and blue sky. Crashing waves and blue sky and granny boobs. Chill out. Michelle’s trigger was so sensitive right now—and not in the good way—that she would probabl
y get my case reassigned and move out of town if she saw me with an erection right now.
We piled into my truck and lurched back onto the street.
“I’m guessing you don’t live in a safe neighborhood,” I volunteered.
“I thought that I did,” Michelle replied. “The rent is expensive enough for it to be very safe. I live right next to a cop.”
“Do you make good money, doing what you do?” I asked, just to make polite conversation. “Defending the riff raff of the world?”
“You’re not riff raff,” Michelle asserted, avoiding my first question. “I’ve been giving you a hard time, but you were right when you called yourself a gentleman. I really can’t disagree, even if I might want to.”
I nodded. “So, the money sucks.”
Michelle actually laughed, a bright, tinkling sound I had never heard before. I liked it. I wanted to hear it more often. “Yes,” she confessed. “The money blows. Take a right up at the gate for Withers Community. That’s me.”
“Then this will be even easier,” I told her. “I live in Withers Community, too.”
Michelle’s mouth fell open, but she said nothing.
“Yep,” I went on, tempering the awkwardness with little success. “I’m in the gray rancher. It’s on the lake.”
“I’m at the bottom of the cul-de-sac on Mayhew,” Michelle replied. All the brightness and honey in her tone was gone now.
As we approached the cul-de-sac at the end of Mayhew, I reminded Michelle, “I meant what I said about forgetting... what happened in January.” I slid my hand through the air, pantomiming an erasure. “It never happened. Okay, Michelle?”
I slanted my eyes over at her, and she offered an uncertain smile as she buttoned the blouse she’d unfastened in the June heat. “Can’t be letting all the cops and robbers get a look at my goodies,” she informed me. We parked on the side of the street and she went on in a tiny voice, “There’s someone on the porch.”
