Secrets She Keeps

by Amarie Avant

  There’s no microphone on my end to respond, but Ty and I are one in the same when it comes to scum like Riker.

  Instead of stepping toward any potential clients, Riker moves toward the bar. This is unusual since he has a slew of females who follow him, and gouge each other’s eyes out at his command. And then I notice the little tart in the yellow dress. Those doey eyes have caught the target of my mark.

  The lamb is unknowingly being led to the slaughterhouse as the top dog stops right beside her. The patron next to her hastens out of the seat, Riker descends onto the stool as if this is his throne. Every fucking time I consider Riker, my stomach clenches, and this moment is no exception.

  The lamb pretends to play hard to get, turning to the blonde every so often. I have a side peripheral of him, yet her back is to me. Her confidence soars, as evidenced by the squaring of her bare shoulders and the rise of her chin. He’s said something that caught her attention. It could be the same phrase he gave another innocent young woman who ended up sodomized, butchered, and discarded a few blocks from his bar off Sunset Boulevard. Women flock to him in hordes, the thug prefers to do with them exactly as he pleases.

  When a drink is placed in front of the lamb, she turns away from him. The women exchange a few words, something along the lines that the blonde is leaving to bone fatso, and the innocent one is okay with being left to the wolves. Riker sinks back onto the stool, and I notice the slight fizzle of her drink before her attention returns to him.

  Fuck! Riker just slipped the lamb a Mickey.

  There’s a rustling sound in my ear as I begin to pull the bud away. “The fuck are you doing, Evan? Do not engage–”

  Tyrone’s cussing me out is doused into the piss-temperature beer where I just flicked the tiny bud. An image of Riker doing the woman in yellow any fucking way he’d like and disposing of her flashes through my mind.

  My eyes narrow as he touches her shoulder. I start over to the bar, and it's as if my presence has been made. At least by the females who begin to eye-fuck me, mentally undressing my all black tailor suit. They hadn’t noticed before, and their greedy eyes say as much.

  On a mission, I step toward the unknowing young woman. Riker is going to make me, I've hauled his ass into the precinct on a few occasions, and he's not your average dumbass criminal. Hence, his ability to walk freely.

  “Sweetheart,” I turn to The Lamb. She pauses, toxic drink at her lips, and hasn’t yet taken a single sip. Our eyes connect. For just a nanosecond, strategy isn't second nature. Yes, she had a great ass when I watched her walk in, but I assumed Riker chose her over the big tit blonde because it’s easier to trick the least attractive of the two. But this woman is beautiful in her own right. And it shocks the shit outta me.

  Mocha eyes. Big, mocha eyes that warm you to the core. Plush, pink lips with a hint of gloss, and this sheer innocence.

  Fuck, her scent is sweet, sugar, spice, everything nice. I almost call her Lamb. “Lam–Come on, sweetheart, it's time to go home now.”

  Her pearly teeth scour over her bottom lip, and my cock knocks against my pants as if to retort, ‘Hello, Dumb Fuck, let’s screw her.’

  As a behavioral analyst, it takes even me by surprise when The Lamb murmurs, “Okay, babe.”

  Her gaze sears me with questions. Instead of inquiring who I am, she holds out a hand. My rough, callused fingers wrap around her tiny, soft ones. It’s as if her single touch has made me lose my fucking mind. Riker makes no move to engage, and take back his treat. And I am more interested in escorting her safely outside, than keeping an eye on my nine.

  We get outside. A salted, Venice Beach breeze feathers her hair, and she has to push away a few strands from that huge, innocent gaze.

  I place my hands on my head, letting it all sink in, the fact that this warm, soft body before me will breathe another day. The smoggy, dank Los Angeles breeze has brought her closer to me, her sweetness.

  Before I can speak, the tart’s voice damn near blows me away. Her tone is a sensual rasp, but the pitch is increased with interest.

  “So, what was that all about?” Those gorgeous eyes twinkle as if she's a fan of playing games. “He stole your girlfriend, you wanted to extract revenge?”

  A scoff hardly exits my mouth when she begins to play out the entire scenario. “No, better revenge would have been to take off the suit jacket and get your hands dirty. I honestly walked out of here on pins and needles hoping that one of you made the first move. Granted, I’d have to step away from you rather hastily, but a good bar fight, is in fact a good bar fight.”

  I glance back at the bar. Riker is no doubt leaving through the employee exit. And suit? Her tone fluctuated in a particular manner.

  “So what was your goal?” The Lamb asks.

  I hold out my hand. “Evan Zaccaro, and you are…?”

  The energy in her tone takes it down a notch. She glances at my hand and then folds her arms. “I'm not telling you. For all I know you could be some creep. I came to the bar to be entertained, guess I fell into the ‘assumption’ trap by assuming you and that guy in there had some sort of problem. Tell me what this thing was between you and...”

  “You don't even know his name? But you allowed him to buy you a drink,” my eyebrow rises.

  “Sure. Look, Evan, it’s been a helluva week, you can bet your ass I was gonna milk a few more drinks out of him. As far as entertainment, I had my bets on The Hulk in the bar wiping the floor with you.” She pauses to point to herself, and says, “But I, being the unlucky person I am, have had a shitload of shitty luck. I thought; why not help out the underdog. You looked desperate, and I needed to tip the scales of karma.” The woman ceases her theory, and starts for the parking lot. It’s almost comical when she begins to cuss under her breath. “Shit, Sandra left me here for Mr. Tubs!”

  She mentions some person named Jamie, who’d never leave her. I put two and two together. The blonde wasn't accompanying the bartender for a marathon fuckfest the fat-ass must've clocked out instead of taking a quick break.

  “Come with me, Sweetheart.”

  “Look, uh... Evan, I'm not some sleazy bimbo that can't handle herself. I'm going back inside to call a taxi. And despite the sweetheart face, I had no problem stepping outside with you. I know Taekwondo in case you have any bright ideas.” Those hips of hers begin to sway as she plants one foot behind the other. She begins to back toward the front door, “Thanks for the lousy entertainment.”

  One stride to her three, and I’m right in her face. I take her forearms and allow my thumbs to softly rub. The passive assertion often helps anxious persons.

  As expected, her pupils dilate, I’ve arrested her attention. Do not confuse my kindness for weakness, Lamb.

  Tone authoritative, I reply, “No taxi. I'd prefer taking you home instead, sweetheart.” I add emphasis to the nickname which I assume would hold more weight than dominating her. Those plump lips of hers sneer as I add, “I'm a cop.”

  Just the mention of my occupation sets her off. Normally it provides a safety net… for law-abiding citizens. Now the Lamb’s hands rise in the air as if this situation has become too dramatic for her. “Oh, wow, you're a cop? You know what, this just became highly amusing. For a moment there, I was second-guessing your little ploy.”

  “No ploy at all.” I stop myself from addressing her mention of me being desperate and say, “I truly am a cop, a Narc detective.” I begin to take out my badge.

  “This isn't a cop bar. And you look a little too spiffy...”

  Her voice trails off as she observes my Los Angeles Police Department badge. My instincts are on alert. No, this isn't a cop bar. How would she know?

  There’s a sliver of a moon above us and the lights are dim. Reese squints. “Detective Evan Zaccaro. Granted, it does appear real. Zaccaro, that Italian?”

  I nod.

  “Hence the suit, I see. So you were staking out the place, Mr. Hot and Buff on your radar, eh? That why you'd prefer I didn't go back inside?”
The interest begins to twinkle in that gaze again.

  She must have a cop boyfriend or something. I nod. “Sort of.”

  “Alright, I've got a photogenic memory, Evan Zaccaro. Reese Dunham. But I need a drink, first. A real man’s drink. You can drop me off at the next bar, whatever suits you.”

  There was no fucking way I’d drop the lamb off at another bar. We’ll end up at my place. Not that I was hypnotized by the sultry rasp of a voice, or those innocent eyes. I just needed a real drink too. That is before I tell the captain I possibly blew my cover for a woman that isn't even my type. I prefer blondes. And I also prefer women at a distance, in my own timing who also don’t remind me of home. While we headed over in my Porsche, I almost closed my fucking eyes with just the image of being back at home, twenty years ago, as a little-ass kid while sneaking into my mom’s fresh baked brownies. This woman makes my stomach tingle with thoughts of sweets.

  Reese steps onto the white limestone of my four-thousand-square-foot penthouse apartment. Her eyes sweep over the all-white studio which is all open spaces but designed in sections. There are splashes of color, where antiques and statues are situated throughout. But besides that, the entire living space is all white.

  From the state-of-the-art kitchen to my Cal King bed, her narrowed gaze lands back on mine. Before she can speak into existence my own thoughts about this not being a hookup, not in the least, she silently moves past expensive artwork. Those ample hips sway, not in exaggeration as I'm used to viewing, but Reese is in a class of her own as she saunters to the floor-to-ceiling window.

  In the ultra-bright lights of my studio, I’m at war with myself. I’ve fallen even harder for her. There’s no dim bar lights, no smoky hazed curtain to mask her view. Outside it was dark, but here, bathed in light she’s an earthy-golden with a certain bloom about her, like a delicious ripe fruit.

  As if on cue, Reese does another three-sixty in slow motion. “I'm friggen speechless,” she says of the million-dollar view of Los Angeles below.

  I’m fucking speechless too. My eyes tear away from her giving proportions, though she’s preoccupied anyway. I step over to the wet bar, grab two glass tumblers. My index finger skims over the various alcoholic drinks. There’s a toxic persuasion for any event. I pick up the fifth of Wild Turkey. The amber liquid splashes over the rocks. Recalling the undertones of sadness in her voice as she mentioned it had been a long day at work on our ride over, I give us both a generous amount. I didn’t ask her to elaborate, usually talking about the job when off just puts you back in the mindset anyway. With that in mind, and my own botched case, I add a bit more Wild Turkey to both drinks.

  “If I squint just a tad,” Reese’s voice is a sexy slur, from the shots her friend gave her, “I can see the tiny speck… my apartment is way across town.”

  “That so,” I respond crossing the room.

  I hand her the glass.

  Reese nods her thanks, and sips a good amount of it. And my own drink burns down my throat.

  Her nose wriggles, ears perked as she takes the pain. Then Reese shakes her head. “Wow! You weren't kidding. This will clear the flu up for ages to come.”

  A flurry of red creeps up her neck, and Reese’s plush lips purse just a tad as if she’s used to chatting and regretting her words. I smile at her first case of verbal diarrhea. Then Reese licks her lips, while gazing at the city lights once more. Peace takes over, and her mouth is just ajar, those perky breasts rising and falling softly.

  What is she thinking? I have no problem sifting through a person’s thought process. After all, over ninety percent of communication is non-verbal. There’s something behind those eyes that tell me Reese is looking off into the distance, and the little tart has become a ball of doubt.

  Then I realize that whatever reservations she has, has nothing to do with me. And she smells so fucking sweet. Something in me needs a small taste.

  I stand behind Reese. Instead of relaxing into me, her entire body tenses. She downs the rest of the drink and is back to biting her lip again.

  So unsure.

  My rough fingertips leave a trail of goosebumps up her arm. I push her lustrous hair over her shoulder and bestow the nape of her neck with a kiss. That enthralling, saccharine scent of Reese once again takes me back thirty odd years to when I was a child, sneaking into my mother’s kitchen. And I'm not a man who delights in sweets. My nose nuzzles the back of Reese's ear as I breathe her in.

  “Evan, this isn’t a good idea,” she murmurs. She's woozy and it's not because of the drink. My hand dominates her flat belly, pulling her back to me rather abrasively. Her mouth drops open, somewhere between a sigh of desire and shock.

  Reese turns around. Wedged between myself and the glass wall, she has nowhere to run. Though every bit of her body is melting for me, there’s a bit of resolve in the way those lavish lips set just so. Her hands press against my chest at an attempt to deter what I want. What she wants.

  There’ll be no second-guessing this attraction between us, as I immediately take one of her wrists. The pulse at her palm is beating wildly against my thumb. I massage the anxiety from her soul, all the while holding out her palm, and bring it to my lips.

  Doubt crashes from her shoulders. This is my incentive to hike a succulent thigh over my waist. The magnetism of our mouths meeting is instant. My hand claims her jaw, deepening the kiss. Her leg clenches tightly around my waist.

  The warmth between her legs is bewitching. My other hand stakes claim to her toned flesh, and my thumb kneads the soft skin at the inside of her thigh. Sin sparks through the innocence of those big, brown eyes, begging me to do very bad, bad things.

  My lips scour the corners of her mouth yet again, taking her breath away. Kissing a trail from her lips to her jaw, I press her against the cool glass.

  In an instant she tenses up again.

  “Look, Evan, I don’t screw cops.”

  My eyebrow hitches but Reese doesn’t strike me as a criminal. I want to devour every bit of her tonight. Although honestly, it’s unnecessary for me to be made aware, protocol trumps desire. I ask, “You some sort of outlaw?”

  Chapter 3

  Reese

  He has these Mediterranean eyes with the sort of eyelashes most females would die for. Evan’s smile is this extraordinary grouping of confident and cocky, which is the reason why I followed the cop out of the bar. And another thing, he was good. Genuinely good for a cop. And coming from where I’m from, I can peg dirty, lowdown scum. Shit, I was drawn to honey before I even knew he was a cop. That smile made his stone, chiseled face seem more approachable. Gone was my mantra of running in the opposite direction of men who wore tailored suits.

  He needn’t say a word, just the command of his touch was enough to compel me to drop to my knees or do anything he craved. Evan was all over me, and then he plastered me against the wall. The cold glass snatched away my confidence, and I said the damndest thing.

  A second ago, Evan asked if I was a criminal. My father wasn’t good at much, but lying was his forte. Milo Gianni Benincassa always said: ‘The truth’s all in the eyes. Never take your eyes off of your opponent for guilt, and that, doll, is how shit works in your favor…’

  And shit, I want Evan badly. My teeth comb over my lip, gander locked onto his. “No.”

  Again my body is plastered against the wall, with him all over me. Now, it’s as if our heat has scorched the freezing glass. I want to forget the woes of my life. Maybe Sandra was right about the miracles of sex?

  I refuse to believe my bakery might not be my own in the near future or that I have a next to non-existent sex life. In fact, I haven’t been touched in almost a half a year, let alone kissed.

  Never have I ever been kissed like this. My body literally aches for Evan to do with it as he so pleases.

  Evan takes to my neck again. His eagerness is exhilarating as it is arousing.

  “You smell so fucking sweet.” His deep voice coupled with the way his nose nudges my neck h
as my core aching.

  The sensation of his fingertips scorching across the sensitive skin at my hips makes my sex tighten in anticipation. My brain is beginning to divide against itself. Logic and desire are in an internal battle, as one hemisphere of my brain keeps registering that Evan is a COP, and the other can’t get passed his smoldering, brown eyes. My hands weave through his hair, massaging the chocolate-brown tresses. “Evan, fuck me now! Please,” I gasp.

  His low laugh is warm against my collarbone, and it sends a riot of chills throughout my being. Once again a spurt of wetness catches me by surprise. I play with the silk buttons of his shirt, but am too feverish to unclasp it. Evan places a hand over my shaking fingers. With one hand, he pulls at the Italian silk shirt. Buttons clatter onto the floor.

  We're both just a little bit drunk, but I rest my hand on his firm pectorals imagining licking each chiseled muscle. Each one has been cut from the finest stone. There is only the faintest flurry of dark hair below his navel disappearing beneath his tailored pants. The rest of Evan is taut golden skin.

  Though I’m still dressed, Evan says, “Fuck, you are a sight, Reese, I can’t take my eyes off you.” His tone has an edge to it. I have a feeling he can detect the finest hint of my body trembling. He feeds off my innocence. He sets me down on solid ground, and his thumb caresses the pulse at my wrist. Then Evan spins me around in one debonair, agile move. My palms plant against the glass as he unzips my dress. It falls to the floor, and he gasps at the sight of me as I take in the city lights below.

  The kisses at the back of my neck force my knees to cave. “I gotcha, beautiful,” Evan says reverently. He’s more attuned with my body than I am, and I’ve been stuck with myself for twenty-six years. He turns me back toward him, undoes the front clasp of my strapless bra.