“That makes no sense. You two have been joined at the hip since you landed the series, and your career has never been more on-track. Why do you suddenly think the relationship presents some dangerous distraction?”
“Because…” Dang it, she’d thought the whole “can’t afford any distractions” excuse sounded mature and logical. She huffed out a breath and scrambled for a better explanation. Something besides, Because he deserves better than an ex-juvenile delinquent,and an ex-stripper with a bad reputation. Because even if he thinks he can handle the fallout when all my shit goes public, how will he feel when his mom can’t go to the market or church without people whispering about how her son’s involved with the crazy actress whose disreputable past has been splashed all over the tabloids?
Growing up as the bad seed of Two Trout, she knew what it felt like to be the object of whispers and malicious looks. Her takeaway from the whole god-awful place had been a tough skin and a general disregard for what other people thought of her, but she wouldn’t wish the experience on anyone. She sure as hell wouldn’t wish to inflict that kind of treatment on people who had been nothing but nice to her.
“Because?” Kylie prompted, and jabbed Stacy again with the plastic pitchfork.
“Ouch. Cut that out or you’re not going to like where the fork goes next. Look, we’ve been over this, Ky. I don’t have time to invest in a relationship. I’m on the set, or doing publicity, or auditioning for movie roles for when the series goes on hiatus.”
“Ian understands the demands on your time. He’s got a pretty demanding job too, you know.”
“Exactly.” Stacy latched onto the argument like a lifeline. “We’d never see each other, and we’d grow apart. It’s doomed.”
“Or…you’d move in together, like Ian suggested, and appreciate the little, everyday moments all the more because you don’t take them for granted. Why don’t you just admit you got cold feet?”
Yeah, that’s what everyone thought, including Ian. Or maybe he’d seen right through her act, but not called her on it because he realized she’d done him a favor. Life with her was no picnic. She’d managed to run her daddy off from in the womb, and most of the other people in her life, except Kylie, disengaged as soon as they got whatever they were after.
Ian wasn’t after anything except the right woman to spend his life with. Call her crazy, but she’d never seen the point of auditioning for a role she didn’t have a prayer of winning. She stared out the tinted window at the parade of lights, cars, and costumed revelers along West Hollywood’s famed Sunset Strip. “I did not get cold feet,” she said softly.
“You so did. A classic case. He asked you to move in with him and you bolted like a bunny rabbit. If I look up ‘cold feet’ in the dictionary, I don’t see your picture, because you’ve already run for the hills.”
Mandy snorted and tried to hide it by clearing her throat.
Stacy glared at her assistant. “Ha. Ha. Are those signature pages ready?”
“Here.”
She took the stack of flagged papers and the pen Mandy handed her. The weight of her sister’s hand on her knee drew her gaze away from the pile. Kylie stared at her with sympathetic eyes. “I’m not laughing. I just want you to be happy, and Ian made you happy. You two just”—she held her hands up and laced her fingers together—“you fit each other.” She dropped her hands to her lap. “Think about what I’ve said, okay?”
Stacy forced her lips into a noncommittal smile and got busy signing. She could think about her reasons for the breakup until she fried every last one of the hundred billion brain cells in her head, but nothing changed. Despite Kylie’s belief to the contrary, they actually didn’t fit. She’d spent almost a year ignoring the little warnings her mind had tried to send her heart. Hello, he’s a cop, and you’re an ex-stripper, not to mention your hometown’s poster child for authority issues. Anything wrong with this picture?
She signed the last flagged page with a flourish, put the pen on the stack, and handed everything back to Mandy.
“Did something else happen between you two?” Kylie asked. “Besides the whole moving in together discussion?”
Damn. God might as well have given them one mind to share, because Kylie read hers so easily. “No,” she said quickly, and flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “Not really.”
Hell yes, something had happened. One rare, wide-open Saturday after she’d surprised him in the shower with a deliciously dirty morning scrub-down, Ian had told her to “put on something pretty” and get ready for the best burgers and dogs she’d ever tasted. She’d thought he planned a drive to one of the casual little restaurants along the Pacific Coast Highway, but no…he’d driven them to a sweet, postcard-perfect Southern California neighborhood, parked in the driveway of a sweet, postcard-perfect house, and introduced her to his sweet, postcard-perfect parents, and a good portion of the neighbors who were gathered for a barbecue. She felt like a trespasser on the wrong set. Instead of Vegas Vixens, she’d stumbled into a modern-day Leave It to Beaver.
“Which is it, ‘No’ or ‘Not really’?”
“I missed my single, carefree days, okay? I liked being able to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.” She flipped her hair again and shrugged. “Call me selfish, but I’m not the kind of girl who likes to spend her Saturdays at a boring backyard barbecue just to please some man.”
“Me either,” piped Mandy. “Besides, a backyard barbecue is a cheap date. He should take you out to nice restaurants.”
Kylie shook her head and stared out the window. “I know it’s not about a backyard barbecue.”
It was, in a way. She’d had the time of her life, sitting between Ian’s father and another neighbor, listening to them reminisce about their boys’ obnoxious misadventures in suburbia. But somewhere around the time his mom had glanced across the table and smiled at them, Stacy had realized she belonged in this close-knit group of family and friends about as much as a hooker at High Mass. In their minds, “wild behavior” meant TP-ing old Mrs. Cranston’s Continental, or swiping a bottle of vodka from the liquor cabinet, drinking the whole thing, and puking in the next-door neighbor’s hot tub.
Kylie turned back to her, eyes serious, lips unsmiling. “Ian loves you. Yes, relationships require compromise, but—”
“Compromise isn’t my strong suit, Ky. You know that.”
She needed to end this conversation, immediately, because she couldn’t use the words “Ian” and “love” in a sentence without bursting into tears. She’d never been able to, which was one of the reasons she’d never told him how she felt.
“You’re running scared from the love of your life, and you’re going to regret it.”
Doubtful. She prided herself on being a no-regrets kind of girl. But that afternoon at Ian’s parents’ house, she’d suddenly realized some of her choices had the power to affect other people in ways she hadn’t anticipated—and that they hadn’t signed up for. Would Ian find it hard to face his family and friends when it came out that his girlfriend had her own signature pole-dance move? Maybe, whispered a tiny, insidious voice at the back of her mind, which is why he asked you to move in with him instead of marrying him. He wanted an escape hatch, because he still had doubts. Well, she’d sprung the latch on his escape hatch, and damn him, he’d sprinted through without a single look back.
“Ian Ford is not the love of my life”—God, she hoped that was true—“and I sure as hell wasn’t his. From what I can tell, he’s over me. He broke the bounce-back record. And you know what?” She flipped her hair out of her face. “I’m over him, too.” A part of her still couldn’t believe he hadn’t called, texted, shown up drunk on her doorstep…nothing.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Kylie poked her again with the pitchfork, then jerked the damn thing out of reach when she grabbed for it. “Be glad I don’t smack you over the head. The only reason I haven’t is because I know every word you’ve uttered since we got in the
car has been a big, fat lie.”
“Says Kylie, the amazing human lie detector?”
“You keep flipping your hair. I don’t know if you think the move distracts people from the bull coming out of your mouth, or what, but you’ve done it since you were a kid. Mom and I always joked that we knew you were lying when your hair started flying.”
The comment coaxed another snort from Mandy. This one Stacy ignored.
“You’re nuts, just like Mom. I can’t believe I never realized this before.” She crossed her arms over her chest and sank back into her seat, not really caring if she looked like the pouty little brat she’d once been. She preferred pouting to picking through the dangerously sharp remains of her shattered heart.
Tonight she fully intended to party like a rock star, dance her ass off, and get Detective Ian-freaking-Ford out of her head.
Chapter Two
Ian closed his eyes and let the hot spray of the shower rain down on the top of his head. Maybe it would pound some resolve into him, because he was uncomfortably close to chucking his “wait Stacy out” plan, tracking her down, screwing her brains out, and, somewhere in the process, telling her he refused to allow her emotional baggage to sink their relationship. Unfortunately, if he did that, he might as well hand his balls over in a pretty pink gift bag.
Irritated to find his thoughts traversing this same well-worn trail for the billionth time since their breakup, he grabbed a bottle of liquid soap from the recessed tile shower shelf and squirted some into his hand. The smell of Stacy’s fancy soap filled the small space. Nice going, stud. Wrong bottle. The scent provoked memories, just to mess with his head. One fine Saturday morning she’d stood right there in his shower and washed him from head to toe, with some un-fucking-forgettable detours in between, because when it came to their bodies, Stacy was game for anything.
She’d always been more comfortable with the physical part of their relationship. The boundaries she’d enforced applied almost exclusively to their emotions, which she liked to pretend didn’t exist. Pretended to the extent he’d always had to say the words for her. They’d gotten into a game where, each night before they drifted off to sleep, he’d say, “I love you.” She’d snuggle against him, maybe fiddle with the silver chain of the St. Michael pendant his grandfather had given him when he’d graduated from the police academy, or, if she was feeling especially feisty, cup his balls. But she’d remained exasperatingly silent. After a beat or two, he’d pitch his voice up a couple octaves and say, “I love you too, Ian, more than anything.” She’d always laugh and kiss him, but dammit, she’d never say the words.
Raw, sincere emotions frightened her, and, when scared, Stacy fell back on detachment as her preferred defense mechanism. He’d figured that out early on—pretty much from the first moment he’d seen her, framed by the door of the run-down Hollywood apartment she’d shared with Kylie, wearing a plaster cast on her leg, a criminally short robe that barely covered her obscenely gorgeous body, and a smile that extended him all kinds of invitations. One look and he’d been hooked.
Her “dare me” grin had disappeared as soon as he’d shown his badge and requested that she join her twin down at the station to answer some questions about why Kylie had been posing as Stacy and obstructing their investigation into a couple of murders at Deuces. She’d made the trip in cool, unflinching silence, but he’d sensed the fear beneath her ice-queen facade. Still, he’d had to admire her control. She’d held herself together through grueling hours of questioning designed to make hardened criminals cry for their mommas. Stacy had never so much as sniffled.
No surprise, considering she’d spent years polishing her crack-resistant protective shell. She’d needed one to endure a crappy childhood in a small town where everyone liked to think the worst of her and most of the men under eighty wanted to sleep with her. His beautiful, tough-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside survivor had concluded that if she never invested her heart in anything or anybody, then nothing and nobody could hurt or disappoint her.
He rinsed her soap off his hands, picked up the right bottle, and worked his soap to lather. While he scrubbed his chest, he relived that lazy Saturday morning not so long ago, when she’d sneaked into his shower, pressed her soft, wet breasts against his back, and ordered him to “spread ’em.” Only a miracle explained how he’d managed not to slip and knock himself unconscious in his rush to comply. She’d proceeded to run her hands all over him, under the pretense of patting him down. When he’d helpfully pointed out he had nowhere to conceal a weapon, given his state of bare-assed nakedness, she’d begged to differ. She’d bent his upper body to the wall and proved him wrong. The move had surprised a groan out of him, and, for a moment, he honestly hadn’t been sure whether he’d wanted her to stop or do it harder, but soon enough, he’d found himself incredibly appreciative of her out-and-out dedication to the job. His lonely, despondent dick perked up at the memory.
Stand down, Officer. If he gave in now and went crawling back to her without the promises and commitments he’d asked for, he’d never have her on the terms he needed. And if he accepted less, he’d lose all self-respect. He knew himself, and her, too well. Allowing Stacy to define their relationship meant she’d sell them both short.
Not physically, of course. He washed his stomach and ignored the semi, jutting out like a fifth limb, casting a clear vote for the crawling-back option. He couldn’t blame his lower half for hoping. Stacy gave 100 percent in bed and took the same from him, but contrary to the current evidence, he couldn’t be content with 2:00 a.m. get-your-ass-over-here-and-fuck-me-’til-my-eyes-cross calls, and pretending their feelings for each other only went skin deep.
He loved her, and what’s more, he knew she loved him—even if she didn’t want to. Even if she wasn’t ready to admit her feelings. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to understand that’s why she’d pulled away when he’d asked her to move in with him. But he had the degree and wasn’t afraid to use it. Basic human psychology dictated he stand firm. He reached around and soaped his lats, where the phantom weight of her breasts still rested. Stay strong. Don’t reward behavior you don’t want to reinforce.
Easier said than done. Basic human psychology didn’t greet him in a see-through nightie at the end of a long day, or send him a text that read, “Got your request for a twelve-minute blow job,” when he sent it a dozen roses out of the blue. Basic human psychology didn’t snuggle up close in the blurry light of dawn and trace his features with a whisper-soft touch when it thought he was asleep.
He missed her, dammit. Her smart-ass comments, her smell, her touch, her taste…everything. Surrendering, he reached down and took his now-throbbing cock in a soapy grip. He closed his eyes and remembered how she’d tortured him that Saturday morning…one busy hand working him from behind with a thoroughness that had him choking back a prayer, the other moving up and down his shaft in slow, measured strokes. He’d alternated between threats and curses while he’d watched the head of his dick appear and retreat from the snug, soap-lubed tunnel of her fist. Eventually she’d quickened the pace and reduced him to begging, which he’d done willingly, hell, enthusiastically, until his voice had gone hoarse, his muscles rigid, and he’d come with the debilitating force of a fire hose at full blast. If she hadn’t been there to brace him he would have collapsed and drowned in his own shower.
This time he slapped a hand against the wall in front of him for balance and uttered a long, ragged stream of curses as weeks of pent-up frustration poured out of him in a long, slightly agonizing rush.
Somehow, over the pounding blood in his ears, he heard his phone ring. Fucking perfect. Couldn’t a guy get ten lousy minutes of peace to jack off in the shower? He would have let the call go to voice mail but he knew by the ringtone it was Trevor. They were off the clock, but they had a couple investigations going and sometimes leads came in without regard for their work schedule. He flipped the water off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stalked into his bedroom for h
is phone.
“This better be important.”
“Happy Halloween to you too, asshole.”
“I’m standing here in a friggin’ towel, dripping water all over my hardwood floors. ’Scuse me for skipping the ‘Hi, how are yous.’”
“That’s a visual I didn’t need.”
Ian took a deep breath and struggled for the calm he usually exuded with no effort at all. “I didn’t need a phone call in the middle of my shower, so we’re even.” He tossed the towel onto his dresser, balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder, and pulled on a pair of black jeans. “What’s going on?”
“I’m on my way to pick you up. Be there in, like, two minutes. Put on a costume.”
He figured Trevor was calling about a case, but the last part piqued his interest. “To the best of my recollection, we don’t have a date to go trick-or-treating.”
“Kylie called. Stacy got a threatening letter from some anonymous wacko who had a lot of personal information about her. Told her to quit the series and leave the business altogether or she’d be sorry.”
Anyone in the public eye occasionally drew unwanted attention. Most of the time the loser in question got his jollies writing a few letters and that was that, but nonetheless Ian battled a compulsion to track the freak down and pound him into the pavement. “Who’d they report this to? Who’s working it?”
“No one. That’s why I’m calling. You know as well as I do the first person Stacy would share something like this with…uh…now…would be Kylie. But apparently Stacy never showed her the letter. Kylie happened across it tonight at while they were getting ready for the party at Deuces.”
Wicked Games (McCade Brothers novella) Page 2
