by Lili Valente
Respecting the hole and not giving you my digits—but if you want to give me yours, I might make use of them.
Someday.
If you’re lucky.
Adorably yours,
Panties
Dear Panties,
Why old lady face lotion? I have to know…
C, aka Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens
555-3476
Text from Panties to Curve: My number is blocked so hard you’ll never figure out my digits so don’t even try, but this is Panties.
Curve: So are you really a spy? Or in the witness protection program?
Or a former drug lord posing as an innocent co-ed while you hide out from a rival cartel and plot their downfall?
That would explain a lot of things about you, Panties.
Panties: Lol! Like what? I don’t do drugs. If I did, my dad would kill me and then resurrect me through dark magic just to kill me all over again.
I don’t even drink anything harder than light beer.
Curve: Yes, but for a skinny person, you can drink an insane amount of light beer without getting fucked up.
But you’re right. You’re not the drug lord type.
I’m sticking with spy. When the feds come sniffing around and suddenly you’re nowhere to be found, I won’t be surprised.
Panties: Don’t be silly. If I’m spying for anyone, it’s Uncle Sam. I’m a patriot. I bleed red, white, and blue.
Now, do you want to know why you’re made of old lady face lotion, or not?
Curve: Yes. Desperately. Do tell.
Raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens felt right, but I didn’t know what I did to deserve to be composed of one-third stank-ass face cream.
Panties: I didn’t mean the stinky kind. I meant the nice kind that smells like cucumbers and sea salt. Like my gram used to wear.
I lived with her when I was little. She was very cool and fun and let me have cookies every day after school. So, to me, the smell of old lady face lotion is the smell of a safe, fun place where there are cookies.
So…there you go…
Curve: Wow…
That’s sweet, Panties. Thank you.
I’m glad that the club is a safe, cookie kind of place for you.
Panties: Yeah, well. Whatever.
Don’t take any of that too seriously.
I’ve had four beers and my roommate is watching Sense and Sensibility and Colonel Brandon just confessed his soldier love to Marianne. The combo is making me uncharacteristically sentimental.
Curve: Sometimes I wonder if you drink too much, Red. And if it’s our fault for supplying you with beer when you were a freshman.
Panties: Nah. I drank before I came to college.
It’s the way I deal with the flashbacks after Kathmandu.
Curve: Sometimes I’m not sure when you’re kidding.
Panties: And that’s the way I like it. ;)
Sweet dreams, C.
Curve: Sleep tight, Panties. Don’t let the crazy bugs bite.
Panties: Too late.
Curve: For you and me both, kid.
CHAPTER NINE
I want to slam my fist into the hood of Nico the Psycho’s car and shout after him that it will be a cold day in hell when he lays a hand on Red again. Instead, I stand on the sidewalk with my arm around her waist, doing my best to look bored until the limo is out of sight.
Dicks like Nico love rapping the glass until the animals start freaking out and hurling themselves against the bars, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
So I turn to smell the shampoo and sunshine smell of Cat’s hair and think smug thoughts about how clearly turned-on she was while I was kissing her and how satisfying it is that Nutjob Nico heard at least part of our hot-as-fuck conversation. But the second the sleek, black Mercedes turns the corner, I release Cat with a growl and jab a finger toward the subway entrance.
“Subway. Now, Catherine.”
She wrinkles her nose so hard the bridge turns white. “It’s Cat. Red or Panties if you’re on my good side. Ms. Legend if you’re nasty.”
“Thanks, Janet,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I thought your last name was Jones.”
Her gaze shifts to the right as she picks nervously at a loose thread on her purse strap. “Well, it’s not. I gave Bash a false last name. For me, and for Nico.”
“And why’s that?” I drive a clawed hand through my hair. “Just to fuck this up before we even get started? Or is lying something you do to entertain yourself when being stalked by a psycho starts to get boring?”
“None of this is entertaining,” she snaps, her cheeks flushing pink before she lets out an unexpected stutter of laughter. “Okay, so maybe the part where you called Nico a sack of amputated goat anuses was a little bit fun. But that’s it.”
“Bash and I have a running contest to see who can come up with the best insults for our clients’ exes.” I concentrate on keeping my scowl firmly in place, refusing to let her husky laugh throw me off course. “So why the fake name, Cat?”
It really does fit her, and not just because of the green eyes and the mischief factor. It fits her because she’s sneaky as shit and diabolically unpredictable, just like a fucking feline.
“I did it for your own good,” she says. “To protect you. And Bash.” She glances over my shoulder before turning to peer over her own, back toward the café where a line has formed as the tables fill up for lunch. Finally, when she’s sure the coast is clear, she adds in a soft voice, “I didn’t want to put anything in writing, just in case he’s still reading my email.”
“Nico?”
She nods, tugging harder on the purse string. “I change my email password every day, but I’m not sure that’s enough to stop him, and I don’t—” She cuts off, wincing as the string snaps off in her hand. She shakes it onto the ground with a rush of breath. “We shouldn’t talk about this here, and we shouldn’t fight in public, either. There’s a chance we’re being watched. Just because Nico drove away doesn’t mean he didn’t leave someone behind to keep tabs on me.”
I stand up straighter, fighting the urge to turn and scan the crowd beginning to clog the street as the office buildings set their cubicle jockeys free for the lunch hour. “You’re sure you’re not being paranoid?” I ask, though my gut says she’s not. Nico is clearly crazy and also clearly has the funds to pay someone to follow his ex around and scare her shitless.
“I’m sure,” Cat says, teeth worrying her bottom lip. “He sent photos to my office last week. He said his associate was following me to keep me safe until he could protect me himself, but the real message came through loud and clear.”
My jaw tightens. “That you’re being watched.”
She shakes her head. “No, that Nico can get to me anywhere. There were shots of me inside a closed courtroom where I was representing a client and at a friend’s restaurant where you need a secret code to get through the door.” She crosses her arms, her shoulders hunching as if against the cold, though it’s at least eighty-five degrees outside. “There was even a shot from inside the dressing room at my gym. I was coming out of the shower. Judging by the angle, I’m guessing the guy was hiding under the lockers. But I had no idea I wasn’t alone until I saw the images. If he’d wanted to do more than take a picture I would have been dead before I had any clue I needed to run.”
My gut clenches. “Fuck me.”
“I didn’t think that was allowed,” she says, a hint of the old smartass in her tone as she hitches her purse higher on her shoulder. “The contract I signed said that things between us will never go further than a kiss.”
“They won’t.” I ignore the ache in my balls that gives testimony to how ready I was to do more than kiss Red a few minutes ago.
She clucks her tongue as she shakes her head. “I don’t know. I think we might have already violated that proviso. I’m pretty sure you stole second base, and that level of dirty talk has to count as at least third. Maybe third and
a half.”
“Third and a half,” I echo, feigning boredom, not surprised she called me on stealing second.
Of course she did. She might look like a sophisticated princess, but she’s still Red, a fact that makes me happier than it probably should. Red was trouble, and Red all polished, poised, and grown-up is flat-out dangerous.
“Not that I’m complaining.” She holds up her hands in what would be a placating gesture if a shit-eating grin weren’t creeping across her face. “I mean, you clearly made an impression Nico won’t forget, but I don’t want to incur supplemental charges without being aware of it up front. Do you charge extra for the dirty talk and second-base stealing? Is it like per word or per sentence or—”
“Come on, smartass.” I reach for her, fingers closing around her upper arm as I set off down the street.
“Where are we going?” she asks, allowing me to lead her toward the subway.
“To a place where we can talk and I know for damned certain none of Nico’s spies will be able to follow us.”
“Good.” The tension seeps from her arm as her muscles relax. “I was beginning to think there weren’t any more places like that.” She shifts closer, tapping her knuckles lightly against my chest. “So this means you’re helping me. Right, Curve?”
“Aidan,” I correct, deciding the sooner we get back on purely professional ground the better. “Mr. Knight if you’re nasty.”
“Aidan,” she says softly, the sound of my given name on her lips making this feel more intimate instead of less, proving my instincts are shit when it comes to this woman. “So you’re helping me? We’re taking care of this together?”
“Yes, we’re taking care of this. Together.” I pause near a halal food stand and turn to face her, hoping the umbrellas shading the area will provide cover from any prying eyes. “But that means no more lies. You tell me the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I need to be prepared for whatever Nico might dish out, and I can’t do that if you’re not honest with me.”
She nods seriously. “The whole truth. I promise. Even though it’s embarrassing. I’ll spill everything as soon as we’re somewhere safe.”
“Good.” I let my fingers trail down her arm to take her hand and give it a squeeze. “And don’t waste time being embarrassed. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”
“Really?” Her head cants to one side. “Even you? Mr. All Honorable, All The Time?”
“You need to make up your mind,” I say, voice low. “Am I honorable? Or am I a sociopath?”
Her lashes sweep down, drawing my attention to her lips, reminding me how fucking good they felt pressed against mine. “I never said you were a sociopath. I said you were two subway stops away from being a sociopath. There’s a difference.”
“Give me a break, Cat.”
“Hey, a lot can happen in two subway stops! And even sociopaths can have honor codes,” she insists stubbornly, because she majored in stubborn and minored in being a pain in my ass. “It’s just that their codes don’t necessarily comp to the honor codes of people who are hardwired in a more traditional way.” She rolls her eyes as she waves her free hand breezily through the air. “And who wants to be traditional anyway? Traditional people are boring and predictable and hardly ever have interesting jobs like being a professional spectacular rascal.”
“Seriously, Red. Just take back the shit about me being a sociopath and we can continue about our business.”
“Speaking of business,” she says with a bright smile. “Do you have business cards that say Spectacular Rascal on them? If so, I would love to get one to add to my ‘That Time I was Stalked and Had to Hire a Professional Rascal’ scrapbook I’m working on for my—”
“I’m serious, Catherine.” I squeeze her hand tight enough to let her know I’m not fucking around. “Look at me. Right now.”
She rolls her eyes again before bringing her gaze back to meet mine. “Okay, fine. You’re not a sociopath.”
“Thank you. Now was that so hard?”
“No.” Her lips press into a thoughtful line. “I don’t know why I said that in the first place. It just came out and then I felt like I had to defend it to the death. I’ve always been that way, and it’s only gotten worse after having a job where I basically argue for a living, so…” Her breath rushes out. “So, I’m sorry. You’re not a sociopath. You’re one of the most honorable people I’ve ever met, and I’m incredibly grateful you’re going to take my case.”
“Thank you. Apology accepted.” I study her flushed face, seeing more of the girl I used to know now that she’s relaxed her guard. “And to answer your question, yes, I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Lots of things, and I almost added another one to the list when I said I couldn’t help you.”
“Apology accepted. Thank you.” Her lips curve in a real smile, a warm, sincere, light-up-the-world smile that makes me wish we’d stayed in touch. No one can be more irritating than Red, but no one smiles like her, either.
“Yeah, well,” I say gruffly. “Hopefully you’ll still be thanking me when you get the bill for the extra dirty talk.”
She shrugs. “Whatever. As long as the talk is good, I don’t care if it’s cheap.”
I’m tempted to tell her that this intervention is on the house, but think better of it. This is Bash’s show. Only he can make the call about whether a case should be pro bono, and it’s probably best if we keep money involved. Money will remind me that, for the time being, I am Cat’s employee, not her friend, and certainly not anything more.
But as we hold hands on the steps down into the subway, it doesn’t feel like I’m on the job. It feels like I’m walking back into a wonderful old memory and reconnecting with a girl I never should have left behind.
CHAPTER TEN
Cave Fitness is just a few blocks from my shop and open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, making it perfect for lunch hour lifting or a quick late night workout after I close up.
But even if it were on the far side of Manhattan, the cave would be worth the trip. Its back to basics mentality, combined with a firm commitment to bulking up without chemicals or sketchy supplements, is one that’s hard to find. Add to that a bohemian vibe that welcomes lifters from every walk of life, regardless of sex, gender, color, or creed, and you have a recipe guaranteed to take me to my happy place.
And don’t tell the rest of the hardcore power lifters, but the fact that my gym is right next door to Sweet Vengeance, a bakery specializing in fucked-up sounding cupcakes that are insanely delicious, isn’t something I’m going to complain about—not like the rest of the babies bitching about sugar going to their guts and concealing their cuts. Cuts are all well and good, and I like my gut on the flatter side, but if a post-workout cupcake is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
As Cat and I emerge from the subway, headed for the cave and its spy-unfriendly smoothie lounge, where I’m sure we won’t be disturbed—Cavers welcome all, but no one without a membership, or a member to vouch for them, is getting by Reba at the front desk—I’m tempted to duck into Sweet Vengeance for some sugar therapy first. But thanks to Bash’s slacking behind the scenes and Cat’s less than truthful application, we’re already five steps behind. And with a guy like Nico, I prefer to be ten steps ahead, waiting with something heavy I can use as a weapon if the need arises.
Therefore, I heroically ignore the seductive smells of butter-soaked croissants crisping in the oven, and sugar and flour coming together in mouth-orgasm-inducing combinations, and escort Cat into the cave.
“Heading to the smoothie bar,” I tell Reba, flashing my membership card. “Knight and guest.”
Reba, who resembles a ripped Betty Davis, right down to the smoky eyes and seriously un-fucking-amused pout, gives me a thumbs up, while shooting Red an appraising look. I’ve never brought a woman into the cave before. It’s my refuge from the outside world. I don’t consider dating a stress-inducing activity, but I prefer not to risk running into lovers—current or
former—when all I want to do is sweat and unwind.
But Red isn’t my lover, and I doubt she’ll take one look at the cave and want to apply for membership. I appreciate the prison weight room vibe offered by the cinder block walls, concrete floors, and tiny rectangular windows near the ceiling, but most people are looking for something a little more luxurious in a gym.
“I see why you chose this place,” Cat says, raising her voice to be heard over the clattering of weights and the grunts and groans issuing from the bench press section. Her gaze skims the crowd of mostly male lifters, an assessing look in her eyes. “Most of these guys look way scarier than Nico’s thugs.”
“Looks are deceiving in this case. Most of the Cavers are harmless.” I lift a hand to a few familiar faces as we make our way through the weight room to the smoothie and juice bar. “I rarely meet a guy in here who isn’t made of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.”
She laughs. “And old lady face lotion. Can’t forget that.”
“Of course not. That’s the best part.” I wink as I open the door for her, letting her precede me into the Smoothie Dungeon.
Inside, whoever decorated the cave even more fully embraced the prison-chic vibe, complete with bars surrounding the blending professional on duty, painfully bright fluorescent lights, and metal tables bolted to the floor. Red and I place our orders—an extra large Green Monster for me, and a Walnut and Whey Protein Blast for her—and settle in at a table by the wall with a clear view of the door.
Except for the guy manning the blender and two women I’ve seen at the cave before, we’re alone. The blender dude is busy and the women are huddled over their Strawberry Explosions, gossiping in hushed tones about someone from their apartment building. They’re ignoring Red and I completely, and we’ll be the first to see anyone who comes into the bar. We’re in a secure, controlled environment, and there’s no time to waste fucking around. The enemy has been engaged, and we haven’t even started to craft a battle plan. I should dive right in to the gory details.
