Without waiting for his response, I promptly turned away… and walked straight into the still-open refrigerator door.
So, so smooth.
Of course, I fell flat on my ass in a puddle of water with a bang loud enough to bring the entire party running. Luca helped me to my feet in silence while the rest of our friends laughed uproariously at the sight of me, half-soaked and full-humiliated. Pulling quickly out of his grasp, I mumbled a thank you in his general direction without making eye contact, then went home to change my pants… and gather my what little remained of my dignity.
I didn’t think things could possibly get much worse between us… until last night. Most of which I don’t remember, though that may honestly be for the best given my track record when it comes to Luca. I’m not entirely sure what I said to him in my highly intoxicated state, but if I had to wager a guess, I’d say the interaction likely didn’t earn me any goodwill points.
He already thinks I’m the rudest person alive after the way I’ve treated him. Hell, I am the rudest person alive after the way I’ve treated him. But it’s not like I’ve had any other choice. Because, no matter how much I wish things were different…
Luca is off the table.
Absolutely.
Indefinitely.
Irrevocably.
I just have to try to remember that when he arrives to rescue me from jail in a few minutes like my goddamned personal guardian angel.
Chapter Three
I don’t do threesomes. If I wanted to simultaneously disappoint two people, I’d go out to dinner with my parents.
Delilah Sinclair, defending her monogamous sexual preferences.
“Just use a little Vaseline. Does the trick every time.”
My nose wrinkles. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” Destiny nods sagely, her pink-streaked hair glowing in the lemon cast of the overhead lights. “I’ve even used a grapefruit, in a pinch.”
My mouth gapes. “A grapefruit? Seriously?”
“Girl, would I lie to you?”
I blink stupidly. Would she lie to me? Hard to say for sure, considering we’ve just met about twenty minutes ago, but I have a feeling she’s not the most trustworthy character of all time as we’re currently occupying the same holding cell. Then again, she did share her last stick of gum — and some sincerely unsolicited sex tips — so who am I to judge?
I’m sitting on nothing even closely resembling a high horse, here. (In fact, if we’re being literal, I’m sitting on a cold concrete bench that’s slowly making my asscheeks go numb.) My point is, I’m not exactly in any position to look down my nose at Destiny for whatever choices led her here. Not when, for the past few days… weeks… okay, fine, months… my life has pretty much been a train wreck. We’re talking jump-the-tracks, total derailment, no survivors.
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again — it’s not my fault.
I blame my brother Duncan for most of what’s happened. After all, I’m not the one who drained his trust fund and made a series of tremendously flawed judgment calls that landed the family in these dire financial straits. If he’d only bother to pull his head out of his ass and affix it firmly between his shoulders, where it belongs, perhaps I wouldn’t have spent my evening letting the boys in blue take my fingerprints along with a series of unflattering mugshots of me dressed in something more akin to a slutty Halloween outfit than an actual work uniform. (Frankly the sallow yellow lighting in this precinct is even less flattering than an accidental front-camera selfie snapped by a smartphone.)
If not for Duncan’s idiocy, I wouldn’t have been forced to sell off my favorite Prada clutch purse for rent money, or be facing eviction from my chic apartment in Beacon Hill, or have taken on the ridiculous job that got me arrested wearing this damn getup in the first place.
Alas, there’s nothing I can do about that now.
No use crying over spilled milk.
What’s done is done.
Que sera sera.
I’m out of pithy anecdotes, but you get the idea.
Jail is the least of my problems. Somehow, the fact that I don’t know how to do my own laundry and am about to run out of clean underwear seems far more dire than a criminal record. Add to that my roommate problems — as in, I need to find one to split rent with by yesterday if I don’t want to end up living on the streets — plus my relationship problems — ones stemming almost entirely from the man en route to rescue me — and Destiny starts looking so put together, a Stepford wife would be jealous.
Speaking of Destiny, she’s still giving a very visual play-by-play of her favorite BJ techniques. Thankfully, before I’m forced to fathom a reasonable response about her rather unorthodox use of certain citrus fruits, Officer McDreamy clanks his baton against the bars of our cell, startling me.
“Sinclair, you made bail. Move it.”
I jolt to my feet, casting a guilty look at my cellmate. I have a feeling she’s going to be here a while.
“Don’t you worry about me, girl.” Destiny winks and crosses one leg over the other, making her micro-short pleather skirt ride up to scandalous heights. Her plastic platform pumps swing cheerily over the concrete floor. “I’ll be just fine.”
“It was nice meeting you,” I say weakly.
“Give the grapefruit a try, you won’t regret it.” Her sultry gaze slides to Officer McSexMachine. “Maybe he can be your first test subject.”
The officer coughs roughly. I follow Destiny’s stare and can’t help but notice that, while his expression is disapproving as ever, there’s a hint of red creeping up his collar as he unlocks the cell door and holds it open for me.
“Sinclair, I mean it — let’s move. Unless you’d rather stay here all night.”
I suppress a grin as I make my way out into the hall, waving goodbye to Destiny before she disappears from view. The smile falls straight off my lips when I follow the officer around a corner into the waiting room, and find myself face to face with Luca.
Damn, he looks good.
Even at 3AM.
Maybe especially at 3AM.
Bad Lila! Down, girl.
With a day’s worth of stubble covering his chiseled jaw and a nose that’s been broken too many times to count, he lends new meaning to the phrase ruggedly handsome. Which, frankly, is not the type of man who typically revs my engines, if you catch my drift. In the past, I’ve always gone for the guys in tailored suits, preppy and perfectly styled, their hair as immaculate as the pressed corner squares in their jacket pockets.
Corporate dream boats, I once christened them.
Corporate control freaks, Phoebe amended with an eye roll.
I’m relatively certain that Luca doesn’t even own a suit. He may not even own jeans, for god’s sake. His fighter aesthetic leans more toward low-riding gray sweatpants that leave very little to the imagination and white t-shirts that show off his broad chest and corded bicep muscles.
Like I said — not my type.
At all.
So… I can’t really explain why my mouth goes dry at just the sight of him standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his ever-intent eyes sweeping me from top to toe with the same intensity I use to examine the new line of Prada purses each fall. I can’t understand why my stomach suddenly feels like it’s made of stone, or my tongue seems to swell to twice its normal size, or my lungs seem to seize up inside my chest, until just pulling breath in and out is a chore.
“Delilah.”
It’s more a growl than a greeting.
His eyes do another sweep of the French maid outfit. When they return to mine, for the first time ever, they’re not icy at all. In fact, they’re full of so much heat I’m surprised I don’t catch on fire.
Crap on croquettes.
I shift my weight from heel to heel, trying like hell to keep my expression blank when he takes a step in my direction. After his protective tone on the phone, I half expect him to say something gentlemanly, or caring, or concerned about
the fact that he’s currently springing me from jail at four in the morning. I realize my expectations were more than a little off as his lips tug up in an amused half smile.
“Babe.” He shakes his head at me. “You failed to mention the outfit.”
The nerve!
Refusing to dignify that comment with a response, I toss my hair over one shoulder in an irked gesture and turn my back to him with a huff. As I spin, the lace petticoats beneath my skirt flounce like butterfly wings, accidentally exposing a fairly large stretch of bare thigh.
Oops.
My feet falter at what sounds suspiciously like a tortured groan coming from behind me. Wide-eyed with disbelief, I glance back to see if the sound could’ve possibly come from Luca, but his face is schooled in an unaffected mask. Officer McMakeMeScream looks similarly impassive.
Great, now I’m hearing things.
Clearly, my extensive time behind bars has affected my brain chemistry. That explains why my traitorous cheeks are flushing with heat again. (In my defense, it’s tough to maintain your decorum when your asscheeks are practically exposed.)
Officer McDoMe fixes his gaze on Luca with an alertness that sets my teeth on edge.
“Wait… you’re Blaze Buchanan!” The officer’s eyes have lost their hostile edge. In fact, he looks downright cheerful now that he’s not focused on me. “Wow! I can’t believe I’m meeting you in person!”
I tense as Luca steps up beside me, uncomfortably close. I can smell the crisp, clean scent of his aftershave in the air between us; can practically feel the heat coming off his body. I have to lock my knees to prevent myself from leaning away as he extends one hand to shake the officer’s.
“Good to meet you, too.” Luca’s eyes cut to me again. “Sorry about the circumstances.”
Officer McFanboy grins. “I saw you fight three months ago in Lowell. Fastest TKO I’ve ever seen — I blinked and almost missed it. Man, I’d love to buy you a beer sometime, it would be an honor—”
“Don’t I have to sign something?” I cut off the stream of fawning before they can launch into a full discussion of stats and techniques. We’ll be here all night, otherwise.
The officer barely looks away from Luca as he jerks his head in affirmation and points me toward the front desk, where his partner is stationed behind a sliding glass window. I head for it, eager to get out of Luca’s space — and out of this godforsaken place. It’s been pretty much the worst night of my life, and I’d like it to end as soon as humanly possible.
My back is barely turned when the conversation starts up again.
“Is it true you’re fighting Jack Forrester again this month? He’s a beast…”
My eyes are still rolling as I reach the desk. An unsmiling officer slides a clipboard of release documents through the window slot, followed by a small plastic baggie containing my meager collection of personal effects. I scan the papers, trying my best to tune out Officer McSuddenlyLessSexy asking Luca details about his next fight.
By the time I’ve signed the bail agreement and collected the things they confiscated when I was arrested — my house keys, a truly spectacular Ferragamo clutch purse, my favorite stack of silver rings, the white-gold Tiffany watch my parents gave me for my twenty-first birthday — Luca’s given two autographs and posed for a selfie with practically everyone who works at the precinct, from the lieutenant to the night janitor to the Hells Angel in handcuffs slumped in a metal folding chair by the door.
I’m not entirely surprised. In the past five months, his star has risen astronomically fast. He’s gone from sparring unofficially in dingy Southie gyms to dominating at every major regional MMA contest… and the hype has only built, as more scouts and promoters have flocked to each of his matches. His following grows each time he steps into the ring. Word on the street is, it’s almost guaranteed that if he wins his next championship in two weeks, he’ll get what every aspiring fighter strives for.
A UFC contract.
Goodbye cash-only underground fight rings; hello multimillion dollar pay-per-view matches.
No wonder they want his autograph.
I hover awkwardly by the door as they finish their bro-bonding. Fighting the urge to yank my skirt lower over my ass, I wish for the thousandth time tonight that I’d been able to call literally anyone on planet earth other than the towering redheaded giant occupying entirely too much space in the waiting room.
Over the heads of two cops, his eyes find mine again. I become painfully aware of the fact that my hands are curled into fists around the small plastic bag. My grip only tightens further as Luca fist-bumps his cluster of fans goodbye, then crosses toward me with measured steps. Not in any kind of hurry. Never breaking eye contact.
Gulp.
It takes more effort than I’d like to admit to hold my ground when he comes to a stop a fraction too close for my liking, looming over me despite the four inch heels on my feet. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t; he just stares at me with that same look he’s been giving me for months. The one that seems to say, What the hell is your deal, Sinclair? I can’t figure you out.
I swallow hard and jerk my chin higher, determined not to shy away. His nearness has no effect on me. I’m totally not uncomfortable with him invading my personal space. At all.
Ha!
I am so full of shit.
If he notices my death-grip on the bag, or the slightly manic light in my eyes, or the fact that my hair hasn’t seen a brush in approximately twelve hours, he doesn’t comment. All he does is lean in closer — so close I can see the darker rim of blue around the outside of his irises, feel the weight of his breath stirring the wispy bangs near my hairline. I fight the urge to fidget as we engage in a silent conversation of sorts, each daring the other to speak first, each throwing out questions the other doesn’t want to answer. It’s strange, but without a single word, we understand each other plain as day.
He doesn’t ask, You gonna thank me for dragging my ass out of bed at this hour to bail you out?
I don’t snap back, You didn’t have to come.
And he doesn’t remind me, You had no one else, remember?
So I don’t say, Well, if I’d known you were going to be such a dick about it…
He leans back abruptly, putting an end to our ocular sparring, a low chuckle vibrating in his throat. I flinch at the sound as I realize I’ve leaned forward into his space, so caught up in our soundless argument, I lost myself for a moment.
Retreat! Retreat!
Shuffling an awkward step backward, my hands curl even tighter around my plastic baggie. I feel my damn cheeks flushing red again. I’m afraid to meet his eyes, so I stare at his mouth instead.
It barely helps.
(He has a great mouth.)
“You about ready to get out of here?” Luca asks finally, breaking the silence in that same soft tone he used earlier on the phone.
I just nod, because I don’t entirely trust myself to speak with him this close to me. His lips twitch, as if he knows exactly why I’m so silent.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Before I can protest, his large hand lands on the small of my back and he leads me outside into the dark summer night. The door clicks closed behind us, cutting off the low buzz of excitement still enveloping the waiting room — I’ve found Luca leaves a trail of stardust behind him wherever he goes, like a jet engine against a pale blue sky.
Quite abruptly we’re alone in the darkness, enveloped in absolute silence. It’s a stark contrast to the florescent-lit precinct. The atmosphere seems heavy, not just with late June humidity, but with all those unspoken words still stagnating in the air between us.
At this time of night, there’s not a single bird chirping in the trees, not one car on the streets. We walk across the parking lot, his hand still resting on the small of my back. I know I should snap at him to move it — what do you think this is, Buchanan, a date? — but I can’t bring myself to actually do it. I may be a bitch, but he did ju
st save my ass.
We walk past the police cruisers parked directly in front of the building, then make our way down a row of indistinguishable dark colored SUVs and sedans. When he stops in front of a large navy blue truck, I break away from his light hold and beeline for the passenger side. I’m reaching for the handle when his voice halts me in my tracks.
“Delilah.”
I glance back at him, brows raised.
“You planning to steal another car tonight?”
My features twist into an unamused scowl. “No.”
“Then I suggest you step away from the stranger’s truck.” His lips twitch as he jerks his head to the adjacent parking spot. “This is me.”
I feel my face blanch. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I never joke about the bike, babe.”
If I weren’t stunned silent by the idea of climbing onto the back of a sleek, black, low-slung motorcycle in thigh-high stockings, platform heels, and a skirt so short you need a magnifying glass to locate it, I’d object to his babe comment. As it is, I’m a bit too preoccupied with visions of myself flashing my good bits to half of Boston while straddling his Ducati to think up a suitable retort.
Walking over to the bike, Luca retrieves a large, round black helmet and returns to stand before me. When he catches sight of my wary expression, his brows lift.
“Problem?”
“Are you kidding?” I gesture down at my outfit. “Do you see what I’m wearing?”
His eyes get warm again. It’s even more disarming, now that we’re alone.
“Delilah, trust me when I say… yes.”
With considerable effort, I ignore his comment. “Well, then you realize I can’t sit on a motorcycle in this. I’ll draw more attention than a parade float during St. Anthony’s Feast in the North End.”
“Good thing there’s no one out this time of night, then.”
“That’s not the point and you know it—”
“No.” He takes a step, getting right up in my space, and the words evaporate on my tongue. We’re so close, his chest nearly brushes mine with each exhale. “The real point is, longer you stand here debating with me, lighter that sky gets, more people start waking up, looking out their windows…” He trails off, shrugging. “Your choice, babe. But I’m thinking, since the choices are either walk-of-shame the two hours back to the city in that getup of yours, or I drive us back in twenty on the side streets, fast enough so no one even gets a glimpse at you… I already know which one you’re gonna go with, in the end.”
Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4) Page 4
