After Hours

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Hmm. Intertwined body parts. I like the sound of that.”

  “Me, too.” I wiggled against him.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to get kicked out of here.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Hmm. So you just forgot that rubbing your body on mine has led to some less than gentlemanly behavior in the past?”

  “You promised me slow and thorough after the hard and quick,” I reminded him.

  “Trust me. I remember.” He went silent for a second, then ran his hands over my hair. “Tell me something.”

  “Okay.”

  “When you looked in your panty drawer today…did you see something?”

  I swallowed. “Besides my panties?”

  He didn’t buy my light tone. “Yeah, honey. Besides your panties.”

  I buried my face a little farther into his shirt and mumbled, “Francois.”

  “What?”

  “Francois.”

  “Who the hell is that?” he asked.

  “Not who. What.”

  “Fine. What the hell is Francois?”

  “My vibrator.”

  His long pause just about killed me. So did his response.

  “You saw your vibrator—which you named—and you didn’t like it? Do you usually like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ohhhh-kay. What didn’t you like about it this time?”

  “This is going to sound dumb, but I don’t think it was where I left it.”

  He moved away from me and propped himself up on his elbow, a frown marring his brow. “Explain.”

  “It’s got a box. I always put it back inside, and I keep it at the back of the drawer. But when I looked today, Francois was near the front. Out of the box, and kind of wrapped up in a bit of lingerie.”

  His frown deepened. “And you’re sure you didn’t just forget to put it away?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “I haven’t even looked at it since I met you. And it’d been a while before that since I’d used it.”

  “How long before?”

  “Marc!”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help it.” He flopped backwards, pulling me so that I was practically on top of him. “You think someone moved it?”

  “I don’t know. It would be weird as hell, wouldn’t it?”

  “Forgive me for asking this…but does anyone else know where you keep it?”

  “No.”

  “No one?”

  “It’s a personal pleasure device.”

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it with someone else.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re serious, if you’re just fishing.”

  “Both,” he admitted, winding a piece of my hair around his finger.

  “Okay,” I replied. “I’ve never used it with anyone else. Just myself. And I’ve never told anyone that I keep it there. Not even Liv. But I doubt I’m the only woman who puts her vibrator in her underwear drawer.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Do you think someone moved it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, honey. Weird doesn’t begin to describe the thought. But just to be sure…I’ll buy you a new one.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to. I really want to.”

  “Okay.”

  He went quiet again for a long moment, then said, “I should go to bed.”

  I threaded my fingers through his. “Can you stay until I fall asleep again?”

  He cleared his throat. And for a second, I thought he might deny my request. I tensed. After another moment, though, I felt him nod, and his fingers started to circle slowly over the small of my back.

  “You need a lullaby?” he teased.

  “No,” I replied. “Just you.”

  “Well. That’s something you’ve definitely got.”

  I closed my eyes and smiled, and my worries slipped away as I drifted into oblivion.

  Chapter 16

  Marcelo

  It was stupid.

  It was reckless.

  It was necessary as all hell to stop myself from going insane.

  Lying in bed—the one in the too far away guestroom, instead of beside Aysia where I belonged—for an hour after she’d fallen asleep had been driving me closer to the edge. Thoughts of Carl with his hand in her underwear drawer almost pushed me over. It wasn’t even jealousy. Though to say there was none would’ve been a lie. I knew there was more to it than something so simple.

  I’d tossed and I’d turned, and his smug face filled my mind. She hadn’t mentioned him. Neither had I. It felt dishonest. Especially in light of everything else. Of our semi-confessed feelings. Of how I knew exactly what was in my heart.

  Climbing back into her bed had been a true temptation. Somehow, though, I was damned sure it would end in a fight I wasn’t ready to have.

  So I’d picked Option B. Sneaking out of the house like a derelict teenager. Rolling my car in neutral until I was far enough away to start it without attracting attention. And now I stood outside Aysia’s apartment, staring up at it the same way I had when we’d been there with the police.

  There were a few marked differences. I was alone, for one. For another, it was dark except for the streetlights and a few glowing windows, and there was even less to see than there had been earlier.

  Might have something to do with the fact that it’s two in the morning, I reminded myself, running a worried hand over my chin and glancing up and down the street.

  I didn’t really think I’d find anything. Whoever—whether that was Carl Reeves or if it was someone else—had broken in had done it in broad daylight. No lurking for the real fucking intruder. I’d saved that for myself. So selfish.

  I tossed my car a final look, then stepped from the street to the sidewalk, then from the sidewalk to the front step. Guiltily, I plugged in the code that would let me into the building. Not that I thought Aysia wouldn’t have given me the code on her own—okay, maybe not if she knew what I wanted it for that second, but in general, I was sure she would’ve told me—but because I’d deliberately watched her punch it in earlier. I’d deliberately committed it to memory. Even though I didn’t know what I was going to use it for until she started talking about Francois.

  Fuck.

  Under normal circumstances, that would’ve been a very sexy little revelation. She kept a vibrator in her panty drawer. In pristine, boxed condition. She’d named it. I liked everything about that. Except for the part where she wondered if someone else had touched it.

  I moved through the lobby, bypassing the elevator in favor of the stairs, gritting my teeth.

  I believed her when she said she hadn’t disclosed the sex toy’s location to anyone. I was relieved that she hadn’t used it with another man, and not just because the idea made me jealous. It meant Carl hadn’t been near it. Which in turn meant that if he’d touched it…

  Really, Diaz? That’s what your plan is? I thought as I clued in to what my newly found, CSI-mind was concocting.

  “Fucking fingerprints,” I muttered.

  If Carl had touched it without permission, he’d have left his goddamned whorls or loops or whatever all over them. All I had to do was carefully extract the thing from the drawer, mosey on down to the police station, and ask the nice guys with the magic dust to find them.

  Aysia’s going to kill you.

  Yeah, she probably would. I was sure that she had deliberately left Francois out of her report to the police. In this case, though, I thought it was a hell of a lot better to be begging for forgiveness than to be asking for permission.

  I reached the top step and pushed into the hall. Aysia’s door loomed in front of me. It hadn’t been roped off with yellow tape, or boarded up, or anything that screamed of crime. Instead, the broken handle had been taped on with good,
old-fashioned duct tape. The door had been pulled shut, a single piece of the sticky silver stuff holding it on place. It sure as hell didn’t seem secure. Or serious enough, considering how violated I knew Aysia felt.

  At least it’ll be easy enough to walk in.

  Not a reassuring thought at all. I’d have preferred the place to be a challenge. For me. And for anyone else who felt inclined to take a peek.

  Moving cautiously now—mostly because I was sure Mrs. Fisk and her radar hearing would be lying in wait just up the hall—I peeled back the tape. It came off without resistance, and the door swung open immediately, not even accompanied by a squeak. With a quick glance behind me, I stepped inside. I pulled out a flashlight from my pocket, glad I’d thought to grab it from my trunk, and flicked its narrow beam over the interior of the condo. It looked the same as it had this morning, and I wondered why I’d been expecting to find things different.

  What did you think? He’d come back to finish the job?

  I grimaced. What the hell had the job been, anyway? To touch Aysia’s intimate things? Christ. The thought made me want to burn them all. Fuck just buying a replacement for Francois. I’d gladly dedicate an entire day to finding new bras and panties, too. Hell. I’d take her away for a whole week and help her pick out an exotic, for-my-eyes-only collection of lingerie. She’d need to start a second drawer.

  With that in mind, I finished my sweep of the main floor and headed for the stairs that led to her master suite. At the bottom, I paused. I could swear I’d heard something. A rattle, maybe. Someone opening and closing a drawer?

  I flicked off the flashlight and tucked it into my pocket. Above me, everything was quiet again. I moved up the first step. Then paused again. Silence still reigned. I lifted my foot, and the low noise sounded again.

  Definitely a rattle.

  My first instinct was to charge at the intruder. To rush up, knock the living hell out of him—especially if it was Carl—then drag him out to my car and toss him in the trunk. What I’d do with him after that was still up the air. A deep, dark hole somewhere wasn’t out of the question. Neither was the Pacific Ocean.

  I forced myself to curb my possessive, murderous instincts, and reached for a more reasonable weapon. My phone. Except when my hand got to my pocket, it came back empty.

  Shit.

  I’d left the damned thing at Aysia’s mom’s place. It was too late, anyway. A sweatshirt-clad figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Before I could react he was moving. Straight at me. Hood pulled low, shoulder down, a growl emanating from his chest.

  At the last second, I ducked to the side. He missed knocking into me completely and just grazed my elbow. I cursed my own lack of reflexes.

  As the other man stumbled, then recovered, then made for the door, I managed to collect myself enough to go after him. Using the stairs as a launch pad, I flew forward. My outstretched hand closed on the sweatshirt, yanking the man back with my grip. He let out another muttered curse and spun. His fist headed straight for my face. I dropped low and out of the line of fire. I tried hard to hold on, but I was forced to let him go in the name of not getting clocked.

  With his hood still up, he spun again and made another attempt to hit me. This time I was a little more stable, a little more prepared. My hand came up quicker. It slammed into his forearm and knocked him back. He stumbled a second time, this time slamming directly into the coffee table. His reaction was a guttural yell and a pain-filled roll to his side.

  I pounced. One palm landed on his shoulder, forcing him back. I was as determined to find out who he was as I was to subdue him. Hell. Maybe more determined. As if he could sense my urgent need to unveil him, both of his hands came up to block his face.

  “Fuck you,” I snapped.

  He tried to drive a knee into my balls. I recognized the shitty trick before he completed it. I eased sideways and took the impact in my quad instead. It still burned like a sonofabitch. Pissed me off even more, too. With a snarl, I pulled my hand back and drove a flat-palmed blow to his chin. For a second, I thought I had him. His head flew back and his hands dropped. I caught a flash of him. Clean-shaven chin, split lip.

  Then he twisted free. His body hit the floor and in two seconds flat he was up and running. I tore after him, but before I could catch up, my foot caught on a loose object in the doorframe. Stifling a holler, I fell forward. My knee slammed into the commercial-grade—definitely not soft—carpet in the hallway, then slid forward. When I looked up, the intruder was gone.

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I bit off under my breath.

  I pushed to my feet, and as I did, I spied the object that had sent me flying.

  Fran-fucking-cois.

  The asshole had come back to finish the job. I snatched up the goddamned vibrator just in time to hear a familiar, huffy throat-clear from behind me. I knew who I’d find before I spun. And there she was. Velour robe tied tight, gray hair askew, and a dour look on her face.

  Shoving the rubbery object into my pocket, I plastered a strained smile onto my face. “Sorry, Mrs. Fisk.”

  She didn’t smile back. “Have you got something in your pocket?”

  “No,” I deadpanned. “I’m just happy to see you.”

  She eyed me up and down suspiciously. “Keep your funny business to yourself.”

  “Trying to.”

  With another huff, she kicked up a slipper-covered foot and disappeared back into her apartment. Sighing, I sagged against the wall and pulled the vibrator from my pocket.

  I gave it a disgusted look. “You weren’t much help, were you?”

  I still didn’t know if the hooded man was Carl, or just some run-of-the-mill perv. I glared up the hall. The guy was long gone. My own prints were all over the stupid fucking sex toy now, too. I’d have to wipe the damned thing down in case Aysia changed her mind about telling the police it had been disturbed.

  Even more annoyed, I made my way back into the apartment. I headed straight upstairs, where I grabbed a towel and prepared to do the deed. As I walked past the open underwear drawer, though, I spotted something hanging over the side, and it that made me pause.

  A red negligee.

  Just like the one Aysia’d been wearing in Carl’s home video.

  My hands came out on their own to snap it up. My stomach roiled, a sick, oily feeling making it unable to settle. The fabric was soft and silky. It should’ve been a nice thing to touch. Instead, it made me want to vomit. And punch something.

  Was this piece of lingerie that the vibrator had been wrapped in? If it was, that was proof—in my mind anyway—that Carl was responsible. Of course, acknowledging that meant the possibility of discussing the video with Aysia. Guilt nagged at me. Yeah, it was her who’d been insistent about not talking about him or the things he’d done. But maybe I should’ve pushed it, even if just to let her know that I was aware.

  I squeezed the negligee harder, its deep red pooling between my fingers. In the dark, the color reminded me of blood.

  Blood.

  A slow smile tipped up my mouth as I remembered something. The vibrator-stealing fucker had a split lip. Sure as hell wouldn’t be quite so easy to rub off as fingerprints.

  I was suddenly looking forward to calling Carl in for a Tuesday morning meeting.

  * * * *

  Aysia

  My phone woke me up unpleasantly, pinging to life and dragging me from a dream that involved Marc and a brand new vibrator.

  “Really?” I groaned.

  Dream-Marc had been about to test out a setting called Ecstasy. And dream-me had been awfully excited to be rendered ecstatic. With an annoyed grumble, I rolled over and snapped up my cell from the white-painted nightstand.

  Marc’s name flashed across the screen.

  Hi, baby.

  My irritation wiped away as I typed back, Baby? Is that what we’re doing now?


  Dunno. Just felt right.

  Well. Baby. R u texting me to invite me from next door for a thorough good morning?

  Sadly…no. Left for work early. Had something to take care of.

  I’m pouting. I typed.

  I bet that’s sexy, he answered.

  Hmm.

  Hmm…what?

  Hmm THIS.

  I flopped back and held the phone up to snap a quick picture. I glanced at the shot—my hair was wild on the pillow, my cleavage suitably emphasized, and my lips turned down. I hit send. But I didn’t get the response I was expecting.

  Be careful what u send out there, Marc said.

  Why? U going to use that pic to announce to the company that we’re a thing?

  Is that an option? He wanted to know.

  Definitely not!!!

  Relax.

  I sighed. I’m relaxed.

  Liar.

  Shut up. Do I need to send u a pic of me relaxing?

  Thx. I’ll keep this one.

  Something about the text made me narrow my eyes. And a second later, I knew why. He sent my own photo back to me. Only he’d zoomed in on the mirror behind me. The small, round one just above my night stand. And somehow, the angle managed to capture me from the knees up, exposing the fact that I wasn’t wearing anything but a T-shirt.

  God! I typed, glad he couldn’t see my red face.

  I told u to be careful.

  Delete it.

  No way.

  Marc!

  Fine. He answered.

  Thank u.

  Another few seconds went by and another picture came through, this one of him. He was in his office, leaned back in his leather chair, one hand on head. He wore a crisp shirt, and I swear it was ochre. A color I’d only seen inside of my crayon box, and which would’ve looked terrible on anyone but him. But it was almost the same shade as his eyes and contrasted perfectly with his tanned skin. A thin black tie was tight around his neck, and he had a small, lopsided smile on his face. Lust shot through me immediately.

  I don’t think that’s what u were wearing last night, I wrote.

  Stopped by my place.

  How early did u leave?

  Early, he admitted.