So Wicked

by Melissa Marino

  I was reluctant, so scared, to go there with him, but I wanted him to know. He needed to know I was trying. “I want to trust you,” I said. “I want to trust you enough to tell you everything.”

  His head tilted to the side. “I want to trust you, too,” he said.

  “But you don’t, do you?”

  His silence was all the answer I needed. He didn’t, and why should he? You couldn’t trust someone who you saw destroy lives. If he did know everything, like everything-everything, he’d be through with me for sure.

  “Hey, come here,” he said.

  I obeyed him, stepping between his spread legs as he sat. His hands gripped my waist as he looked up at me.

  “One step at a time, okay?” he said. “I’m sorry for getting angry and…freaking out like a girl.”

  The fact he admitted it made me give him a small smile.

  I placed my hands on top of his. “And that was what I was laughing at before.”

  A knock at the door had us both jumping away from each other so fast it gave me flashbacks to high school and trying not to get caught making out with my boyfriend in the basement.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Wells said, sticking his head in the office. “Someone puked all over the floor outside the bathrooms.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Marshall said. “Toddlers. People are fucking toddlers sometimes with their vomit. Who gets so wasted this early, anyway?”

  I laughed, recalling a certain afternoon when Marshall was the toddler.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Two words. Big. Star.”

  His eyes lifted to the ceiling as he tried to piece together what I was referring to. Once I saw the memory surface for him, the way he blushed and ran his hands through his hair, pulling it all back behind his head, I couldn’t resist moving from laughter to a full-blown cackling fit.

  “Oh, this I got to hear,” Wells said, coming in and plopping himself down on one of the chairs in the office.

  “Get your ass back out there,” Marshall snapped. “They can’t be left alone.”

  “They can for a second. Give me the short version,” he said.

  “Let me!” I said. “One time Aaron, Marshall, and I went to Big Star, this taco, tequila, and whiskey bar in Chicago, with a hot-spot outdoor patio, on a summer afternoon. Let’s just say that Marshall and the mix of both said tequila, tacos, and whiskey didn’t sit well with him.”

  “It could’ve happen to anyone,” Marshall grumbled.

  “Yes, Marshall,” I said. “Anyone who had four margaritas and one too many bourbon shots to count.”

  “Gross, man,” Wells said. “That’s puke worthy only hearing about. What were you thinking?”

  “He wasn’t,” I said, at the same time as Marshall said, “I wasn’t.”

  Marshall shook his head. “Christ, that was rough. I vomited tacos and salsa all over the patio, a packed fucking patio, and if memory serves, which parts are still a bit fuzzy, I thought it was the funniest damn thing ever.”

  I nodded. “You did think it was the funniest thing ever. What was even funnier was when we tried to wrangle you out of there, you kept shouting, ‘I’m fucking Superman,’ like a jerk. No one knew if you were trying to say you were, in fact, Superman, or that you were actually fucking Superman. We couldn’t go back to Big Star forever after that!”

  “Didn’t I spend the night on your couch?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I responded. “After the cab ride to our place where you vomited all over that as well, you spent the night, well, the remainder of the afternoon, too, with us. I thought Aaron was going to lose his lunch, too, that day.”

  “Yes!” Marshall said. “You made that French toast the next morning! Fuck, you made us a hangover feast with that French toast and eggs and bacon.”

  “What French toast?” I asked, trying to recall.

  “It was banana bread and it had chocolate chips in it. It was all buttered and French toasty, and you put these caramelized bananas on top,” he said.

  “Ah. Yes, I remember now.”

  We paused, staring at each other, lost in the moment of remembering a time so long ago. The three of us really were great friends. I’d missed him.

  “Sounds like you guys had a lot of good times,” Wells said, reminding us he was still in the room. “You want me to clean up the puke, Marshall?”

  And Wells was also there to remind us there was a business to run.

  “No,” Marshall said with a sigh. “I’ll do it.”

  “Are you sure?” Wells asked.

  “Neither you or anyone else who works here gets paid enough to do something so disgusting,” Marshall said.

  “Okay,” Wells said, standing, but just before exiting, his head turned around, narrowing in on Marshall’s desk. “Dude. You have High Street here? Oh! And SLO Donuts. Is that Splash Café?”

  Marshall moved toward Wells, slapping him on the shoulder. “It’s mine. Get the fuck out of here.”

  “All right. All right,” he said, heading toward the door. “You coming, too, Alexis?”

  I shot a look with a quick wink in Marshall’s direction when Wells was halfway out the door. “Yes. Yes, I’m coming.”

  Marshall mouthed, “Fuck, you’re hot.”

  “Enjoy puke patrol,” I said, following Wells.

  “Al?”

  “Yeah?” I asked, taking a step back.

  “Yes, it’s okay if you start the split deliveries starting next week,” he said, winking at me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marshall—

  I said one step at a time, and that was how we were fucking riding this out. It was the only way it could be. It was a trip, a ride so out of control the only thing I could see ahead was that there was no way this would end well. This was the reason delving into the “where is this going” was a moot point. Thinking too far ahead, trying to predict where it was going, only led to a plethora of convoluted bullshit that took us away from what it was all about.

  Her and I.

  It had been a couple of weeks since our first night together, and there were several more after that. Our appetite for each other’s bodies was off the charts, but the connection, the digging into this cosmic, chemical, or whatever the fuck it was connection was so much more. It was a trip I was not prepared for.

  There were two other things I wasn’t prepared for.

  One: That it would be seventy-five fucking degrees on Halloween. After living in Chicago my whole life, Halloweens were always a battle against the cold and rain. Many trick-or-treating years were ruined by rain, and if it wasn’t raining, the dipping temperatures kept our costumes hidden under heavier coats. It sucked, but it was how it was. Not only was San Luis Obispo perfect weather almost every day, but if it did rain, it didn’t have the same effect. It was like Al said that first day. Even when it was raining here, it was perfect.

  Of course, rain took on an entirely different meaning these days. There had only been a light sprinkling of rain since that first night Al and I made love—yeah, I said it. So, the fuck what? Every day I prayed to Mother Nature for an extended, potentially torrential downpour so I could keep Al in bed or other places naked for as long as possible. Who knew rain could have such an effect on a woman’s libido?

  Two: This town took Halloween really fucking seriously. I had no idea that all the restaurants, bars, and students from Cal Poly would bring their party and costume A game. Wells had put together our Halloween festivity plans, but I didn’t realize, until I stepped out of the back office to see one of the biggest crowds Ginger had seen yet, how major it was. These people knew Halloween. It wasn’t some run-of-the-mill “I stopped at the drugstore and got a witch’s hat, this is my costume” type shit. This was planning and execution to the highest level. Celebrity look-alikes, cartoon characters, vulgar attempts at both, and enough women dressed in costumes close to nothing, but who still looked a step up from the norm in their angel and devil costumes.

  I had just checke
d in with the kids behind the bar and some of the servers when I saw her.

  My girl.

  She was with Phoebe, who was in a Minnie Mouse costume, and chatting with a few people around her. It was unusual because I knew she liked to lay low, so to see her out on Halloween with such a scene made me wonder. I couldn’t tell what she was dressed up as, but her hair was dyed, or maybe it was a wig, red or perhaps it was auburn. I didn’t fucking know, but it was different…in a good way. Costumed and with a different hair color, among a sea of people, she still stood out, but it wasn’t until the crowd parted and I saw her costume that my heart stopped.

  What the fuck was she wearing?

  It was Halloween and everyone but me was dressed up. The fact that she was here at all shocked me, but I didn’t expect her to be dressed as…fuck.

  Oh, hell no.

  I didn’t notice him at first, but it was definitely him.

  Him.

  The dude that was hanging all over her in Phoebe’s Instagram pictures. No fucking way he was here with them…with her.

  She made her way through the crowd, smiling her sexy grin when she spotted me. “Hey,” she said upon reaching me. “It’s crazy here tonight, huh?”

  How was I not supposed to touch her? Not allowed to bring her into my office, bend her over my desk, and fuck the shit out of her? How would I even get her out of that outfit later? And since when did she wear bright red lipstick? Never since I’d known her did she ever sport a red lip like that.

  Or maybe she did but I never noticed.

  No. Aaron’s girl or not, I would’ve fucking noticed.

  Between the rage pumping through my veins at seeing another dude, that dude, so close to her and the insane way she looked, my blood pressure was probably at cardiac arrest levels.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she shouted over the music.

  “I…what are you…who are you…?” I stuttered.

  Christ. My girl came in an all-black leather jumpsuit, all fucking shiny and shit. Her tits were sitting right at the top of the lowered—probably too fucking lowered—zipper.

  “Black Widow,” she said. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Oh, it’s really, really obvious, Al,” I said, looking her up and down. “Everything you have on is very obvious.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, and I knew what was coming. The eyebrow and next it would be a razor-sharp statement to firmly put me back in my place.

  But I wasn’t done yet.

  “And who the fuck is Fred Flintstone over there,” I said, jabbing my finger in his direction. “He looks like a damn idiot.”

  She turned around to see who I was pointing at. “Who? With Phoebe?”

  “Yeah. I saw a picture of you and douche Flintstone looking all close in one of Phoebe’s Instagram pictures.”

  “Marcus. His name is Marcus, and he’s Phoebe’s brother, you jackass,” she said.

  Shit.

  Damage control.

  “Well, he looked like he was getting a little too close to your ass in the pictures, for that matter. I hope he wasn’t getting any ideas with you in that outfit.”

  Her lips drew into a tight line, and I knew I was about to get the wrath I deserved after that last comment. What the hell was I thinking? It was a horrible thing to say, both degrading and inappropriate. It was also—

  “How about I shove that misogynistic, cocky remark down your throat so you can choke on it?” she said. “At least I’m being spirited. Your bar owner costume isn’t cutting it. And before you roll your pretty little eyes at me in retaliation, don’t.”

  Yes. All of those things. I was all of them and more.

  At least I knew it was coming and was ready for the impact.

  “Sorry,” I said. “That was dicky, even for me.”

  “Yes, it was. And frankly, I didn’t take you as the jealous type,” she said. “I never saw you act like that before.”

  “Jealous is a strong word,” I said, shifting on my feet.

  Okay. So I was jealous. I was jealous of her with anyone else.

  And she was right. I usually wasn’t.

  That was what was so messed up or maybe right about us. It was all so different.

  Additional damage control needed.

  I leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I was just surprised, Al,” I said, lacing my tone with the sweetness she’d taken to like a bee to honey a time or two. “You look superhot.”

  She patted my chest. “Save it, lover boy. Honestly, though, you need to represent. Why didn’t you dress up?”

  I laughed. “What the hell would I’ve dressed up as? Hawkeye?”

  “Oh, hell no. Well, to be honest, I always thought Hawkeye was superhot, but couples’ costumes are a level of absurd that I never want to be a part of. Plus, it would be totally obvious.”

  “How?” I asked. “Two people costumed as two different characters from The Avengers doesn’t scream couple to me.”

  “Are you being serious?”

  I thought I was, but her twitchy smile, which was she was trying to hide but failing to do so, told me otherwise.

  I shrugged. “Does it matter?” I asked.

  “Um,” she said. “You do know that Black Widow and Hawkeye have been a rumored couple throughout their history, right?”

  How the fuck would I know that? I saw the movie once. Plus, I was usually strictly a DC Comics dude. I didn’t like to meddle in Marvel.

  “And furthermore,” she continued. “There was always this banter between them, an underlying sexual tension, but they never acted on it. Well, at least as far as we know, they didn’t. But there is quite a history there, and Hawkeye and Black Widow still hold a lot of the secrets.”

  Jesus. This girl. Superhero knowledge and sexy as hell.

  She made me hard just looking at her. I wondered if the red hair was permanent because that was doing a number on me, too.

  “Fuck, that’s hot,” I whispered in her ear. “In fact, there’s something else that’s superhot. I’m pretty sure there is no way you’re wearing any underwear or…anything under that costume.”

  Her head snapped back. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “I would like to know. I also would like to know if that hair color is here to stay.”

  “Do you like it?”

  I leaned back into her ear. “I fucking love it. Everything about what you’re doing right now makes me want to peel that leather off of you, drag my hands through that red hair, and fuck you until you come around my cock.”

  She drew in a sharp breath and was momentarily speechless. Once she registered it all, she pulled back again to look me in the eyes.

  This was always how it was with this girl.

  Push and pull.

  Push and push.

  It was always how she was. There was never giving in, never falling prey to the usual art of seduction that worked on most women. She was smart, strong, and totally closed off. There were times I thought I was getting in a little bit with her, but the glimpses were fleeting. For now, I’d pull whatever I could out of my hat because I needed her. I wanted her. Immediately.

  “Can I show you something in my office?” I asked, shouting over the music. “It’s really, really important.”

  Her head tilted to the side, and she saw right through me. “I’m sure it is, but I don’t want to leave Phoebe hanging.”

  I glanced behind her and saw Phoebe and Wells talking close, very close, and while he was working for the next couple hours, I had no doubt she was going to be on his dick for the rest of the night. After that, she’d for real be on his dick. I needed to seize this moment because it was my own dick I was concerned about.

  “She looks just fine to me,” I said, pointing in their direction. “In fact, she doesn’t seem lonely at all.”

  She looked around and stepped up into me. “How important is this situation?” she asked.

  But before I could answer, she used the very small, unnoticeable s
pace between us to slide her hand across my cock. Words eluded me, but one thought bounced around my head instead.

  Good. Fucking feel how hard I am only looking at you, gorgeous.

  “I see,” she said. “Lead the way.”

  I turned and pushed my way through the crowd, grabbing her hand as we neared the office door. As soon as the doorknob was in my hand, I opened it and yanked her in behind me, slamming it shut immediately. She was pushed up against the back of it. “Now, I can tell you a little bit more about my…situation,” I said, reaching behind her to lock the door.

  “Al?”

  “What?”

  “I like you,” I said, placing my hands on opposite sides of her head. She was trapped.

  And right where I wanted her to be.

  She rolled her eyes, dismissing what I’d said. It was her push back, and I was going to do my thing next.

  Push harder.

  I smirked at her, biting down on my lower lip and looking up at her through my eyelashes. She would deny it completely, but I always knew when I turned coy motherfucker, she was going to fold.

  I saw it in the way her cheeks flushed.

  “The thing is, Al,” I said, stepping toward her slowly. “I think you like me, too.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  “There’s no way I’m getting this thing off,” she said, putting her hands on the sides of my face. “That can only mean one thing.”

  I pouted. “No go?”

  She shook her head and snapped my head forward, kissing me aggressively. Our bodies pressed against each other while my hands ran across the leather, latex, or whatever the fuck she was wearing. The smoothness, the way I could touch every curve, every dip, of her body, but there was still a barrier, was nothing like I’d ever felt before. It was so goddamn hot.

  I had no idea I’d be down with getups like that, but maybe it had less to do with what she was wearing, but that it was her wearing it.

  I was so pissed I wasn’t going to be able to peel it off her.

  “Not no go,” she mumbled against my lips. She reached a hand to the front of her costume, looking downward and then back up to me as she lowered the zipper. Her back arched as the zipper came farther and farther down before stopping just above her belly button.