by Gigi Black
9
Damien
This ought to be good. Or bad. Entertaining at the very least.
Hazel stormed out of the pizzeria and onto the stained sidewalk, her hair falling out of its ponytail and her eyes blazing like she’d filled them with fire and brimstone this morning. Hell in her eyes and heat between her legs. That was how I liked her.
Hating me but wet.
It made it easier to walk away from her every time, rather than get involved. The day I’d left Chicago had been the worst and best of my life. I hadn’t known it at the time, but if I’d stayed, I would’ve wound up fucking up her life and mine, just like Mortimer had destroyed my mother’s.
“You’ve got some kind of nerve showing up here,” Hazel said and flicked her hair back.
The obligatory “fuck you” hair flip was one of my favorites in her repertoire. She’d changed, but the mannerisms were the same.
God damn, her body was mature now, though.
Don’t think about last night.
“Took you long enough,” I said, checking my Rolex, tapping its face. “We’re going to be late.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not a fan of tardiness,” I replied, holding back a grin. “I’ll allow it just this once.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Hazel folded her arms, pressing her tits against that uniform shirt and making the cartoon pepperoni-speckled slice do a nipple dance. “I told you, I never wanted to see you again.”
“You did no such thing.”
“I did!”
“When?” I asked, the smile slipping out despite my best efforts. “Was it when I was eating you out? Or balls deep inside you?”
“Oh my god, shut up!” She patted the air, looking left and right. Her sister had already turned the corner and was out of earshot.
“No, really I’m curious,” I said, pushing off from my Porsche Cayenne and swaggering over to her. I towered as I’d done the night before and dropped my tone low and gravelly. “Was it when I was tongue-fucking your pussy or when you were grinding it against my lips? Or was it when—”
“You did not tongue-fuck me,” she said, jabbing a finger into my chest.
A redhead who’d just emerged from the pizzeria carrying her carboard box stopped dead and stared.
“Sorry,” I said, waving at her. “She’s got Tourette’s.”
“That’s not funny,” Hazel hissed. “Mental illness is not a joke.”
“You’re right.” My thoughts turned dark, instantly, and I stepped away from her, losing myself in the past for a couple seconds. Images threatened to lift and taunt me, but I shoved back against those memories.
Keep it together.
“Whatever,” Hazel said. “What are you doing here? Is this your attempt at a joke? It’s not funny.”
“We have a lunch date.”
“What?” She said it like she’d never heard the word ‘lunch’. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Lunch. You and me. At the Plaza.”
Her eyes widened at the mention of the Plaza. “I never agreed to go out with you.”
“Yes, you did,” I said. “Last night at the club. You agreed that we’d grab some dinner together because I’ve got something to tell you that you’re gonna want to hear about.”
Hazel’s eyelashes fluttered. She wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup. All-natural, all-beautiful, all-fuckable.
Shit, I had to keep it in my pants. Last night had been a fluke. A one-off mistake that we wouldn’t repeat because it would throw a giant dick-shaped spanner in the works. Or was it pussy-shaped?
“I’m going to say this one last time.” Hazel lifted a finger. “I never want to see you again.”
“What, naked? Or…?”
“Ever. Just in general.”
I grinned at her.
“Stop it, Woods. I’m serious. I’m too busy for your bullshit.”
“Too busy with what?”
Hazel chewed on her bottom lip and glanced back at the pizzeria. Inside, the girl at the counter was preoccupied with customers and hadn’t noticed her absence.
“With work,” she said.
“Work.”
“Not this work.” She gestured to the pizzeria.
“The café.” I’d already done my research on what’d happened, but I wanted to hear it from her. The harder it was for her, the better it would be for me, as sick as that sounded. “McCutcheon’s?”
“Right. The café.”
“I wondered why you weren’t working there,” I said. “Why’s that?”
“None of your damn business.” Hazel looked about ready to turn and storm off, but still, she lingered. Ill-advised but not surprising. I had this effect on women.
“You lost McCutcheon’s,” I said.
“Who told you that?” She’d gone pink.
“No one,” I replied. “We hardly run in the same circles, Hazel. It was an educated guess.”
She shrank back a step or two, shaking her head. “Yeah, you’re right. We don’t run in the same circles, and we never will. Now, if you’ll kindly stop stalking me, I’ll get back to work, and you can get back to… whatever it is you do when you’re not being an arrogant douchebag.”
I held back another laugh. I’d been called worse, but it always stung coming from her. Maybe because I’d always given too much of a shit about what she thought of me.
“So, you’re going to renege on our lunch date.” I stroked a hand over my sleeve, dusting off lint that wasn’t there. I had a meeting with Seth in an hour, and while I was looking forward to catching up with my brother, I doubted it would be a pleasant catch-up.
I’d have preferred to take out Hazel. Flirt with her mercilessly, bend her to my will, float my proposition, and watch her squirm.
This would be fun.
“There is no lunch date,” she said. “The lunch date is something you imagined. Look, are you doing this to make me feel even more awkward about last night? Or it is because… oh shit, you’re not seriously going to try get in my pants again, are you?” She drew closer, but only because she didn’t want anyone else to hear our conversation.
She’d been a shy girl back in high school. A sweetheart. That hadn’t changed, no matter how many layers of spice and sass she’d slathered on to cover it.
“I have no interest in repeating mistakes,” I said, gruffly.
She didn’t recoil, not physically, but her eyes told a different story. She hated me, but she wanted me to want her.
“But I have a vested interest in succeeding.”
“What does that even mean?” she asked. “I have nothing to do with you or your success.”
“Not yet, you don’t,” I replied. “But you will.” I’d grown tired of the back and forth, as well as the concentration it took not to want her. “I’ll pick you up tonight at eight.”
“Say what now?”
“Tonight at eight.” I didn’t repeat myself often. “Wear something nice.” I opened the driver’s side door of the Porsche and got inside.
“Hey!” she yelled. “Damien, what the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
“I’m helping you,” I replied. “You need money, right?”
“It’s none of your business what I need.”
“You want the café.”
She couldn’t deny it—it was written all over her face. She was desperate for it. Hazel had loved that café. It was one of the few facts about herself she’d shared with me, and I’d admired her focus back in high school. While other girls had been out partying, she’d been studying and waitressing at the café.
“I can help you get it back.”
“You can’t,” Hazel said. “You’re bullshitting me.”
“Come to dinner and find out.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. Give me one good reason why I should.”
I shut the door and rolled down the window. “I gave you several last night.” The grin was engineered to piss h
er off.
“Fuck you.”
“I told you, gorgeous, I don’t repeat my mistakes. I’ll see you tonight.”
“You’re such a—!”
I started the car and drove off, allowing myself one glimpse of her in the rearview mirror. Hazel stood on the curb, her hands balled into fists as she stared me down. My job was done—I’d put physical distance between us and established our meeting for later.
Meeting. Not date.
10
Hazel
“Do you need anything else?” I asked, tucking the blanket around my father’s legs. “I can get you another glass of water or…”
“Relax, Nut,” my father croaked, settling back in his recliner. “I’m fine.”
He’d had an appointment with his doctor today. More tests, the results of which we’d only get back later in the week, and that would freak me out until we knew the truth. Had the cancer progressed? Regressed? Did my father need to start chemo?
I squeezed my eyes shut and huffed out a breath.
Dad’s hand found mine and he squeezed. “You’ve got to relax, Nut. Everything’s going to be fine.”
But how would everything be fine? We had no money apart from the tips and basic hourly rate I earned at the Pieslice. Looking for a job in a management position had proved near impossible. I’d been laughed out the door several times. Not enough experience. Not enough work history. Apparently, spending time working for family hadn’t padded out my resume sufficiently.
The cash Dad had gotten from selling McCutcheon’s had already been eaten up by overdue hospital bills.
The only hope I had was getting a loan from the bank. Even then, some of that money would have to go toward Dad’s health, and after that… would I even have enough to get the café back?
Mr. Piddlywump meowed near my ankle, and I straightened, forcing a smile. “It’s a Saturday,” I said. “What do you want to do this evening? Movie night? I can make popcorn.”
“Not that hungry,” he said, offering me a weak smile. “And you should be out, having fun. Where’s Kara?”
“I have no idea,” I replied. “She didn’t tell me where she was going tonight.” Frustration welled up inside me. My sister hadn’t come to visit us in weeks. She knew Dad was ill, but she was so wrapped up in doing what felt good for her that she didn’t seem to care.
“Well,” Dad said, his brow wrinkling, “that’s to be expected. She’s young and out having fun. As you should be.”
“Don’t be silly. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here.” I headed for the kitchen to fix some popcorn—I’d eat it while we watched on of Dad’s favorite movies, and hopefully, I’d be able to convince him to snack.
Piddlywump meowed after me, brushing against my ankles, insistent as always. I picked him up and gave him some kisses.
“At least you’re hungry,” I muttered and set him down. I dished up wet food for him, and the appreciative purrs put a smile on my face. “Spoiled kitty.”
Piddlywump chomped down noisily, and I set about getting out a pot for the—
The doorbell buzzed.
“I’ll get it!” I called, because Dad had a penchant for trying to do everything himself. It made him feel purposeful, but it wasn’t good for his health, especially not when he was so constantly tired and worn out. “Don’t move, Dad, I’ll get it!”
“All right, all right, I wasn’t moving.”
I hurried down the hall to the front door and opened it.
Damien stood on the step, dapper in a suit, one hand grasping the sleeve of his suit jacket. My breath disappeared.
“W-wha—?”
“Evening,” he said and studied me from head-to-toe.
I looked down at my baggy T-shirt and yoga pants, pulse thumping away.
“Are you wearing that?” he asked. “It’s quarter to eight. You still have some time to change.”
“Quarter to…?” My brain clicked into gear. “You’re not serious. You really think I’m going out with you?”
“I did say I’d pick you up at eight,” Damien replied, evenly. “If you don’t have anything to wear, I’d be more than happy to provide you with something.”
“You’re insane. Look, I told you, I’m not going to dinner with you.”
“And I told you, I’d pick you up at eight.”
I glared at him, heat traveling through my extremities. I wasn’t sure if it was anger or arousal at this point, nor did I care. “Leave,” I said. “You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and demand that I—”
“Who’s that, Nut?” My father’s voice approached, and he appeared in the hallway in his striped PJs. He brushed a hand over his balding crown, squinting past me at Damien. “My, my, it can’t be. Is that Damien Woods?”
Jesus H. Christ. Here we go.
“The very same,” Damien said, stepping past me, a broad smile parting his lips. “Mr. McCutcheon. It’s good to see you again.”
My father and my sworn enemy shook hands. OK, so maybe he wasn’t a “sworn enemy” or anything cheesy like that, but he did know just how to piss me off.
“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Woods.”
“Please, call me Damien. How are you? I heard you sold the café.”
Seriously? You’re going to bring that up?
“I did indeed,” my dad said, laughing. “It was about time. The place was nothing but a time and money suck, unfortunately. And as for how I’m doing, well, I’m right as rain.”
My father had always liked Damien, though I’d never understood why. He’d never enjoyed Damien’s father’s company, and it wasn’t like they’d ever spent any real time together apart from the few times Damien had come into the café to make jokes at my expense. Damien and his gang of followers had enjoyed coming around and having me serve them.
Douchebags.
“Dad and I were just about to watch a movie,” I said. “With popcorn.” I couldn’t make myself any clearer without literally lifting a “You can’t sit with us” sign.
“It’s against my will,” Dad said. “I hate movies.”
“What?” I squawked.
Damien chuckled. “What would you prefer to do?”
My dad shuffled back into the living room, and Damien went with him, leaving me out in the hall, holding the front door open for no one. What the hell was going on here? I closed the door and marched after them, into the living room.
“—with Paula Zahn,” my father said. “Or anything with that raspy guy. The old one who does all those nature shows?”
“David Attenborough.” Damien clicked his fingers.
“That’s the guy.”
“Yeah, he’s great. Have you seen Blue Planet?”
“No,” Dad replied, “but I’ve always wanted to. Those nature documentaries are so relaxing.”
“I have the entire box set.” Damien sat on our tattered sofa across from my dad, who’d lowered himself into his armchair. They’d muted the TV in the interim.
I walked over and tucked the blanket around my father, but he was too busy chatting to Damien to even notice the help. Mr. Piddlywump meowed his way into the room too and took a running jump onto the sofa. He purred and bopped his kitty head against Damien’s arm, who immediately started stroking and scratching behind my cat’s ears, absently.
Had I just entered an alternate universe? Since when did Damien get on with my father? And Piddlywump, the traitor, was supposed to be on my side.
I made kss, kss noises at my cat but received nothing but a yellow-eyed stare in return.
“I’ll bring it to you after we get back from dinner,” Damien said, to my father.
“What now?”
“The Blue Planet box set.” Dad smiled at me. “He’s going to lend it to me.”
“Shoot, you can have it,” Damien said. “I can get another one easily. Won’t be any trouble, Mr. McCutcheon.” He shot me one of his devilish grins.
“You sure?” Dad asked. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
“Give it to me?” I choked.
“After dinner.” Damien’s shit-eating grin grew wider by the second. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“What? No. But—”
“Nut, you’d better get changed if you’re going out,” Dad said, flashing me a smile and lifting the remote. He flicked through the channels until he settled on a crime documentary. “You can’t go to dinner wearing your SpongeBob T-shirt.”
I placed a hand on SpongeBob’s face, covering him from the horror of what’d just ensued. “I can’t go to dinner, Dad. I’m spending tonight with you, remember?”
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Why would you want to spend another night in front of the TV with boring old Dad when you can be out with a handsome young man like Damien?”
Why have you betrayed me, Father? Was this my Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader moment? He might as well have cut off my hand. “I—Dad, I—”
“I’ve got something for you to wear,” the talking Cheshire cat said from the sofa. “I’ll have Geoff bring it in from the car. In fact, I’ll send him back to my apartment to grab the Blue Planet box set now. That way you can enjoy it tonight, Mr. McCutcheon.”
“You’re the son I never had,” my father said, laughing.
I growled low in my throat and pushed up from the chair. Damien was the devil himself—he’d found my one weakness and exploited it.
“I’ll get that dress.” He got up and headed for the door, winking at me along the way, Mr. Piddlywump chasing after him and meowing for attention.
11
Damien
Tonight couldn’t have gone to plan any better.
I’d given her father the Blue Planet box set then hung around chatting to him until Hazel had emerged from her bedroom, wearing the slinky cocktail dress I’d brought along for her. It was indigo, plunging low at the front, almost to her navel and cut halfway up the thigh. It clung to her every curve—impossible to wear underwear in that.
