by Penny Reid
However, on closer inspection after the second song, I realized they were the real Robot Mafia.
My mouth fell open, as I was wont to do when shocked, and spun on Alex. He grinned and shrugged.
I stood on my tiptoes to reach his ear. “Why are they playing at such a small place? I can’t believe more people aren’t here.”
He shouted back. “It’s a secret concert! They’re playing songs from their new album.”
“How did you find out about it?”
“I can’t tell you all my secrets.”
I scoffed. “You don’t tell me any of your secrets.”
This earned me a wicked, crooked grin—and a flash of dimple—but he said nothing. I rolled my eyes and gave him a teasing smile, and turned my back to rock in his arms again.
He dipped his lips to my ear. “Tell me what happened, with Bell.” Then he placed a biting kiss where my neck met my shoulder.
I inhaled a steadying breath, tried to ignore his hand on my backside, and turned in his arms. “She, uh, showed up on the peds ICU floor—intensive care unit—and basically told me to come with her if I wanted to live.”
“She what?” His head snapped backward.
“Sorry.” I brought his ear back to my mouth, “Sorry, movie reference. It’s from The Terminator.”
“Okay.” He wrapped his arms completely around me. “What happened next?”
I settled against him, one hand on the back of his neck, the other against his chest, my mouth next to his ear. To the best of my ability, I attempted to recount word-for-word my encounter with Agent Bell. Some of it was lost in the sounds of the crowd and the music surrounding us.
But he heard and seemed to like the news that Quinn’s building security measures nullified their spying attempts. I may have confused some of the bitcoin conversation, and caught myself going off on a tangent about why Tom Cruise was always running in the movies he was in.
When I arrived at the part where Agent Bell mentioned the other woman—the one they’d tried using for information before—Alex stiffened and rested his head against my shoulder.
He also cussed—four-letter words, with feeling—when I recited Agent Bell’s assertion that she wasn’t threatening me.
The only part I skipped over was Agent Bell’s reference to my occupation during college. No reason to bring that lovely bit of information up unless it was absolutely necessary.
For better or for worse, Alex now knew the gist of the conversation.
I reflected, during the brief silence between us that followed, that I was very pleased we were discussing this now rather than the evening it happened. I had needed a bit of distance in order to see the interaction clearly.
“I have to do something,” he growled into my hair.
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m in favor of the opposite. Let’s do nothing.”
He lifted his head and regarded me with a visibly confused glare. “You want me to do nothing—after she threatened you?”
I nodded. “Yes. Because what can she do? Listen to us more? Turn up the volume on their surveillance equipment?”
“Sandra, the NSA is not….” He paused, licked his lips, and smiled in a way that made me feel naïve.
I ignored the implied slight against my grasp of the situation and took the opportunity to make my point. “Listen, they need you. They need you to contact the guy who developed the bitcoins. Ignoring them and their threats won’t change that. And if they come after me, you have no reason to help them.”
Alex, to anyone else, would have appeared calm in this moment.
To me, he appeared lethally calm and perhaps searching for something to punch.
I quickly added, “My plan also buys us some time…maybe an indefinite amount of time.”
He shook his head, visibly struggling with his words and thoughts. He said, “I’m not happy about this.”
“Well, I won’t be sending Agent Bell flowers for Valentine’s Day, but—based on her side of the story—I can understand her perspective.”
“Her side of the story? They want me to give them the equivalent of a skeleton key for unlimited access to all bitcoins. I would never do that.”
I shifted a bit closer and tightened my hold on his arms. “Can I ask why?”
Alex stared at me like I had seven heads and a tail.
I added quickly, “Let me say, I think I know why. But I’d like to hear your reasoning.”
Alex’s gaze swept the bar. There was a lull in the music, but the crowd pressed against us from all directions.
Not looking at me, he said, “I can’t tell you.”
“Then can I guess?” His eyes flickered to mine and I continued. “You can just stare at me and I’ll try to read your mind, whether or not you agree with my guess.”
Alex stared at me. It appeared that the mind-reading portion of our evening had begun.
“All right,” I said, “I’m assuming you don’t want to hand over the skeleton key because it would give them too much power, but I honestly don’t know whether you could give it to them even if you wanted to. Maybe they just think you have access to the key. Plus, once they have it, they could confiscate anyone’s bitcoins, any time they liked.”
Alex surprised me by saying, “That’s part of it. But it isn’t the biggest part of it, and I can’t tell you the rest.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay?” he echoed. He didn’t look convinced.
“Yes.” I said, trying to look convincing. “But I do have one more question, and it’s a shallow one.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ll answer if I’m able to, but….”
I drew in a deep breath, picked an imaginary spot of lint from his black shirt, and—not meeting his eyes—said, “The girl.”
Let’s not forget about the girl, people! Of course I’m going to ask about the girl, because I’m a girl.
The music started up again; the song was slower song that sounded a bit like a ballad. We would be able to hear each other more clearly now.
It took him a moment to decipher my meaning. When he did, he rolled his eyes. “Ah, God, Sandra, I was….” He shook his head, rolled his eyes again, and added hastily, “I was eighteen, just out of prison, and very much wanted to be with a girl—any girl.”
“I see….” I said, because I did see. His explanation made sense. “What happened?”
“She came into the restaurant. She asked me out. I said yes. We…did some stuff a few times. Then she started pumping me for information, and I cut her out. Lesson learned.”
“And you never did stuff with anyone else—until me?”
A small, secretive smile claimed his lips. One of his hands cupped my bottom and the other gripped the small of my waist. “Yes, I’ve done stuff since; just not ever with the same person more than once, and not very often.”
“But you never….” I twirled my hand through the air and gave him a meaningful look.
“No. I never took it that far.”
“I see….” I said, even though I didn’t see. But this explained why he was such a good kisser. Nor was he a fumbler when making out. In fact, I’d call him proficient in that department. I wondered what his other areas of expertise were and whether they included going downtown.
Yes. That’s right. I went there. Because I’m an oddly prim pervert, and a girl needs some relief.
I cleared my throat, looked for another imaginary piece of lint on the canvas of his chest. “Did you like her? This girl.”
“Yeah,” he said simply, and I peeked at him. His eyes were far away, I presumed with memories. Then they cut back to me. “But not like I like you.”
I was about to say you say the nicest things, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment, so instead I smiled, pressed my cheek to my shoulder like I was shy, and fluttered my lashes.
“I like you too.”
“I know.”
“You do? Who told you?”
“You did. Right before you left me.”
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“Oh.” I frowned. “You’re right. I did. But, I’m not leaving now.”
“That’s good.” He turned me around so that I was once again facing the stage, and said into my ear, “Maybe you should promise me you’ll never leave.”
“I can’t do that.” I shook my head in earnest. “I may have to pee…or knit.”
I felt Alex’s slow smile against my neck, but then it was abruptly gone and his arms held me tighter.
We stood like that for several minutes, enjoying the slower, quieter song and the feeling of being wrapped in each other’s arms.
However, the next song was no ballad. In fact, after I heard the first pass of the chorus, I was pretty sure it was an ode to the female body—specifically, doing things to the female body.
The bass and drums were heavily featured, giving the song a definite carnal, tribal quality. I was impressed that the tall, blonde, spikey-haired lead singer—the male equivalent of a Swedish underwear model—didn’t dislocate his hip as he gyrated and ground himself into the microphone stand.
As the music continued, Alex’s grip became firmer, friskier. He massaged my backside with his big palms then massaged the sides and centers of my breasts with his fingers. Basically, he was feeling me up. Sweat beaded and pooled on my chest, and droplets rolled down my spine.
When I could take no more, I leaned back, turned my head, and encouraged him to bend toward me.
I lifted a hand behind me, wrapped my fingers around the back of his neck, and said into his ear, “You need to stop that, please.” Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I licked his ear.
Alex stiffened. His hands flexed on my body. I felt the rise and fall of his chest as he took a deep breath. “I’m going to touch you how I like, whenever I like, and you’re going to let me,” he said, his lips searing my skin.
I frowned—in fact, it may have been a scowl, no way to be sure without a mirror—and shifted a step forward. He brought me back against him and wrapped one arm around my shoulders and the other around my waist.
I turned slightly—as much as was possible—and hissed at him, “You’re not a hypnotist or a Jedi, and you’re not the boss of me.”
“I know you like it.” His chest rumbled as he spoke. “I know you want me.”
Shocking the heckaroni out of me, Alex slipped his hand under my dress to my maidenhood—and by maidenhood, I mean my neglected and angrily aching vagina. He cupped me though my leggings and underwear; I felt his afore-dubbed steel pipe against my backside.
I gasped because he was right, but he was also wrong. I did like it. I did want him. But I also didn’t like being toyed with. Best-case scenario was that he didn’t understand how his touches affected me. I craved him, and not just his body, every minute of every day.
The frisky fingers were fantastic, to a point, and then they just became tools of torture. The frenzy was reaching a crescendo, and something—or somebody—was going to have to surrender.
I bucked against him, pulled at his arms. “Stop, Alex. I’m serious.”
He stiffened, tightened his grip for a split second, then his arms slacked and I stepped away from him. The music, the gyrating and shirtless rock star on the stage, the tire-fire of a man-beast behind me, my angry girl parts—all of it combined, saturated, made me feel dizzy and suffocated.
I walked away from Alex, through the crush, and back to the bar. Alex followed. I sensed his intense ferocity and something else, knew he was angry. A shiver raced down my spine and the urge to flee was both surprising and disorienting.
I signaled for George the tattooed bartender to bring me my coat. Alex followed, and reached for my hand as we waited. I allowed him to hold it in his firm grip, though. I didn’t look at him because I was aggravated and irritable, and my mind was a tornado of mixed emotions.
I also didn’t look at him because I felt his anger rising around me like a tsunami.
Once outside he tried to tuck me into my normal place under his arm, but I pulled away from him and stuffed my hands in my pockets.
I wasn’t trying to hurt him or brush him off. I was just all wound up and couldn’t count on him for relief. I was on my own, and his touch made me feel lonely and frustrated.
After two blocks of walking side by side and not touching, speaking, or looking at him, Alex grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a dark alley. Finding shadowy places was definitely a talent of his.
He backed me against the wall, held my gaze with his, but let go of my arm. His eyes were nearly black with just the barest flicker of light visible, a lightning flash against indigo.
“I don’t understand. I thought you wanted me.” He wasn’t touching me, didn’t reach for me, but his words and the tone of his voice physically tore at an indecipherable something. I felt pain in my lower belly and a crack in my heart. He was hot with barely suppressed anger; I felt it radiate from him like a fire.
“Alex….” I inhaled, exhaled, swallowed, and balled my hands into fists. “I do want you.”
“Then why…?”
“Because I can’t have you!” I yelled. It was a loony-bin reaction and extremely indiscrete. But there it was.
His eyes bounced between mine, and something in him shifted, gentled. Alex opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged—no assurances, no words of comfort—nothing.
I blinked at him and waited. After a tense moment, I rolled my eyes and hurried back to the sidewalk. His footfalls echoed mine the remainder of the walk home.
By the time we arrived at my apartment I’d cooled down enough to feel some contrition and ridiculousness at my behavior.
Part of me whined that I couldn’t help it; I wanted him, all of him. Yet, he continued to withhold both his body and his past from me. I felt dirty-deed disenfranchised.
My reasonable part, the voice that was typically loudest, reminded me that we’d been together a short time. Our first date, the Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me date, was just over a month ago. I had no business becoming hysterical and half crazed with the needy girl feels. I required a reality check, made out in the dollar amount of stop being such a whiny wanker and use a vibrator.
Before I reached the steps to the building, I spun on him. My intent was to apologize. Maybe I was the queen of mixed signals. Or maybe I’d allowed my hormones too much control over my actions.
He didn’t flinch or retreat or stop at my sudden movement. Instead, he stepped forward and caught me in his arms. Then he kissed me before I could say I was sorry. It was heated and passionate and lovely. His hands were everywhere, and so were mine. I was starving for him.
I felt his frustration and his need, a mirror of my own, and it was a relief. I was relieved to know that I wasn’t alone in my frustrations. I reminded myself that we were in this together. All his reasons for waiting were good ones. I could relax and stop pressuring him. I could enjoy the moments for what they were, not what I wished them to be.
We both relaxed into each other, into the kiss. When our lips parted, I smiled. Yes, it was bittersweet, it wasn’t perfect, and it left me wanting more.
But it was also beautiful, mesmerizing, and surprising. It lifted my heart to my throat and was the closest I’d ever come to the feeling of flying.
CHAPTER 20
Tuesday’s Horoscope: An offer of help today comes from an unlikely source. Don’t be surprised if this person’s assistance comes with a price tag down the road.
I FELT MOROSE; morose like Eeyore. Days between dates with Alex were becoming much more difficult than I’d anticipated. In fact, I’d finally gone furniture shopping with Devon—one of my many platonic male friends—on Monday, and practically yelled at him when he didn’t like the red couch I suggested.
Ah, mood swings. Thank you, female endocrine system.
At present, I was situated on one end of a big, fancy, cushy, delicious leather couch at Elizabeth and Nico’s apartment. I hid behind my third glass of red wine and only half listened to the conversation going on around me. I had
a sexy beast of a boyfriend, and I wasn’t getting any knicker action. Life was not good. Life was depressing and sexless.
However, being with Alex, talking to Alex, arguing with Alex, learning from Alex, kissing Alex was good.
It was maddening and wonderful at once.
Therefore, life was good. Life was good because of high flying zingy kisses and sweet, funny, smart Alex conversations.
I was all muddled.
The conversation in my brain yielded a sigh, and I glanced at my work in progress; I was working on the left-hand mitten for Alex’s man-knits set. Specifically, I was knitting the thumb. I would give it to him soon and force him to wear it.
I didn’t want him to be cold anymore. I wanted him to be warm, all the time.
Then I’d force him to tell me where he went on Sundays. Then I’d force him to tell me about his past. Then I’d force myself on him….
Well, not really. I’d make him want me to force myself on him.
A knock on the door roused the group from their discussion and me from my meanderings. Elizabeth stood to answer it, and I caught the tail end of Ashley’s sentence.
“Of course, maybe he’s into getting tied up and squealing like a pig. If that’s the case, then count me out.”
Just as she finished, and a few of my friends asked for more details about the squealing-like-a-pig part, Quinn—Janie’s husband—strolled into the room.
He was followed by Elizabeth. As usual, she appeared to be less than pleased by his appearance.
“Janie, McHotpants is here.” Elizabeth breezed past him and reclaimed her spot on the big, overstuffed, welcoming leather couch that spanned the length of the room. She snuggled against her husband as if he was a pillow.
Ugh. They were too cute, and they probably had sex with each other. Maybe they would have sex tonight. I hated them and their well-satisfied genitalia.
Where Janie and Quinn’s penthouse was modern and sterile, Elizabeth and Nico’s was warm, cluttered, and comfy. The dichotomy was fascinating to me. Both apartments were exactly the same in layout and size, but they looked entirely different.
