by Nora Flite
After Gina went home, I’d found my inner genius and decided to cover the whole thing in glitter. It looked great—but I’d made the crucial mistake of forgetting that glitter is the herpes of crafts, and once I picked up the display, I’d covered myself in sparkles.
And then I’d covered the bus.
And my homeroom.
And every kid who got too close in the hallway.
Gina had dubbed me the Sparkle Queen, hammering it home when we landed an A in science class, in spite of how much every teacher and student hated me for that damn project.
But she’d been right. I’d come out sparkling.
Me: Love you.
Gina: Luv ya, too, babe. Can you tell me where you’ll be hiding?
Pulling my knees into the jacket, I hunched on the toilet. Her question made me think about what Costello had said before I’d flipped out and hid in the bathroom. I’m supposed to be his date . . . but who’s getting married? It was hard to picture a guy like Costello at a wedding—though he probably rocked the suit look.
Me: Vermont.
Gina: Bring me back some maple syrup.
Still smiling, I put my phone in my skirt pocket. Standing at the sink, I quickly splashed my face. My cheeks dripped, and as I looked closer, I saw there were a few dots of dried blood on the ends of my hair.
My eyes shot to the shower. Well, I did tell him I was cleaning up.
I’d probably showered for too long—the mirror was solid white from steam—but the burning water had been soothing. I wrapped my hair in a towel, dried off, and slipped regretfully back into my clothes from earlier.
Snapping my bra on, I stared at Costello’s jacket on the doorknob. Should I wear it? Biting my lip, I crossed my arms. It’s that or a towel. Or nothing. Wouldn’t that be a sight? Gina might have the balls to do something so over-the-top, but I wasn’t sure I did.
Sighing, I brushed my fingers over the jacket’s leather sleeve. Okay, be honest, you want to wear it again. It wasn’t my fault I enjoyed it; it was warm and expensive and it smelled so damn good.
I scooped it up and zipped it into place. Instantly I felt better . . . safer? Was that the word? It’s because it belongs to the guy a few feet away who promised to protect me. It was really weird to think about Costello Badd as a good guy—but for now he’d shown he was.
I hoped that remained true.
“Hey,” I said, stepping into the colder air of the main room. He was reclining on the bed, somehow looking as if he belonged on the green-and-gold blankets that probably cost less than the socks on his feet.
I had a feeling he could be comfortable anywhere, if he wanted to.
His eyes darted to me. “You showered.”
Placing my palm on the towel on my head so it wouldn’t fall off, I nodded. “Kind of needed it.”
His arms unfurled from behind his head. He swung his knees over, then stood and approached me. The steam was at my back, but the closer he got to my front, the more I felt like that was where all the heat in the world was coming from. “Was it hot?” he asked.
I blinked. “Hwa?”
“The water. Was it hot?”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” I stood aside so he could pass. “I didn’t use it all up, I don’t think.”
He bobbed his head once and closed the door without another word. I was left alone in that tiny room with nothing but a bed and a TV from the early eighties. There was silence; then the shower hissed to life. I heard it through the walls, realizing this motel lacked soundproofing. You can hear everything, I thought in surprise.
Costello’s belt buckle jingled. Then came the cloth-rustle of his shirt . . . his shoes . . . his pants. I could hear him stripping down. Burning with uncertain excitement, I hovered by the bathroom door. I’m being a megacreep. A real weirdo. In spite of my own insults I still stood there for way too long.
It wasn’t until I heard the shower curtain sliding on the porcelain, then Costello’s thick groan of pleasure as the hot water rained on him, that I backed away. I moved so fast I half fell onto the bed when I hit it with the backs of my knees.
Sitting heavily, I squeezed the blanket under me. “Dammit,” I whispered. Maybe I should have taken a cold shower instead.
Settling onto the bed, I turned my cheek into the rough pillows. They were worn out, probably needed a good washing, but when I inhaled . . . I smelled him. Costello had been resting here, on a bed that was barely big enough for two people.
Not that it needed to be big enough for two.
It wasn’t like we were going to do anything.
Not one bit.
Curling up, I hugged my knees and yawned. Maybe I should sleep on the floor. I AM acting like a dog, after all. But it’s not my fault, I thought through my growing sleep fog. He just looks . . . and smells . . . so good . . .
There was a metallic click. My eyelashes fluttered as I rolled over enough to glance at the bathroom. I’d been dozing, but now I was hyperawake.
Costello was standing within arm’s reach, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. I’d imagined his body would look good naked, but I’d been wrong.
It looked fucking amazing.
Black and red ink swirled over the hard muscles of his chest. There were stars, birds, writing, all sorts of symbols. I couldn’t help but notice the crisp drawing of a crown on the right side of his rib cage. The closer I looked, the more I noticed other things, too:
Scars. So many scars.
He was a mural of delicious art and old wounds, a landscape I wanted to explore. Especially the half of him hidden by the towel.
His hair was still damp; a droplet coasted down his forehead and over the bridge of his nose. There was a swatch of raised goose bumps on each of his forearms. When I sat up, my own towel tumbling free from my hair, I experienced the chill in the air and understood.
Of course, he’s got to be cold in just his towel! Standing up so fast it left me disoriented, I said, “I’m sorry! I keep forgetting we’re in the same boat with no clean clothes. Here, take this back, you need it more than I do.” I started to tug the jacket zipper down.
Like an unexpected flood ready to drown and destroy, he was on me. He swept up my wrists in hands that were still warm from the shower. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice oddly rattled. “Keep it on. I don’t need it.”
Too many fuzzy emotions were ruling my body. Costello made my senses explode . . . my brain melt. Everything in me was screaming to just get away from him before I did something stupid.
“Really,” I said, fighting him—trying to rip the jacket off. “You should have it!”
“Slow down.” His strong hands gripped me tighter. “You have nothing else to wear!”
“I’ll wrap myself in a sheet!” I grunted, struggling to pull down the zipper while he kept tugging it up my neck. “Just—let me—ah!” I’d pulled us off balance. Together we landed on the mattress, his weight solid on top of me.
His muscles flexed, but he didn’t budge. I was probably shaking the whole motel with my anxiety. Could he feel my pulse? I was positive he could. But what finally got through my cotton-strangled brain . . .
Was how I could feel his pulse.
It moved through his arms to where his palms were cupping my shoulders. His breath was short and sharp where it was drying my damp hair. The blue in Costello’s eyes had become the color of vodka in a frosted glass. Chilly on the surface . . . scorching in the center. “I’m telling you,” he said thickly, “I don’t need it. I’m plenty warm.”
I came close to spilling one of my many secrets: I am, too.
He glanced down at where the zipper had split apart. The tops of my breasts heaved in plain sight, nearly touching his naked chest. “How funny,” he said, quieter than before. “Earlier tonight I was trying to strip you. Now you’re desperate to get yourself naked in front of me.”
He didn’t need to reference earlier . . . I was already reliving it. I’d witnessed this hunger in his stare when I’d dared him
with my brazen ass-to-dick grind attack. At that time Thorne had intervened. Who would stop us now?
The Costello I’d seen from a distance had always been so serious. A buttoned-up man who never lingered, never gave me a second look. The oldest son of the Badds had been a man with nothing but business in his heart.
And I’d gone and undone all of that.
- CHAPTER SIX -
COSTELLO
There was nothing between this rarity of a woman and me but a towel and some thin fabric. How I was acting with Scotch was entirely foreign to me.
I was aching to fuck her.
And I wanted to do anything but.
Shivering, I studied how the shadow I cast on her played over the freckles on her nose. Scotch was beautiful . . . clearly not easy to forget, considering several people remembered her from the club tonight. I knew almost nothing about her, but I did know one very important fact: I’d told her everything would be okay.
Sleeping with her would be the opposite of okay. Creating any more of a connection between Scotch and myself would put her in even worse danger.
But fuck it . . . I almost don’t care. Her collarbones rose when she sucked in air; I saw the slightly uneven row of her bottom teeth, the indent in her bottom lip. Would she be a rough kisser or a soft one?
“Costello,” she whispered, and my name from her tempting mouth was as good as her palm stroking my painfully hard cock. She was more of a turn-on wearing my jacket than if she’d been straight-up naked. It reminded me that she could be mine. I could take her here, now, making her scream for me through the drywall so every person in the motel would hear.
My hands slid down her arms, the leather that should have been familiar to me feeling like it belonged in another world. “I need you to listen to me very closely,” I began.
Scotch swallowed air; it made her neck dip, her breasts rise, and my stomach knot. “Yeah?”
I sat up. “Keep the jacket.”
“What?” I moved into the bathroom and clicked off the light. The room was doused in navy black. If I can’t see her, I can hold back. But my senses were strong—I could smell her as I got close to the bed again, my ears ringing with her quick breaths. “We’ll get new clothes before we leave for Vermont,” I said.
The bedsprings squeaked. “Oh.”
Oh oh oh. It was too easy to picture her moaning that in a loop. Intentionally hard—in the hope the pain would knock sense into me—I dropped onto the floor between the bed and the door. “Toss me a pillow.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Sleeping on the floor. You take the bed, it’s not big enough for us both.”
Scotch said nothing. I wished I could read her mind. Something soft flopped onto the ground and slid against my knee—the pillow. She’d thrown it harder than she needed to. “Fine,” she mumbled, and I think . . . she sounded upset.
The idea of her pouting because I hadn’t bent her over and buried myself deep between her thighs made my insides clench. Hadn’t she told me she knew who I was? If so, she should know better than to go so far with someone from my family.
Maybe we weren’t all bad news . . .
But I sure was.
Lying flat on my back in nothing but a towel, I stared at the ceiling I couldn’t see. Tonight had been mistake after mistake. I was going to end that trend right here, right now.
In the long run . . .
She would thank me for holding back.
Something warm was touching me. It smelled oddly sweet . . . that familiar scent I couldn’t place. Disoriented, I thought for a minute it was Scotch. I wasn’t expecting the disappointment that filled me when I sat up in the morning light and found out it was a blanket instead.
Blinking, I lifted the cloth and looked over at the bed. Scotch was buried under the single sheet. She covered me with this? Amazed, I ran my palm over the blanket again. What a kind gesture. It left me lost.
Quietly I rose to my feet. “Morning,” she said, peeking at me from under the sheet she had wrapped around her body and head.
I nodded at the blanket on the ground. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Huh, that’s the weirdest way of saying thanks I’ve ever heard.” I headed into the bathroom and dressed in my clothes from the night before. They smelled like tangy sweat, but they’d have to do for now. “We don’t have much time, we need to get going.”
She threw aside the sheet. Her hair was a tangled mess, framing her face and making her look naturally sexy. I had to look away. “You said the plan was getting new clothes?” Yawning, she stretched. “Then I guess we’re off to this wedding to play boyfriend and girlfriend.”
She’d said it so plainly, and even so I burned with excitement. Scotch was outlined by the pale blue of the curtained windows. I didn’t think anyone had ever, or would ever, look so gorgeous in a room that probably had to be sprayed for bedbugs once a month.
Her nose piercing twinkled.
“You’re going to need to remove that,” I said, pointing.
She touched the small clear jewel. “You don’t like it?”
Her grin said she was teasing me. We didn’t have the luxury of being so relaxed. “The men who saw you know what you look like. They know your name. But if you take out your piercing and call yourself something else . . . you become just another blonde girl.”
The way her grin slid away made my heart freeze. “Just another blonde, huh?”
She’s not “just” anything. She’s oddly addictive and I want to stay by her side. But I needed her to be forgettable. “It’s for the best. Trust me.”
“I do,” she said softly. It should have been a relief when she plucked out the stud and stuck it in her pocket. So why did it give me such grief?
Shaking off my bleak mood, I finished sticking my feet in my shoes. My gun was jammed into the back of my pants. “What do you want me to call you?” I asked. “You can’t go by Scotch.”
She hopped off the bed, and I noticed she’d slept in her sneakers, prepared in case we had to run at any point during the night. Smart girl. “Call me Heather.”
“All right. Heather it is.” Damn, that felt strange. “Let’s get you into something more appropriate for a wedding.”
“Are you sure this is safe?”
Glancing over at Scotch—Heather—whatever I was supposed to call her, I nodded. “It’ll be fine.”
“You say that, but I feel like there’s nowhere we can go shopping that won’t risk us being seen by someone looking for me.”
Steering my car down the long dirt road, I resisted a chuckle. “This isn’t exactly shopping.”
Scotch stared blankly at me. “Go on.”
As we turned along a chain-link fence and entered a wide stretch free of trees, I motioned out the windshield. “See for yourself.”
The airfield was small; just big enough to house the private jet my family owned. It sat on the runway, glossy as a ladybug and just as red and black.
She pointed. “Is that a jet? That’s a jet. Why are we . . .”
“My family is using it to fly to Vermont today.” I watched as the color drained from her features. “You look pale. Are you scared of flying?”
“Ah, no, more like I’m scared of sitting within several feet of your whole family.” She ran her hands down her cheeks. “Holy hell, I’ll be right next to your mom and dad!”
“Actually, he left already. Kain’s bachelor party was last night, so—”
“Kain?” She grabbed my arm so violently the car swerved. I pulled up short and parked it before she made us crash. “You never said this was your brother’s wedding!”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“How was it not—jeez!” She cupped the back of her neck and bent in two. “Ugh. Ugh. This is really bad.”
My hand came up, itching to soothe her. I hesitated too long; when she lifted her head, my hand was back in my lap. “It’s going to be fine. Only Thorne knows about the meeting last nig
ht, my mother and sister aren’t involved, no one will find it weird for you to come along to this.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true. But I felt sure we could make this work.
We had to.
She was watching me with blatant disbelief. “Besides all of that, let’s go back to the whole clothes thing. That’s a jet, not a shopping center.”
I nodded slowly. “My family keeps lots of things on there. Always good to be prepared.”
Scotch shut her eyes, thick lashes reminding me of coal-colored eaves. “You knew I’d be upset if you told me this was a family affair. That’s why you omitted all these details.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Was I wrong?” That was a death glare if I’d ever seen one. “Come on, we need to hurry and change before the others arrive.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she grumbled, following me from the car. “Going to a wedding for some random friend of yours, that I could swallow. Is Thorne in on this?”
“He is. Scotch, just breathe.” I reached for her hands; she dodged me. “Is it so hard to pretend we’re a couple if it keeps you alive?”
She hesitated, looking from me to the jet. “It’s not about that. I just . . . I don’t like being tricked, and this feels like you were trying to trick me.”
I wanted to say I was sorry, but deep down I wasn’t. I was more concerned about keeping my word and keeping her safe than I was about lying to her.
That time, when I reached for her hand, she let me take it. Her fingers were like the fragile ends of soft ferns. “Sometimes you tell small lies.” Sometimes you have to be a martyr and take the blame. Sometimes it’s your responsibility.
Abruptly she pulled away from me. “Let’s just get this over with.” Scotch took brisk steps, heading up the steps into the jet.
My fingers traced the ghost of her hand that I’d been clutching a second ago.
Get this over with?
Scotch had no idea how much I wanted the opposite of that.
- CHAPTER SEVEN -
SCOTCH
Man. I was bummed out.
Not even pissed, just kind of . . . disappointed.
