Downtown Devil: Book 2 in series (Sins in the City)

by Cara McKenna

  I fucked his best friend while he watched. Still think he’s grooming me to go steady?

  “Well, I am not calling him next,” Clare decided aloud as they aimed themselves toward the gourmet waffle joint. “The next move is entirely his to make.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  That next move, as it turned out, came out of the blue, early on Saturday evening—a call, not a text. Clare was pumping lettuce in the salad spinner and her phone lit up on the counter beside it. When the name appeared, she let go of the spinner, and centrifugal force sent it careening off the edge to burst open on the tile.

  “Ah, fuck.” She accepted the call. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Mica.”

  “Hey. How are you?” She hoped she sounded cool. Casual, even as she eyed the romaine leaves strewn across the floor.

  “Good. You?”

  “Fine.” She hazarded a tease. “What’s up, pervert? Calling for more badly timed phone sex?”

  “Better than that. You free tonight?”

  Tonight? Always tonight, with this man. Would it kill him to give a girl a day to prepare?

  Would that ever stop me from coming when he calls? Okay, fine. The boy didn’t give notice because he didn’t need to.

  “I could be, if you give me an hour or two. What were you thinking?”

  A brief pause, and in it she could picture his smile so perfectly—flash of teeth, as innocent as a wolf with pink-stained choppers. “My place. My bed.”

  Just the two of us? Likely, and more than enough to have her mentally picking out underwear. “How can a gal say no?” She eyed the clock. “I could be there by eight. Should I bring anything?”

  “Nope, we got it covered.”

  “We?” And there went her cool act.

  Another pause, and she could swear his voice had dropped an octave when he said, “He’s home. If he wanted to join us, would that be so bad?”

  Some hopeless little bit of her did secretly wish Mica might like to keep her all to himself, some night. Again, that’s girlfriend territory. Take what you can get. Hell, what she could get was another round with two hot men. Might help her keep things in perspective. Namely, that this was all about debauchery, no room for blossoming crushes. “No, not so bad,” she conceded.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Does he . . . Did you invite him to?”

  “I told him I was going to call you.”

  Told him how, exactly? What loaded look might have accompanied that simple sentence? she had to wonder.

  “Well, either way, sounds good.” Sounds like heaven on fire, take two.

  “Cool. See you later.”

  “See you.”

  He hung up, and she stared at her phone until the screen went black, a touch mystified.

  No time for that now, though. There was lettuce to salvage and legs to shave, places to go.

  Men to see.

  —

  “Clare’s coming over.”

  Vaughn looked up as Mica strolled into the living room, a laundry basket in his hands.

  “Oh yeah? Lucky you.” Lucky Mica indeed, Vaughn thought, indulging in a moment’s memory of her naked body, her hands, her mouth. “What are you . . . What are your intentions with her, exactly?”

  Both eyebrows rose as Mica dumped his clean clothes on the far cushion. “Why? You like her?”

  “I do, actually. Not like I have serious feelings, but yeah, I like her. She’s a nice, smart, cool woman, and I know she likes you. I think she probably wants to date you.”

  Mica pulled a pair of jeans from the pile, folded them, set them on the coffee table. “She knows it’s only for the summer.”

  Does she know it might be only for the week? “Just . . . I know you suck at it, but remember she’s got feelings.”

  “I’m not a complete asshole,” Mica said, his stare cool. “If the girl’s eager, it’s because she wants the sex, exactly how it’s been. I haven’t said a thing to her that she could take as a sign that I’m getting serious.”

  That was fair. So why am I so worried?

  Or perhaps more to the point, why did he care so damn much?

  Mica answered for him. “Maybe it’s you who’s losing track of things. Wishing things were more serious than they are.”

  “What?” Which pairing was he even suggesting?

  “You like her,” Mica said, smiling as he rolled a pair of socks, and Vaughn’s muscles relaxed some.

  “Sure,” he allowed. “She’s sexy and I respect her.”

  “And the sex is fucking insane.”

  Like you’d know how to have it any other way. “And that’s all,” Vaughn said, half believing himself.

  “Say the word and I’ll step aside,” Mica said lightly.

  Vaughn rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t work that way with people. A woman’s not like a job we’re both after. You don’t just ‘step aside’ and, like, transfer the deed, you dick.”

  Mica laughed. “Hey, whatever. Just offering.”

  “Anyway, it’s you she likes.” You really don’t get that she’s special, do you? That was so infuriatingly Mica.

  Or wait, no. He probably could tell she was special. Could also probably tell she liked him, maybe even wanted more than he was offering. Mica was right on that cusp now, Vaughn bet, teetering on that divider that separated his need to feel desired and his fear of being expected to step up. He didn’t get that way only with lovers. He’d been that way with certain counselors back in UE, ones who’d set aside their frustration with Mica’s attitude and managed to draw him out some. He’d liked that, Vaughn thought: being seen as somebody worth fighting to get through to. But at a certain point it tipped, and he went cold. He’d done it with the other boys. He’d done it with Vaughn—let him get close, then put up a wall. Why Mica always decided in time to lower the drawbridge for Vaughn, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure. But he had a theory.

  He wants me back. Sexually, maybe romantically. Mica rarely wanted people back, beyond the simplest needs—the entertainment of a friend’s company, and later, the validation and release of a sexual encounter.

  Everything had changed in Arizona, which would have been . . . six years into their friendship, a couple of one-on-one summer trips together before things had taken that blindsiding turn, when Vaughn had been twenty-three.

  He hadn’t seen it coming, but Mica had been planning it for ages.

  It had been tough climbing—the kind both men liked best—way out in the desert. Five days, four nights. Five days of crazy blue, wide skies, four nights filled with more stars than a city kid’s brain could handle. Well, three nights, really. That fourth night, Vaughn’s entire world had broken open. He didn’t remember a single star that evening, but he remembered the feel of his best friend’s mouth around his dick.

  He swallowed, throat and face flushing even now. He’d been steeped in every emotion that night. Fear, relief, curiosity, surprise, and all of it soaked in liquor. He couldn’t taste bourbon now without getting the phantom scent of red clay in his nose, and feeling sweat break out under his arms from what had happened.

  Mica, though. Mica hadn’t been surprised at all. That motherfucker always got what he wanted, after all.

  It had been their final full day of climbing on the trip, hot and dry and bright as the surface of the sun itself. They’d been building up to the most challenging ascent in the area. It was the first and only time Vaughn had seen Mica let down by his own intuition. One second they’d been fine, climbing slow and steady, about level, maybe thirty feet apart. The next—fuck, that sound. A dull, dry crack, then the scrabble of rocks, the swish and chink of Mica’s clothes and gear scraping against the face as he’d fallen.

  Maybe forty feet he’d dropped—the first ten or more straight down, then a wild tumble along a steep slope. Vaughn didn’t even k
now how he’d made the descent, himself. He remembered nothing aside from the sound of his own voice shouting his friend’s name, and the tug of gravity as his feet had hit horizontal rock. He’d already been certified as an EMT by that summer, and he’d rushed to Mica’s side, finding him immobile—winded, though not unconscious.

  And wouldn’t you know it? The asshole had been fine. Scraped up beyond belief, but nothing broken, no concussion, didn’t even need a single stitch. In due time, however, Vaughn had been about ready to give the guy a broken nose.

  It was Mica’s reaction that had gotten to him. He’d caught his breath, checked himself for injuries, got to his feet, and headed straight back to the face, ready for round two. Whereas Vaughn . . . He’d about half died himself, in those few uncertain minutes. He’d mourned his best friend in the twenty paces it had taken to skid to a halt at his side, and been left shaky and wrung out and stoned by the adrenaline long after Mica had proven himself solid. It had fucking traumatized him, while Mica had viewed the whole thing as no more irksome than a stubbed toe.

  Vaughn had grabbed him by the strap of his little day pack and peeled him physically off the face, given him a shove, bellowed something like, What the fuck?

  Mica had been oblivious as always, taken aback by the reaction.

  You got any clue what just nearly happened, man? Vaughn had demanded. You just died. That’s what I thought—that you just fucking died.

  Mica had merely glanced down, patted his ribs and chest, and said, Well, I’m fucking fine.

  You’re fucking crazy, and we’re done for the day. I thought you were dead, asshole. I thought I was going to be carrying your body eight miles back to the fucking car. I thought I was going to have to track down your family and tell them you fucking died. And you want to just keep going? The fuck is wrong with you?

  Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with me, not anything Bactine and some bandages won’t fix. And good fucking luck finding my family—I haven’t talked to Donna in almost two years. Now, it’s our last day out here. If you think I’m not climbing this thing, you’re the crazy one.

  Nobody’s climbing shit, Vaughn had said, and when Mica had turned defiantly back to face the rock, he’d spun him around by the arm and shoved him again, sharp enough to send him back a couple of paces. Mica had returned it, or at least gotten in his face; he couldn’t quite remember. Maybe there’d been a chest punch or two, and it wound up with Vaughn pinning Mica to the rock by his shoulders, holding him there, spitting forgotten, bitter words in his face. He’d relented when Mica’s cheeks had flushed, and an expression Vaughn had never seen his best friend wear flashed across his features. Fear, or rage, or both, together. It had upended him, as had the words Mica had spoken next, deadly calm and icy cold.

  “Get your hands off me.”

  And so thrown by the serious tone and emotion his pathologically laid-back friend had shown, Vaughn had obeyed and let him go. To his relief, Mica hadn’t made to start the climb again. Instead he’d turned and begun hiking back toward camp, and even now Vaughn could remember how red the back of his friend’s tan neck had been.

  They’d called a truce of sorts, called it a wrap on the climbing and on the fight, trading the shoves and shouting for that bottle of bourbon they’d passed back and forth under the shade of a blanket strung between their two tents. The alcohol had cooled Mica’s temper, and in time, Vaughn had asked what all that had been about. Not the fool-ass bullshit of wanting to finish the climb—that was no surprise. But his reaction when Vaughn had pinned him to the rock. Mica had told him, he couldn’t stand feeling restrained. And he’d told him why. From there they’d swapped the more fucked-up moments of their childhoods along with the bottle, and time and drunkenness and the relief of the sun finally slipping down to the horizon had cooled the earlier tension enough to find them laughing, joking about Mica’s brush with death, even.

  And that evening, just as the moon was starting to rise, just as Vaughn had unzipped his tent to lean in and grab a jacket, Mica had made his move. A move he’d wanted to make for two or three years by then, Vaughn later found out.

  “Let me do something for you,” Mica had said.

  “What something?” he’d asked, drunk.

  “Just let me.” He’d said it barely louder than a whisper, and turned. Drunk or not, Vaughn remembered every detail of it. Things had turned sentimental, thanks to the liquor and the ebb of the adrenaline, and thanks in no small part to how fucking relieved he’d felt, having come so close to losing his best friend. The conversation had taken a turn into soft and loaded territory, a soul-baring like they’d had a few times before, during these adventures, but never quite like this.

  Mica hadn’t tried to kiss Vaughn. He’d moved to his knees instead, and in true shameless, fearless Mica fashion, he’d gone right for Vaughn’s belt.

  The fuck you doing? That’s what he’d said—he was sure of every word, even years later. But he hadn’t tried to stop Mica. In that moment, he’d wanted it. He’d been so full of emotions, too many to process, that it had felt right, nearly. Wrong and right at once, and the bourbon had told him, Just give in. He felt more for that man than he’d known you could feel outside of family, outside of romantic love, and as fucked as his head had known it all was, his body had welcomed it.

  And despite how ashamed he’d felt the morning after—and weeks and months later—Vaughn had welcomed those encounters a dozen more times after that. Two or three drunken transgressions per trip, minus the couple of summers when Vaughn had been seeing someone back in Pittsburgh. It had never gone beyond head, and Vaughn had never reciprocated, not beyond a couple of fumbling, furtive hand jobs. He’d thought about taking things further, the idea as scary as it was exciting, but he’d never let it go that far. The things they’d done . . . He’d let that stuff happen. He’d been a passive recipient. Anything more and he’d have been the one doing, and something about that was way too real.

  What they’d done, it was strictly physical. At least it was for Vaughn. He could take it or leave it. It was hot, but to end it eventually would be a relief, in a way.

  Mica, however, wanted more from Vaughn, maybe more than he wanted from anyone else. Vaughn didn’t think Mica was in love with him, but he wanted things he’d been denied by all his guardians—loyalty and patience and empathy. Plus the sex. Whatever that added up to, Vaughn couldn’t say. But it intimidated him.

  Mica also wanted more than he could give. Vaughn valued the friendship, and he succumbed to the sex when the opportunity arose, but they’d never be partners, nor did he wish they could be. In that regard, Vaughn could walk away. Mica surely found that infuriating. Vaughn had power over him. Mica wasn’t used to that.

  So how come I feel so helpless around him half the time? It was all so fucking confusing.

  “I might go to my dad’s,” Vaughn said, checking his pockets for his keys. “Leave you two alone.”

  Mica looked up from his laundry at that, his smile dry. “You know she wants us both. She told me as much.”

  “That was a one-time deal for me. You’re the freaky one.”

  “Tell me that wasn’t the hottest night of your life, you fucking Boy Scout.”

  “It was hot, I’m not denying that. But I’ve felt more,” he fibbed. “When you love somebody, it’s different. A different kind of intense. You ought to try it sometime.” That was all true, and yet . . . that night had been fucking insane.

  “Maybe I have,” Mica said vaguely, stacking his folded clothes in the basket.

  “What do you mean by that?” Vaughn asked.

  Mica stood and headed for the kitchen. “You think I’ve never fucked someone I care about?” he seemed to ask the fridge before disappearing down the hall.

  What in the fuck does that mean? If Mica had ever been in love with a woman, that was news. Or does he mean me?

  If it was the latter, was that a c
onfession, a proclamation? A statement of fact, or a jab, perhaps?

  “You are one goddamn squirrelly motherfucker, you know that?” Vaughn called.

  Down the hall, he heard a door shut.

  Conversation over.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When you love somebody, it’s different. You ought to try it sometime.

  “Fuck you, too,” Mica muttered, hanging up the last of his shirts and leaving the empty basket on the closet floor.

  He wasn’t mad, though. Not really. Anger wasn’t what he was feeling.

  He had to work hard at pinpointing his emotions. A counselor back in his UE days had taught him that about himself, had told him how to scan his body and notice which parts hurt, and use that information to pinpoint what emotion he was feeling.

  It sounded stupid as hell, a person not knowing what they were feeling, but all Mica registered in the heat of a given moment were impulses—varying manifestations of what he’d always taken to be anger. As a kid he’d lash out or run or say something nasty in response, but behind those reactions hid a dozen different feelings, it turned out. If he scanned himself, he could usually figure out which ones. When his throat felt tight, it meant his feelings were hurt, or he felt like he wasn’t being heard or understood. If his head got hot and foggy, it was pure rage. If his whole body went muggy and flushed, he was frustrated.

  The counselor had told him all that, and he’d pretended to not listen, but more than a decade later, and he still used that shit. Daily. It had helped a lot, he could admit that. In the few seconds it took to diagnose what breed of angry or hurt he was feeling, he could get enough of a grip on himself not to react. He’d gone from a hothead to an iceberg in the course of that one summer.

  Iceberg on the outside, volcano on the inside. But it was an improvement. Nobody deserved the power to make him lose his cool. Not anymore. He stuffed all that shit down and focused on the feelings he enjoyed—the rush of adrenaline; the calm of a lazy, squandered afternoon; the tension and then relief of sex. The thrill of not-yet-satisfied lust, maybe more than anything.