by Nora Flite
A kiss. Fucking hell. Was I really mooning over one of a thousand pairs of lips? Yeah, it had happened under a perfect starry night in a rose-filled garden, but harping over those little details was something a wannabe pretty princess did. Not me, and probably not Sammy, either.
She was a no-nonsense kind of woman, even if she did reek of high-end prissy New York City life. Spending time with her as her guard slipped, more and more of her genuine, hard-edge, ball-busting, heart-of-Rhode-Island attitude slipped out.
No, she wasn’t the fairies and glitter type.
Not at all.
Sammy walked around the corner, sparkling high heels swinging in her hand. My heart pulled side to side; I wanted to laugh. I could have rolled on the floor and made the whole room stare at me.
She spotted me. Her rich green eyes flipped from uncertainty to molten lava. It was the sort of look reserved for roadkill stuck to the tires of your brand-new Corvette. Pulling her dress layers over her full hips, she spun to face the thick man behind the front desk.
“Hey,” she said. It took him a minute to look up from his newspaper. “I need my things.”
Yawning, the cop raked his bored eyes over her. “Name?”
“Sammy Sage.”
The plastic box he dropped on the counter contained a purse, some earrings, and a cell phone. He pushed some yellow papers at her as well. “Your car was taken to an impound lot, info is on there.”
Sammy dug through everything, shoving the items into her purse. “Excuse me.” Tapping the counter, she waited until the large man was staring at her again. He looked as uninterested as ever. “There’s some stuff missing.”
“What stuff?”
“Two checks, both made out to me.”
His face remained frozen. “Confiscated.”
When I saw her pretty features twisting, I felt a stab of guilt. “Why would they be confiscated?”
“They’re part of an ongoing investigation.” Shrugging made his jowls shake. “Sorry, ma’am. Until someone decides they’re clean, you can’t have them back.”
Bristling, she took a deep breath . . . and then she just rubbed between her eyes. “Fine.”
She took that well. I changed my opinion the second she faced me. Every bit of rage she’d muted for the clerk, she was pointedly stabbing at me with it. “Jail was kind to you,” I said with a half smile. “You didn’t even get any pen-cap tattoos. Or are they just hidden somewhere sweet?”
Sammy adjusted her dress as she turned pink. “I didn’t want to see your face again. But now that you’re here . . . I’ve got some things to say.”
Pushing off the bench, I stuck my hands in my pockets and wandered closer. We stood in a way that seemed casual, but I was intentionally blocking the one exit out of the station. She had things to say? So did I. “Sammy, listen. I’m sorry as hell about what happened this morning. It was all a misunderstanding.”
She looked me up and down. “Everything the detective said to me, was it a lie?”
My smile cracked just a hair. “I don’t know what he said. I wasn’t in there.”
“But you do know.” Her head tilted, sending a cascade of disheveled hair down her elegant neck. “It’s in your face. You’re too comfortable in here. This isn’t your first time getting arrested.”
Ah, shit. “Sammy, whatever Detective Office Space said back there, it doesn’t matter. That’s why you’re walking out, and why I’m walking out.” Leaning closer, I took a quick, short breath. Even with sticky sweat on her, Sammy smelled intoxicating. “Give me a chance.”
“I’ve got something else I’d love to give you,” she grumbled. “You’re lucky my father raised me so well.” Her hand fisted at her side, clenching and releasing over and over.
“Are you thinking about punching me? Careful, I love tough women.” I couldn’t stop my grin. “So your dad taught you manners, huh? Is he also the one to thank for your good looks, or is that your mom? Either way, I’d definitely like to shake his hand.”
Sammy’s eyebrow twitched. “Get out of my way.”
Turning sideways, I motioned with my arms. “Sweetheart, you’ve got all the right in the world to walk out of here. But I think you’ll want to listen to what I—hey!”
She’d lowered her chin and passed me by so fast that the air stirred the fringes of my hair. Weren’t people supposed to let you finish a sentence? “Just hold up!” I followed her out into the early afternoon. “Sammy, hear me out! I’m trying to explain what went wrong back there!”
Pulling up short, she whirled on me. “What went wrong was me letting myself get mixed up with you.”
I knew not to do it, but . . . sometimes, I don’t know why I do the things I do. I was a secret to even myself. “Think about what a story it’ll make for our kids.”
The edges of her eyes filled with fine lines: steel swords aiming right at me. “You’re such a jackass.” Shit! Why couldn’t I resist making stupid jokes? “Sammy, wait!” Laughing to ease the mood, I followed her as she walked along the chain-link fence with her phone in hand. The front of the police station was quiet, cars shining in their parked spots. “Seriously, I’m sorry. Let me explain myself. I’m not a bad guy, honestly.”
“You really want to explain what happened?” Without facing away from her darkened phone, she glanced at me. “Why did Francesca’s wedding get raided?”
“Because some asswipe or asswipes, plural, are jealous of my family. You saw my estate, is that so far-fetched?”
She gave me a blank look. “I got dragged into a jail cell and humiliated, and you want me to believe it’s because some random person or persons,” she pulled the word out, “are jealous? Nope. Wrong answer.”
“Come on,” I said, tracking after her toward the road. “Where are you going now?”
Waving her phone, she tapped at it. “I’m getting a taxi back to my car. They said they towed it nearby.”
I was getting ready to think of another way to keep this startling woman from exiting my life completely. As I watched her expression fall, her fingers poking frantically at her phone, I found one. “It’s dead, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t get to charge it last night because . . .” Blushing, she eyed me, then her phone again.
Because you were fucking me until you passed out. I didn’t say it, she was pissed enough at me. “Let me give you a ride.”
“How? Didn’t they tow your motorcycle, too?”
“My brother brought it here, so I could leave when I was ready.” Jerking my thumb, I indicated the stretch of sidewalk up the street. My bike was shining under the orange sun.
Sammy looked from me to her phone, then back again. Finally, she cupped her cheeks and gave a dramatic groan so loud that the police officer sitting by the front doors sat up like she’d pointed a gun at him. She bent over, head between her knees.
“Are you okay?” I asked, reaching for her.
Before I made contact, Sammy unfurled so quick that her back cracked, her hair finally flying free of the last of the woven wedding design. “Fuck me!” She laughed at the sky. “Can things really never go my way?”
“They can at least go to the impound lot,” I said. Sammy studied me, looking me over like I was some demonic creature she’d unearthed. I did my best to smile reassuringly.
Eyeing my bike, she next looked down at her purse. Carefully, she wove the strap through the loops of the high heels, giving them a place to hang. “Okay. I’ll let you give me a ride.”
A surprisingly airy flutter swam from my toes to my throat. It forced my voice to come out lighter than usual. “Then let’s get out of here.”
She held me like I was the only thing keeping her on the planet. It was a grip reserved for lovers or, in her case, people who had never been on a motorcycle before.
I didn’t have a spare helmet, so I’d forced her to wear mine while I went without. My father would have praised me while my mother would have cracked me upside my temple for choosing someone’s safety over my
own.
But she wasn’t here.
And Sammy was.
I mean that. Sammy was here, right here in the moment. Fear is the perfect divider for separating you from your fucked-up thoughts. When you think you might die, clarity shows through better than black clouds on a red sky.
Riding my bike didn’t scare me, though, so unlike her . . . I wasn’t free. My skull rampaged with the hoofbeats of my thoughts. Is helping her all right? Does this make any sense? Will Hawthorne care that I’m not at the club yet? Will my father? And Francesca . . . how is she holding up? Shouldn’t I be spending time with her instead?
Twins have connections deeper than blood.
My engine crackled, gravel flying away from my front tire as I pulled up outside the impound lot. The metal beast purred between my thighs, then it went silent. “Here we are,” I said, twisting to look at Sammy.
Inch by inch, she eased her hands off my middle. They were bent like claws, clearly cramped. I missed them instantly. When she pulled the helmet off, her hair fell from it in tangled strands.
The sight of her stunned face—wide lips, sparkling eyes, and tomato cheeks—made my cock jump as quickly as my heart. It was a confusing sensation that left me dizzy; did I have enough blood in my body to endure two demanding parts of me at once?
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She focused on me, blinking. “I know how it feels to be a cannonball.”
Laughter exploded from me. “That’s one way to describe it.” My hand came up, stroking hair from her forehead before I could stop myself. We touched through our skin . . . but it was more than that.
Heat plucked at the base of my neck. I couldn’t stop how my brushing fingertips became a firm palm cupping her cheek. My mouth tingled; I knew how she’d taste, I wanted to experience her soft lips as they buzzed with the last of her adrenaline.
Sammy started to lean in. In the blackness of her dilating pupils, I saw my half-open mouth. She must have seen her own expression in my eyes, too. My thumb grazed the corner of her lips; her hand closed on mine, pushing me away.
“Come on,” she said, leaving the helmet on the seat. “Let’s go.”
Recovering from the rejection, I followed her down. Her bare feet touched the hot gravel, but it was her bones—still vibrating with the violence of my bike—that gave up. Sammy buckled sideways, her dress flipping upward as her face crashed straight toward the ground.
Faster than I had any right to be . . . but I just needed to be . . . I caught her by her elbow. It was like the other day in my driveway all over again. We were tangled dancers, and while no one had seen us yesterday, a confused impound worker gawked at us now.
Gentle as a breeze, I scooped her up in my arms. Sammy gasped, which was good, because it muted my subtle groan. Holding her against me was pure pleasure. Her weight was perfect, just enough to keep me grounded so I wouldn’t float into the heavens.
“Kain, put me down.”
“Nope. Have you seen this place?” Stepping over rocks and broken glass, I headed for the gate. “You don’t want to put those heels back on, that’s fine. But if you try to step on this shit with your silky feet, you’ll be seeing blood.”
“My silky feet? Jeez, don’t tell me you have a foot fetish.”
Chuckling, I spoke into her ear. “Was I rubbing your feet last night or your pussy?”
Her mouth went white and tight.
The man waiting by the gate stood up like we were royalty coming his way. He had no clue that one of us actually was. “Hey there,” I said, squinting at his name tag. “. . . Larry. My lady friend here has a car she needs to grab. Show him the paperwork, Sammy.”
Pulling her purse into her lap, she fumbled the yellow papers out, handing them over. The young man took them hesitantly, saying, “Uh, all right. Give me your key, I’ll go grab it.”
Sammy gave them up, then we both watched as Larry trucked off across the giant lot of vehicles. It was like a graveyard for cars, their bodies in various degrees of decay.
The wind kicked dust up, and on instinct, I shielded Sammy from it. Doing so pushed my face close to the top of her head. Hair strands tickled my cheeks, a sensation as nice as her fingers would have been on the small of my back.
“Kain,” she whispered.
My veins quickened. “Yeah?”
“After this . . . I don’t want to see you again.”
I wasn’t ready for the torrent of brackish ice that slammed through my ribs. I couldn’t see her face; was she serious? And what was I supposed to say to that? When I’d hooked up with Sammy, I’d expected to have to turn her away later.
When was the last time someone had turned me down?
Larry drove her car up to the gate. The second he stepped out, she jumped free of my arms. It looked like some twisted apocalyptic scene: Sammy in her dirty but clearly fancy dress, her hair flying in the hot wind.
She ducked into the driver’s seat, giving Larry just enough time to move before she peeled out through the gate. Sand billowed as she passed me—and then she pulled up short, the brakes squeaking.
Her window slid down; I approached, still unsure what to do. “Here,” she said, holding something out to me.
Grabbing the glittery heels, I stared from them to her. “Sammy—”
She jerked forward, driving off onto the road and taking the corner in a sharp swing. Just like that, Sammy was gone. There was no fanfare, no long good-byes. I didn’t get to argue my case or explain my family. None of it.
Larry stepped beside me, watching with me in the moment of silence. “Why did she give you her shoes?” he asked. “Was she Cinderella or some shit?”
His words made me laugh, and that felt good—that release was what I needed.
“Yeah. I think she was.”
Have you ever smelled stripper ass?
It’s not a bad smell. It’s just a memorable one. It’s the kind of thing no girl can recreate outside of the club, you only wear it if you’re the sort who’s busy taking off her panties and shaking it for her rent.
My eyes took a second adjusting to the dimness. Reno, by the door, nodded at me. I didn’t have to pay a cover; my family owned the Dirty Dolls, among other strip clubs. The place was huge, the second-floor balcony situated above so that you could see straight down to the stages below.
If you stood at the top rail you could watch the few girls capable of climbing to the top of the poles doing their tricks right in front of you. You could wonder why they’d risk their damn lives doing upside-down contortions when most of the money was made by hustling for lap dances—and it was a whole lot safer.
Strippers don’t get health insurance.
Walking past the bar, I brushed off the onslaught of each and every dancer. They all knew me, so you’d think by now they’d realize I didn’t buy dances. Maybe they just wanted to stroke my ego in the hope I’d reward them with the kind of favor only powerful people are capable of.
The man sitting sprawled out on a wide couch by the stage wasn’t easy to miss. There were three strippers sitting beside him. They swooned and giggled and tried to rub against him, but I knew my brother. Hawthorne was much like me.
Maybe we’d sleep with a girl if she was our type . . .
But we’d never waste our time with a lap dance.
He’d left various stacks of bills beside him and scattered on the floor; the girls were stuffing them all over their bodies as I approached. “Hey, man,” I said, leaning against the edge of the couch.
His black eyes jumped to me. “What the fuck took you so long?”
“Chill. I just had some stuff to take care of.”
Hawthorne sat up, eyeing me in the subtle way he was good at. “Shit. Were you with that girl?”
Rubbing the side of my head, I didn’t deny it. “Just gave her a ride to her car.”
“We have too much going on to mix in unknowns.”
“She’s not dangerous.”
“No?” Hawthorne cut a hand out i
n front of him so sharply and suddenly it made the dancers lean away nervously. “We don’t know who the hell the mole was. Someone at that wedding told the cops where to look for our goods, and it’s a fucking miracle that Dad was in the middle of shipping things out so we didn’t get caught.”
It did feel like we lucked out, but . . . “Someone stirred stuff up, but come on. Sammy makes dresses.”
Shaking his head, my brother straightened out the tight, dark red shirt he had on. It showed off his muscles the same way mine did, though his tattoos were less obvious. He was a fan of the yakuza, and his tats remained just beyond of the edges of his cuffs and collar. Beneath, he was a sprawling mass of ink.
I wanted to explain myself further—who was he to judge me—but the DJ’s voice boomed over the music. “All right, gentlemen! Top of the hour, time for our new set! Here’s Gina, Rosey, and Melina!”
The new girls took their spots on the stage. I looked on as the glimmering bodies gyrated, asses bouncing and tits swinging. If I’d had any doubt, I knew it now. Sammy Sage was more interesting to me than any other woman. Nothing was better than a strip club to prove it, though I was sure no one else would think that was romantic.
But Sammy wanted nothing to do with me. She’d decided I was bad news, and honestly, she wasn’t wrong.
I didn’t blame her . . . I was just determined to change her mind.
A waitress swung our way. She was a cute thing, her blonde hair long and smooth down her back. The corner of her nose had one of those tiny piercings. “Drinks?” she asked, peering between me and my brother. “Anything for you, Thorne?”
“Nah,” he said, smiling so his teeth showed. “I’m good, Scotch.”
I had to look twice to make sure I’d heard right. But there, stitched into the right side of her figure-hugging top, was the name Scotch. It had to be a fake name, which, among the array of strippers called Swanky and Sensual, wasn’t so strange. She gave me a quick smile before she strolled off to manage the crowd.
“Listen,” Hawthorne said, motioning for everyone else to go. Once we were alone, I sat beside him on the couch. “Felt and Robert are digging around to find out who ratted on us. They knew where our guns were stored, that means they spent time at our home. Dad thinks it was one of the Deep Shots.”
