Lay It Down

by Cara McKenna

  “I’m close again,” he hissed, eyes shutting tight.

  “Don’t stop. Please.”

  “Fuck.”

  He didn’t, though—didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. And that tension inside her grew, a knot drawing tight, starting to fray.

  “Oh my God.”

  His eyes opened at that, and for a sweet, seconds-long eternity, they were locked in that beautiful, rare space new lovers sometimes occupied. That moment when both partners were struck by the same realization at the same time: This is some seriously hot sex. She saw that in the intensity of his stare, that incredulous dawning, and she was right there with him. His hips sped as her nails dug, as they both went feral in that shared recognition of extraordinary fucking.

  The bed was creaking, one post knocking the wall, their voices a jungle of primal noise. A faint brrrzzz said his phone was ringing again, ignored. He was owning her so roughly, the covers chafed her shoulders, but she didn’t care. Same as he didn’t care what damage her clawing was doing to his ass. Missionary quickie or not, this was the brightest sexual moment of her life—the most awake, the most electric, the most connected she’d ever felt with a man. Most amazing of all, she could see on his face, the feeling was mutual.

  She came so hard, her back curled up off the blanket, face seeking his neck, fingertips dug into his flesh. As the sensation peeled back, she wanted to beg for respite, but it was too late—he was right behind her, pounding gracelessly, thrusting with the unstoppable, tight urgency of orgasm.

  A rough push drove him deep, his hip bone grinding too sharply against hers, but a second later he went still and slack, that heavy body propped on strong arms. His chest heaved in time with racing breaths, and there was no mistaking it—he’d just had his mind blown. Kim could’ve come a second time from the ego-stroking alone.

  With a stuporous “Goddamn,” he reached between them, pinching the condom in place as he slid out. God knew what he did with the thing, but after he leaned over the edge of the bed, it was gone, and he flopped beside her with a huff.

  The first time they’d been together, she’d have withheld some praise, thinking he was self-satisfied enough already. Not today, though.

  “I’ve never come like that,” she told the ceiling.

  He laughed. “Like what?”

  “I dunno. Like that. Without touching myself. Deep inside like that.”

  “I find your G-spot?”

  “Jesus, I dunno. Maybe.” She giggled, feeling drunk. Feeling like the kind of girl who giggled. “It would explain what all the fuss is about.”

  After a deep breath he said, “That was . . .”

  She nodded, hair mussing against the pillow. “Yeah. It was.”

  Without their eyes even meeting, his fingers found hers between their hips, twining lazily. They fell silent, Kim drifting into dreamy, freshly laid thoughts, and batting away the odd intrusion of real-life stress each time her memory tried to poke her with replays of yesterday’s darker moments.

  She thought Vince might nod off, as men did in situations like this, but after a few minutes she sensed his deep, slow breaths changing, growing taut. The shallow sounds of a man with heavy worries on his mind. Guess he wasn’t doing much better, keeping the darkness at bay.

  She thumped their linked hands against the blankets. “What?”

  “What, what?”

  “I can tell something’s on your mind. Something aside from, ‘Damn, Kim is so awesome at doing sex.’ And any thought besides that is unacceptable.”

  But before he could speak—

  Brrrzzzz . . .

  “Get it,” she told him. “It might be Casey or Miah, with questions. Or Nita, about your mom.”

  And he left the bed to fish the phone out of his jacket. “Not a call—a text.”

  “What’s it say?”

  His eyes scanned the lit screen. “Huh.”

  “Huh?”

  “Get dressed, sweetheart. We gotta head to town.”

  Chapter 22

  As he turned onto Station Street, Duncan’s headache officially graduated to a migraine.

  He’d awoken with one, as well as a gnawing sensation in his gut, the physical accomplice to an emotion he’d not experienced for a long time—doubt.

  Worry he was used to. Panic, even. They were familiar as roommates, but uncertainty was a stranger. Second-guessing oneself was a foreign sensation, not suffered often by the pathologically self-important, which was what Duncan knew himself to be. It fit like a bad suit, and he’d made it until lunchtime before giving in to the nagging questions.

  Duncan couldn’t say why he’d done what he had that afternoon—made those phone calls, abused his position, gotten himself this spun up, and seemingly only in the name of curiosity. It wasn’t his job, wasn’t any of his personal concern . . . Maybe because he couldn’t get that mantra out of his head, those five disturbing letters told to him secondhand by Vince Grossier, spoken by Deputy Dunn, allegedly.

  Bones.

  Allegedly, always allegedly. Still, that curiosity was a bully . . . Curiosity, or perhaps a deep-seated, visceral unease at the possibility of some anonymous person’s remains going overlooked—forgotten, discarded. Some tiresome psychological rubbish he probably ought to unpack with his therapist, when he got back to California. Whatever the reason, he’d gotten nosy. And that nosiness had only rewarded him with yet more uncertainty, more questions, and the anxiety attack he was flirting with now.

  He parked in the farthest corner of the Benji’s lot, no longer surprised to find himself here, mismatched though he and the bar unquestionably were.

  The Klonopin had become little more effective than Tic Tacs of late, but he grabbed the bottle from the console and swallowed two, knowing he’d feel something if he spurred them with alcohol. Christ, how maddening it was that he could control so much of his external world, yet his own goddamn brain chemicals eluded him.

  He locked the car and strode for the entrance, ignoring the stares of the smokers gathered there. He jerked the screen door open, and his belly gave a funny, now-familiar jolt as he spotted Raina.

  She wasn’t alone this afternoon. A short, plump brunette with the sweet face of a cherub was beside her, nodding as Raina explained whatever she was doing with the register. A trainee.

  Duncan claimed a free stool and fished a ten out of his wallet, hands shaking faintly.

  Raina smiled as she neared, wiping down the counter. A hundred dollars said she knew exactly what the task did to her cleavage, though just now, Duncan couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the show.

  “You’re becoming quite the regular, aren’t you, Duncan Welch?”

  “You’re the only game in town, if you didn’t know.” He enjoyed their verbal fencing, but even he could hear the off-pitch quality to his voice. He kept his tone level, willed himself to relax. He gave the new girl a polite nod. “You have a protégée, I see.”

  “She came in asking for an application,” Raina said. “I asked what she was doing tonight. I could use a couple evenings off a week—I do tattooing on the side, and it pays better than this bullshit.” To her trainee, Raina said, “Absolut and tonic.”

  “Double,” Duncan cut in.

  “No ice. Lemon or lime—your choice,” Raina added, speaking to the girl but looking at Duncan.

  What was that look saying? Something not entirely innocent. Though nothing about Raina Harper struck him as innocent. The pair of these women together in one space was quite comical. All the new girl needed was a set of angel wings, and Raina a pitchfork to match her horns.

  Raina moved away and said something quietly to her colleague, an instruction Duncan wasn’t meant to hear. Probably warning the girl that he was a judgmental prick with a stick up his rectum, but deal with it—he tipped like he couldn’t tell a one from a ten.

  Not as if the prick bit wasn’t true. And frankly more flattering than the assessment of anyone who actually knew Duncan. Thankfully no one did actually know him. The
depths of his defects were his secret to suffer. A little corner of his heart went dark at the thought, and the need for a drink deepened.

  The new girl set the V and T before him, centering it carefully on a napkin. She tucked a red stir stick into it, despite the lack of any ice to shuttle around. He twirled it and smiled his thanks as she took his money to make the change he’d be leaving on the wood.

  He watched the women for long enough to drain his glass, and long enough to try Grossier’s phone three more times, with no luck. He sent a text, though it seemed silly to imagine that Neanderthal receiving such a thing.

  Have a development to discuss. Call, or find me at the bar ASAP.

  Finally, the vodka and Klonopin mingled in his gray matter, the buzz smearing Vaseline on his anxieties, chased by a rare side of sentimentality.

  He tried to guess what this place might look like three years from now—one year after the Eclipse was scheduled to open. He eyed Raina. For all the contempt they swapped like valentines, he hoped she’d wind up with a nice buyout offer. Sunnyside had already done the bulk of its bargain shopping, and acreage was their game—land for possible additional development, should the casino exceed expectations. If this town became a major destination, the expansion possibilities were ripe—dude ranch, amusement park, megamall. But the smaller-picture retail and restaurant scouts would arrive soon. Duncan could easily imagine Raina getting courted by some upscale steak house operation looking for ready-made rusticity. If she played her cards right and held out long enough, she could retire next year. Barring outstanding debts.

  She came around with his usual drink, unbidden, and he felt warm inside to think this meant she’d been monitoring him right back.

  Get a grip. That’s her job.

  “Ten bucks.”

  Large drink, even for a double. He lifted it, a sniff confirming it had to be roughly three parts vodka, one part tonic. He felt forty pounds lighter from the two pills and two shots already. This one might send him floating off on a stiff breeze.

  Sounded like just the ticket, though. Bad idea, but those danced around this woman like fireflies. He pulled a twenty from his wallet, keeping up his gratuity average of one hundred percent when he refused her change.

  Raina tossed the bills in the pickle jar by the register. “You tip better than a tiny-dicked stockbroker at a strip club.”

  “I hope you don’t speak from experience.”

  She smiled at that, filling someone’s pitcher. “Why’s that? You think I’m too good for it or something?”

  Why indeed? Because, frankly, he didn’t relish other men’s eyes on her body. Which was bizarre, as he’d not seen the particulars himself. “It’d be a waste of your rousing repartee, that’s all.”

  A low, curt laugh, nothing like those boisterous ones that had grated on him, once upon a time this past weekend. “Have I roused you, Duncan?”

  “Positively intoxicating,” he said, and took a demonstrative sip of his flammable cocktail.

  “It’s in the job description.”

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  Another smile, all mean and sharp and admittedly quite alluring. “Possibly.”

  “Oh? And what exactly are you expecting to get out of me?” he asked, every hardwired human impulse firing at once. Too much to hope for that her goal was as simple as sex. Plus, sex was rarely simple. Not the way Duncan liked it, anyhow.

  “Tips?” she offered innocently.

  “You know you don’t need to try. What else?”

  “I’m hurt that you don’t seem to trust me, Duncan.”

  “I trust you even less than I trust my dick right now.” Which was mathematically impossible, it felt. And Christ, he’d said that aloud . . . though he felt far more scandalized than Raina sounded.

  “And here I’d had you pegged as cold-blooded.” She asked lightly, “So, what’s your dick telling you to do?”

  She made him crazy when she used that evil, patronizing voice. Got his blood coursing too hot and too fast for a cool, steady man’s liking. He’d only ever dated women who complemented his dress sense—stylish and classic, a touch muted. Beautiful but terrifically dull, as company went. If a typical lover of Duncan’s was as understated as a strand of pearls, Raina was a punch in the teeth. Made him want to lick his lip and taste blood.

  He countered her tone with a cruel smile, one that said he wouldn’t mind using the aforementioned dick to quiet her infuriating mouth. The meds were letting him be this way, switching off his filters. Goddamn, it felt good. Like speeding, he bet. Not that he’d know—he’d never gone faster than eighty in his life.

  He wanted her to keep talking. He wanted her cutting words. Wanted her ass on a barstool, thighs spread. Wanted to be deep inside her, wanted his hands white-knuckled, gripping the edge of the counter for leverage. Wanted that mocking voice, those lips right up against his throat, boiling his blood as he owned her body. That all you got, Duncan?

  As he banished the image, the bar rematerialized, and he found her smiling her mean little Raina Harper smile.

  He told her quietly, “You’re a terrible influence.”

  “That’s what all the boys’ mothers say.”

  “Tell me—what are you trying to get out of me?” Was it as innocent as a reaction? Was this cat not satisfied to toy with mere mice—she had to take a swipe at a cobra to get her kicks? Easy enough. This cobra was drunk, spitting vodka, not venom.

  She rubbed her fingertips over the scuffed bar. “I’m not a fan of the casino. And by proxy, that means I’m not a big fans of yours. Outrageous tips notwithstanding.”

  “I’m hurt.”

  “Shady shit’s afoot.”

  Duncan’s blood cooled, a touch of sobriety returning as he remembered what he’d discovered just hours ago. “Agreed.”

  “And I’m from here,” she said. “I know shady. But something smells wrong, lately. And the rot’s coming from the casino.”

  “The rot?”

  “Makes me wonder what a man like you needs a gallon jug of bleach for, Duncan.”

  That landed like a kick in the gut. His brows rose, a hair-thin crack flashing down the length of his cool veneer. Fuck. He’d been careless. Couldn’t have waited until it was dark out, could you? Had to go marching about with that rubbish in the bright light of day. “I couldn’t begin to guess what you’re implying.”

  “I couldn’t begin to guess what you’re disinfecting in your motel room,” she countered.

  He hid the shiver that ran through him at those words. “So you’re following me, now? Have I intrigued you that much?”

  “Not me. But it’s a small town.”

  Raina was a cool interrogator, in no hurry whatsoever. She slid his full glass a little closer to his hands. “That why you keep coming here?” she asked, leaning in close. “Have you got some deep, dark secret inside you that needs nightly sterilizing?”

  “These questions say more about you than they do about me.” Which was true. Did they say that she was paranoid? No. They said she was smarter than he’d guessed. Or smarter than she liked outsiders to realize. Shit, he’d been sloppy. And he loathed sloppiness.

  To his surprise, she backed off. She stood up straight, taking that dark hair away, the view down her shirt, the smell of her; the swarming bees’ nest of tension that buzzed around the two of them, that promise of barbs and honey.

  “I told you the first night you came into my bar, be careful. I trust you about as far as it would take to kiss you.”

  Three feet, then, Duncan estimated, imagining such a thing.

  “If you’ve had any hand in cleaning up some stain the casino or the contractors don’t want found, just know there’s people in this town whose justice would leave you crippled.”

  “You mean Grossier.”

  Another saccharine smile. “You make a girl feel left out.”

  “I’m here to do my job, nothing more. No deeds, bad or good or otherwise.” This afternoon’s activities
aside. “I’m a lawyer,” Duncan concluded evenly. “One with very white shirts.”

  “And I’m just a bartender.” She opened the washer, steam flushing her face, and deftly nested clean glasses into towers.

  “I’ve been trying to get ahold of your charming friend Vincent Grossier all afternoon,” Duncan said. “I daresay I’ve done well by him, in fact.”

  “Good. Then I daresay he probably won’t rearrange your pretty face,” Raina said sweetly.

  Duncan was feeling overheated from the alcohol and the pills and the cross-examination and the lust, and he shed his suit jacket, draping it over the next stool. Raina watched him, and a smile of pure amusement curled her wide lips, climaxing in a little laugh.

  “What?” he asked.

  She leaned over the bar, way over, and gave his suspenders smart, twin snaps against his pressed shirt.

  “That is just too you,” she said, sounding delighted as she dropped back on her heels.

  “You presume to know me?”

  “Suspenders? Really?”

  He straightened them. “It’s a classic look.”

  She snorted, but the final glance she cast him was unmistakably approving. Made his pulse stir. Made him imagine those forward hands of hers peeling the suspenders right off his shoulders, ruining his shirt with a button-culling yank. She’d strip him like the guard off a champagne bottle and drain him dry.

  And God help him, in this state, he’d let her.

  • • •

  Vince knocked his kickstand down as Kim’s pleasant, warm weight left his back. It made the evening feel ten degrees cooler, with her even an arm’s length away from him. He was tempted to take her hand as they headed toward the bar’s entrance, and not just because he knew she was nervous—after all, they’d come here hoping she’d lock eyes with one of the two men she’d overheard at the creek. But as much as he wanted to ease her worries, he wanted other, equally tender things just as bad. To hold her, even if it was his palm against hers. To tell every man in the place, She’s mine. Crazy.