Hailey fake-pouts for the rest of the shift, and I let her. I’m not about to give in, so she can just live with it. Tonight’s the last night I’m helping her close the shop before she tries doing it by herself. As eight o’clock nears, I can’t help but sneak glances out the window, wondering whether Gavin will show up. Even though my pulse begins to race at the thought, I know I’ll never get Hailey off my back if he does.
In the end, he doesn’t come by. I’m both relieved and disappointed. Hailey’s mom comes to pick her up, and I lock the shop and go out the back. Even though Gavin isn’t here, I guess his badgering at me to be careful has had an effect on me, because I notice I’m ultra-cautious and aware of my surroundings as I go to my car and lock myself in.
I’m driving back to my place when my phone buzzes in my purse, telling me I have a text. My stomach does a little flip of excitement, even though I know it can’t be him. He doesn’t have my phone number, and I don’t have his.
The euphoric cloud I’ve been floating on for the past few hours dips a little as I remember that Gavin and I are basically nothing to each other. His weird preoccupation with the security level of my coffee shop notwithstanding, we’re more or less strangers. And that’s fine, I tell myself emphatically. You don’t need him to be your boyfriend. In fact, you don’t even want a boyfriend, remember?
When I get home and turn off my car, it’s as if the fates had taken it upon themselves to remind me exactly why I don’t want a boyfriend. I pull out my phone to discover that the text I got is from Devon.
U will b fuckin sorry u whore better watch urslef i know wehre u live
I have to sit in my locked car and force myself to breathe deeply and evenly. My hands clutching the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. He found my new number, my brain repeats crazily. He found my new number. He’s not letting this go.
When I manage to get my breathing under control, I flick my eyes briefly back to my phone again, and then grip my keys with my pepper spray tightly in my hand. My house looks undisturbed, all the lights off except the one on my front porch.
I try to talk myself out of the prickles of fear tingling on the back of my neck. From the mistakes in the text, it looks like he might have been drinking, or maybe even on something stronger. So maybe he’s just drunk and lashing out at me to make himself feel better. Besides, as I’ve told myself before, if he really was coming after me, why would he tell me about it? Why wouldn’t he want to take me by surprise? It doesn’t make sense.
He just doesn’t like losing. He’s just doing this as a display of power so he can feel like a big man. That’s all it is. He’s mad, but he wouldn’t hurt me.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I have to admit, though, it makes me feel a whole lot safer to have all the security stuff Gavin installed at the coffee shop. Not that I’d tell him that, of course. I smile in spite of myself, instinctively knowing that he’d never let me live it down if I did.
Like the first time, I don’t respond to Devon’s text. I can’t see the point. Instead, I toss my phone on the couch and double-check that my door is locked and dead-bolted. Then I do a nerve-wracking check of the entire house to make sure no one’s here, tell myself off for being such a ninny, and go in the bathroom to take a long, hot shower.
When I come out, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, I see that my screen is lit up with another text. My stomach lurches sickeningly at the thought that Devon’s messaged me again, but I force myself to pick up the phone and read what it says.
Missed you at the coffee shop tonight.
A dizzying rush of adrenaline spikes through my system, making me feel like I might throw up. Shit! Devon’s here in Tanner Springs? He knows where the shop is? My mind races frantically — trying to think what I should do, what I should say — when I realize with a start that the text is all alone on the screen.
And that the area code is for Tanner Springs, not New Jersey.
Weakly, I slump down on the couch and actually start laughing with relief.
I text back:
You can’t come there every single night to guard me and escort me home, you know.
A couple of seconds later comes the response:
Wanna bet?
I’m trying to think of a smartass reply when Gavin sends me another message:
So, you’re not dead, which is positive. You make it home safe?
Yes, I’m fine. How did you get my phone number?
I’m a man of mystery.
Apparently.
For some reason, I’m grinning like an idiot as I watch the little dots dance on the screen, telling me he’s typing.
I’ve got some shit going on tonight, but I’ll stop by the shop tomorrow. I have a present for you.
I risk a reference to earlier today:
Is it as romantic as a security camera?
A second later he replies:
Babe, you have no idea. See you tomorrow.
I just barely hold myself back from typing a response to him, because I know it will probably come out all super-dorky and overly attached and just plain uncool. Instead, I tell myself that leaving it like that will make me seem casual and self-assured and not reading too much into any of this.
Which is what I desperately want to be.
The sex this afternoon in my office with Gavin was absolutely incredible, so much so that I would pretty much do anything short of murder to do it again. And I’m really, really hoping we do. But I also don’t want to let myself start overthinking it. He’s not exactly someone who screams “boyfriend material,” after all. If anything, he’s probably the kind of guy that probably has mind-melting sex with random women most days of the week.
Thinking this now, I have to ignore a little flush of disappointment. Maybe he just thinks of me as… I dunno, an easy lay, or something. Stop that, Syd. Don’t be stupidly sexist. You’re both consenting adults. He wanted it, you wanted it, so it happened. End of story.
And that’s true, right? It seems like maybe he wants to continue whatever this thing is, and even that he likes me enough to find out my number somehow and apparently to bring me a present tomorrow. I should just be happy with that, and be happy that for at least a little while it looks like I’m gonna be having amazing sex. Where’s the downside in that?
Armed with this incredibly air-tight logic, I decide to make an early night of it and get to the shop bright and early tomorrow. I pull my still-damp hair into a high ponytail and put it in a loose braid, smiling to myself. Soon, though, my thoughts wander back to Devon. In all the excitement of flirting with Gavin, I’d almost forgotten about him for a few minutes.
He said he knows where I live.
Could he be serious? Could he really be thinking about coming here?
I try to tell myself again that there’s probably no reason to be worried. I mean, yes, it is a little concerning that he’s sending me menacing messages. Devon and I didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. But it still seems like an overreaction to think they’re anything more than empty threats. After all, the money I took (my money, I remind myself fiercely) was chicken feed compared to the kind of cash he usually deals in. I don’t know why he’d bother following me to try to get it back, when logically it’s not worth the time he’d be away from Atlantic City.
All this time that I’ve been going back and forth in my mind about Devon, there’s a tiny voice in my head that keeps growing louder. I’ve been pushing it away, but it’s clamoring to be heard, and finally I can’t ignore it anymore.
You know what Devon wanted from you went far beyond just the money you could make him. You know he doesn’t let go easily of what he thinks of as his.
I shiver, and pull my bathrobe more tightly around me.
That may be true. Maybe I underestimated how attached Devon was to me romantically. Our affair was never something I thought of as permanent. I just assumed he felt the same. Or maybe I just hoped that was how he felt. If I’m completely hones
t with myself, sometimes Devon’s proprietary attitude toward me veered toward the controlling, especially when he thought one of the other men on our team was getting too friendly with me.
Still, it seems crazy that he would come all the way here to hurt me. I can’t have been that important to him. And besides, in all the time I knew Devon, he was never violent toward me.
No, a little voice in my head says. But he was violent toward other people. Particularly when he felt like he had something to prove.
It’s true. The only times I ever saw Devon hurt someone was when he was cornered. When he’s in serious trouble, he reacts like a caged animal. Unpredictable and dangerous.
A little cold knot takes root in my stomach.
Has something happened? What has Devon gotten himself into?
And is he really coming for me?
19
Brick
The party we have to celebrate patching in Bullet and Lug Nut is a fucking blowout, so much so that I don’t drag my ass up to my apartment at the clubhouse to get some sleep until close to four a.m. But I still manage to pull myself out of bed the next morning and head over to the Golden Cup with my present for Sydney.
When I get to the coffee shop, she’s just serving an older lady with round glasses and silver hair holding a thick book. Sydney looks up as I come in and gives me a tiny smile of recognition as she rings up the lady’s coffee. I walk up to the counter, my hands behind my back.
Sydney looks a little tired again today, but it does nothing to make her any less gorgeous or sexy. She’s wearing a little pink tank top that brings out the fullness of her lips and the creaminess of her skin. I briefly contemplate taking her in the back for a repeat of yesterday, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t agree to it with people in the shop.
“Morning, babe,” I growl. “You’re looking good enough to eat.”
I’m rewarded with a blush. “Is that my present?” she asks, nodding toward my back.
“It is,” I nod, and pull it out.
“A fire extinguisher!” she marvels, clapping her hands together. “You shouldn’t have!”
I laugh and go into the back to get to work installing the thing. I remove the old extinguisher from the wall, then install the new one in its place. The whole thing only takes me a couple minutes. While I’m working, Sydney comes back to join me.
“It’s just what I always wanted,” she smirks. “How did you know?”
“I know how to treat a woman right,” I tell her.
“You do,” she agrees. “Much more romantic than flowers or candy. But how do I know you’re not just trying to get me into bed?”
“I am trying to get you into bed,” I growl, and catch her by the waist. “Or at least back into the office.”
“Is that so?” she asks, a challenge in her voice.
“It sure as hell is.” I pull her toward me, a little roughly. She lifts her head and looks at me, her eyes wide, pupils large.
“And what if I say no?” she says a little breathlessly.
“Then I let you go,” I murmur, and dip my mouth toward hers. “But you won’t.”
My lips cover hers. Sydney moans into my mouth as her body melts into mine. I kiss her hungrily, my cock hardening. Her arms wind around my neck, heat growing between us. I push her against the counter, and my hands move down to cup her ass and pull her against me. She whimpers and arches toward me, angling her hips so that her softness is against my hardness.
“Fuck, Sydney,” I rasp. “Let’s take this in the back.”
“Hello?” an impatient voice calls out just then. “Can I get some service out here?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Sydney breaks away from me. “It’s kolache guy.”
“Oh, brother,” I mutter under my breath, remembering the old guy who’s never happy with anything.
Sydney slides down from the counter and adjusts her clothing. “I better go serve him,” she murmurs. She looks up at me conspiratorially. “I actually have kolaches today. He might just faint from surprise.”
She slips away from me, and I let her go. I finish screwing the extinguisher housing to the wall, making sure it’s secure — which has the added benefit of giving me time to calm the raging hard-on in my pants. I walk out into the shop just as Sydney is offering the old guy a kolache.
“They look close enough,” he’s saying skeptically, peering into the pastry case with a suspicious frown. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”
Behind him, the older lady with the round tortoise-shell glasses and the silver bob has come up for a refill. When she sees what he’s looking at, she opens her eyes wide.
“Oh, I haven’t had a kolache in years!” she exclaims. “Not since I was a girl growing up in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.”
“Would you two like to sample one?” Sydney offers graciously. I can’t help but smile at her charm offensive. It’s a smart move. Who can turn down a free pastry?
Sydney takes a kolache with cream cheese filling out of the case and cuts it in half. She places each half on a separate plate and slides them toward the man and the woman. The woman picks hers up first, and takes an experimental bite.
“Is it any good?” The man sniffs.
“It’s perfect,” the woman says with a satisfied smile. “Exactly the way it should taste. My goodness, that brings back memories.”
The man picks his half up and takes a taste. Sydney watches as he chews and swallows.
“I always say, a bakery isn’t worth much unless they have kolaches,” he tells the woman. He doesn’t remark one way or another on the pastry, but his voice softens just a touch. “I grew up near Columbus. Bakeries there — the real ones, not the high-falutin’ modern ones — have some of the best kolaches.” He pauses a beat. “This one’s pretty good,” he admits grudgingly.
“Thank you,” Sydney says soberly. “I’ll keep trying.”
The man orders a coffee and takes the plate with his half of the kolache over to the table where his friends are. Sydney refills the woman’s espresso drink and she goes back to her book. When they’re both taken care of, she turns to me and does a tiny fist-pump of victory.
“He liked it!” she exults. “I can’t believe he didn’t just spit it out like I was feeding him rat poison!”
“Good thing, too,” I grin. “That was a hell of a lot of effort you went through to win over one customer.”
“I can’t help it,” she smiles back. “Sometimes I just get an idea in my head and I can’t let go of it. I like a challenge.”
“So do I,” I murmur, moving just a little closer to her.
She cocks her head. “Are you calling me a challenge?”
“You do take a little more work than I’m used to.”
Her smile fades. “I didn’t ask you for anything, you know.”
“Hey.” I reach up and brush a strand of hair back from her face. “Joke.”
She relaxes just a little. “Okay.”
The bell to the door tinkles. I glance back to see a group of women coming into the cafe. “So, are you working all day today?”
“No, actually. Hailey has the day off from school today. Some sort of teacher in-service thing. So I’m done at three, and she’s going to close tonight.”
“Where do you live? I’ll pick you up at your place tonight around seven.”
“‘Do you happen to be free tonight, Sydney?’” she recites in a pointed tone. “‘If you are, I was wondering if you wanted to go do something.’”
“You’re free,” I growl, leaning in close enough that I can smell her shampoo. “What’s your address?”
“I should turn you down, you know.” Her breath hitches in her throat. “Just for being an ass.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” I reach down and slide my hand in between her skin and the waistband of her jeans. Keeping the thin fabric of her panties between us, I graze a finger softly against her clit. She gasps and shudders.
“Three twenty-seven Adams,” she whispers.
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“Don’t dress up,” I say thickly. “You might not be wearing anything for long.”
20
Sydney
It probably sounds unbelievable, but in all the months I’ve been in Tanner Springs, I’ve never had a single visitor inside my house.
What can I say? I work morning, noon and night. I very literally do not have a life outside of the coffee shop.
For the most part, it’s not something that bothers me much. I like what I do. And back in Atlantic City, my social life was pretty non-existent as well. Like everyone else in my old circle, I followed the bizarre, anti-circadian rhythms of the professional gambling universe. I slept when I could, ate whatever was on hand, and spent most of my time in the windowless expanses of any number of casinos.
The nature of the life I led meant that I wasn’t exactly meeting lots of new people and throwing dinner parties or anything. Outsiders weren’t to be trusted. Hell, insiders were barely to be trusted. And when I had a rare moment to myself, usually all I wanted to do was hole up and lose myself in a book, or lock the door and fall into a luxurious, dreamless sleep until I woke up without an alarm.
So, to say I’m not used to having “friends” as such is an understatement. Beyond the mostly superficial conversations I have at the coffee shop, the most interaction I typically have on any given day is with the checkout lady at the grocery store or the occasional gas station attendant.
When I get home from the Golden Cup around three-thirty, I’m already having a mild panic attack at the realization that Gavin will be here in just a few short hours. I look around the tiny house I’ve been renting with a critical frown, trying to view it like someone seeing it for the first time. It has the look of someone who’s just moving in: no pictures or art work on the wall, no knick-knacks or sentimental objects anywhere. Just a generic, L-shaped chocolate-colored sectional couch, a glass coffee table, and a flat screen TV sitting on a low, dark wood stand that I got at a second hand store. The only colorful thing in the room is a chevron-patterned rug that I bought on impulse one day in a desperate attempt to make the room look less sterile.
BRICK (Lords of Carnage MC) Page 10
