by Cecy Robson
I think I’ll leave it at that, but then I remind myself that I’m not letting her off easy: Besides, I’m tired. I didn’t sleep last night because of all the wild gorilla and banana-eating baboon sex we had. By the way, ballerina school paid off. You’re amazingly flexible.
Funny thing, this time she texts right back. You had to go there, didn’t you?
I laugh, picturing her blush. Just speaking the truth, angel face. Hey, what was that thing you did around three a.m.? What’s it called? A pirouette?
I believe you know it as a blow job.
I crack up, knowing she’s pissed. Settle down there, princess.
Don’t call me that.
Okay, nerd.
You are an absolute JACKASS!!!
A jackass you pirouetted at three a.m., and one you’re having dinner with at nine. See you then.
When she doesn’t text back, I start thinking I went too far, until that familiar buzz vibrates in my hand and I read her text.
Fine, it says.
—
I figured Tess would be distant when I came for her, and I figured right. She barely speaks to me. As I maneuver around town, she stares straight ahead with her hands folded over her lap. I roll into the parking lot of my apartment building and turn into my assigned space.
I don’t look at Tess until I jog around and open the door for her. “I thought you were taking me to dinner,” she says quietly.
“I am. This is me taking you to dinner. But tonight I’m your chef, server, and busboy all in one smokin’-hot package.”
She doesn’t move. “Okay…but I can’t spend the night. I have a— I have an early class tomorrow, and then I have to stay late and help Declan.”
“I’ll drive you back as soon as we’re done. Promise.”
She nods, and allows me to help her out. I hold on to her hand until we reach the doors to the foyer. I pause and nod to the rookie watching her for the night. He’s new. Brand new, but seems all right.
He nods in response, not that Tess seems to notice our exchange. She stares at the pattern along the gold-and-sand tiled floor as we cross the foyer and step in front of the elevator. “This is a nice building,” she offers almost silently.
Jesus. I thought we were beyond all this bullshit. “It wasn’t before, but we put a lot of work into it.”
She considers me then. “ ‘We’?”
I punch the security code to the elevator and lead her inside. “Declan and Seamus—our other brother—we own it. We bought it a couple of years ago, but we’re planning to sell it in the next few months. The realtor we spoke to says we’ll get at least five times what we put into it.”
“Why are you selling it?”
I shrug. “It was an investment. Something we did with the money our father left us when he died. Deck, Seamus, and I are thinking about buying a parking deck next. No tenants to deal with, minimal maintenance, and a cash cow that will carry us into retirement.”
I wait for a beat, then ask, “Did you delete our text exchange earlier? Considering you have a county phone…”
Her cheeks pink up and it’s not from the cold. “Yes. I deleted it.”
No one’s checking in on her, and the phone will soon be tossed, but it’s better to keep things professional. “Okay. Good.”
The doors swing open and we step out. I release her hand and dig around my pockets for my keys. I didn’t realize we were holding hands again—I must have done it without thinking—but I do notice she doesn’t seem to mind.
I shove my key into the lock. “I’m not in the penthouse,” I admit. “But it’s nice, and I hope you like it.”
I lock the door when we step in and take her coat, hanging it with mine in the closet. “Make yourself at home,” I tell her. I walk past her to give her some space, not liking how uncomfortable she seems.
After everything we did, there shouldn’t be all this tension between us. It’s as if she’s a different person from the one who fell asleep in my arms.
I wash my hands in the kitchen and reach for a pot and pan from one of my bottom cabinets. “This is beautiful,” she says, taking a seat on the bar stool directly in front of me.
Okay, maybe she’s warming up. I fill the pot with water and add some salt before placing it on the stove. “The building’s old, but it has wood beams, crown molding, and high-tiered ceilings that a lot of the new places don’t have. We paid Seamus, and our oldest brother, Angus, to refinish the floors, replace the countertops with granite, and modernize the bathrooms.”
For all I planned to ask and say, I’m just shooting the shit now. Truth is, I want to know what’s up. I’m a cop and that’s what cops do, investigate what’s wrong.
I walk around the counter to where she sits, trying to work through what I think I should say. But then I find myself reaching for her hips and pulling her to me for a long, lazy kiss.
I expect her to be the one to pull away. But her hands smooth over my chest, and her tongue sweeps mine with equal aggression, letting me know she’s not going anywhere.
She wants this kiss.
She wants me.
I feel that now familiar stretch in my pants, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m maybe taking advantage of her. She’s had a rough day. Her father made sure of that. So I pull away, only to find her eyes glistening with tears.
This time my mouth won’t stay shut. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”
She covers my hands where they remain fastened to her hips. “I’m not the best person for you. But I really wish I could be.”
I lift my brows. “Is that what your father says?”
Her bruised expression makes it clear that I hit a nerve, and that I’m treading on thin ice. But something changes then, a flicker of defiance she probably didn’t realize she had in her. “If I tell you something, do you promise to let me, and not judge me for it?”
I watch her for a spell, not sure where this is headed, just sure it isn’t anyplace good. “Yeah. I promise.”
She releases a small breath, working to keep those tears in check. “I’m not supposed to be a lawyer, Curran. I’m not supposed to help amend laws to make our community safer, prosecute offenders who hurt innocent people, or change the world for the better in any capacity. That’s not what I’m meant for.”
My focus remains intense, but my hold on her hips loosens.
“Since the day I was born I’ve been molded to be the next Jackie Kennedy or Michelle Obama,” she says. Her voice cracks, but I can tell it stems from anger more than anything. “All the times I gave up attending your frat parties to study, all those dances I ditched to read through stacks of books in the library, all those extra classes I took—when I didn’t have enough hours in the day for the ones I already had—they weren’t for me. They were meant to shape me into the perfect prop. That fundraiser I attended last night was an opportunity to make nice with a man I think is a complete asshole, or to find someone else like him clawing his way up the political ladder, so that one day I can stand by his side and watch him become everything I thought I was supposed to be.”
The first of her tears roll down her cheeks. It’s then I realize the day will come when I’ll knock out her dad. But this girl is spilling her soul. She doesn’t need to hear that. She needs to be heard and to know someone’s listening.
“But you’re not going to be her, are you?” I say. “Because last night when you were supposed to make nice with someone else, you took a stand and spent it with me—a cop with no political aspirations, no connections, and no desire to be anything but himself.” My voice lowers. I have her attention. “You have to admit, in breaking that mold we had one hell of a time.”
She takes a moment, absorbing everything I said, although I don’t think I’ve said that much. But from the look in her eyes, I think it might be enough.
She smiles softly. “Do you know you’re the only person I’ve ever been able to be myself around?”
“Good,” I tell her. “ ’Cause
I like who you are. If you were anyone else, I wouldn’t have fucked you like I did.”
Her stunned face locks on to mine. On a different day, I would have grinned. But just because I can be an asshole, that doesn’t make me an ass. She’s hurting, and after all the shit she unloaded, she probably needs a moment. So I walk away, stripping out of my shirt and making a beeline for my bedroom.
“I’m going to get a quick shower,” I say. “Watch the water in the pot so it doesn’t boil over. When I get out, I’ll make you dinner.” I stop beneath the doorframe and shoot her a glance over my shoulder. “One more thing. Don’t ever think you’re not good enough for me, because you always have been.”
I cross my bedroom floor, yanking off what remains of my clothes, and walk into my bathroom. I blast the hot water, waiting for the steam to rise before stepping in.
My hands are making quick work of lathering my chest when the bathroom door opens. Through the thick wall of hot mist, I watch Tess stroll in naked, her hips swinging with every step. She opens the glass door and shows me the condom tucked between her two fingers.
“I turned the stove off,” she says. “Do you want me to wash your back, or would you prefer I take you from the front?”
Chapter 17
Curran
Declan polishes off his sausage stew. “What’s going on with you and Contessa?” he asks me. “You barely talk to her, and she keeps her distance.”
That’s because she doesn’t want you to know what’s going on between us. “Nothing. She’s a good kid.” I take the last bite of my sandwich. Damn, it’s good.
“Did you piss her off?”
“Not lately,” I say, truthfully.
“Then what’s up? Every time you’re in the same room, there’s all this goddamn tension between you.”
“Nah. It’s just your imagination.”
My phone buzzes. I have to work not to grin when I see the text from Tess.
Thanks for dinner again, cop.
Speak of the devil in argyles and corduroy. I glance at the time. Looks like she’s on break between her Torts and Civil Liability classes.
Last night, I cooked her my specialty: Velveeta Shells and Cheese smothered with sautéed mushrooms and onions, just like I did the first night she spent at my place. I tap on the keyboard. You’re welcome. If you’d like, I can make you ravioli tomorrow night.
Ravioli? Is this another secret recipe passed down from your ancestors—like your gourmet grilled cheese?
Oh, yeah, I type. It was given to me by our great uncle, the Chef of the Boyardee.
I hit send, only to catch Declan watching me. “You like her, don’t you?”
“Who?”
He rolls his eyes. “You know who. Contessa.”
“You mean Tess? Yeah. I told you, she’s a good kid.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it,” he tells me, pushing his empty bowl aside. “The problem is, you can’t have her.”
I roll my neck from side to side. “Why? Because she works with you?”
“No. To be honest, I’m willing to ignore that fact.”
“Is that so? Why the change of heart?”
“Because I think she might be good for you.”
This makes me grin. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Problem is, I don’t think you stand a chance at getting her.”
“I did before,” I shoot back, reaching for a leftover pickle.
“Back then you had a keg and Jell-O shots working to your advantage. That’s not the case anymore.” Declan leans back in his chair, one of his more arrogant smirks playing across his face as he swirls the glass of water in his hand. “You know what your problem is?”
I scroll through my phone. “Nope. But I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“You don’t know how to treat a lady.”
This time, it’s my turn to meet him with a cocky grin. “I don’t?”
“Nope,” he says, emphasizing the “p.”
“Is that a fact—but I take it you do, right?”
“Damn right. Curran, you may have your moves. You may get laid, but you don’t know how to treat a classy broad. A woman like Contessa—”
“Tess,” I clarify again.
His smile widens. “Okay, we’ll play it your way. A woman like Tess is used to a certain guy—refined, highly educated, and driven.”
He’s starting to piss me off. “Like you?”
“That’s right. You need to put on the charm. Open doors, shit like that.”
“Shit like how?”
His smile fades. “Don’t be an asshole. I’m trying to teach you something here, so pay attention.”
I show him my phone. “Oh, I’m taking copious notes, believe me. Teach me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”
“Women love me,” he says in the same way I ask for the time.
“Do they?”
“They do. I get dates. All the time. You know why?”
“They think you have money, and want you to be their sugar daddy.”
“No. I—”
“They lost a bet.”
“No.”
“They prefer men with small dicks.”
It’s then that Assistant District Attorney O’Brien loses his cool and nails me in the face with a roll. To his credit, he does it when no one’s looking, or because no one at Rhonda’s Bistro gives a shit.
“My dick is bigger than yours, and you goddamn know it.”
I laugh. “Says you.”
“Look,” he says, adjusting his tie. “You’re pissing me off, but I’m still going to give you some free advice.”
“You’re a hell of a guy.”
“Do you want the goddamn advice or not?”
I’m kind of curious what Declan has to say, even though it’s probably straight-up bullshit. “Sure. Let ’er rip.”
He leans back again and spreads out his hands. “Treat her like she’s a goddess.”
“Goddess?” I repeat.
“Yeah, you know, like your world isn’t the same until you see her smile, touch her skin, and breathe the same air she does.”
Holy God.
“Bring her flowers for absolutely no reason. When she asks you why, let her know it was because you missed her, and couldn’t stop thinking about her.”
And couldn’t stop thinking about her?
Declan continues like this is the greatest advice ever despite my WTF expression.
“Take her hand, interlacing your fingers with hers. Draw her close to you when it’s cold to shield her from the bitter wind.”
“Jesus, Declan.”
“You say Jesus. I say help her off with her coat, and you’ll be helping her out of her panties next.”
I nod. “Okay. Got it.” I go back to eyeing my phone, grinning when I see Tess’s reply. If I pick up her list of ingredients, she’ll make me dinner tonight. Sweet.
“You already fucked her, didn’t you?” Declan asks, looking stunned.
He can’t see my phone, but he knows me well enough. “Oh, hell yeah. And I didn’t even have to shield her against the bitter wind.”
In fact, Tess and I have been spending every night together for the past month. The last few nights have been at my place; tonight I’ll be at hers. But that’s my business, not his. My phone buzzes. Another text, this time from Wren. “Hey, Wren wants to hit Merve’s next week for brews and wings. You want to go?”
“You think I’m full of shit.”
“Yup. So you up for it? She’s thinking either Wednesday or Thursday.”
He ignores me. “Pick a woman here. Anyone between the ages of twenty-two and forty-two, without a ring.”
I know where he’s headed, but I ask anyway. “Why?”
“I want you to watch me pick her up. By tomorrow night at the latest, her legs will be locked like a vise around my hips and she’ll be calling to God, Jesus, and anywhere from three to four disciples.” He scoffs when I laugh. “Come on. I’m serious. Pick one out and
watch me work my magic.”
Declan’s always been a player. Always. Political aspirations aside, he doesn’t commit, and I’m not sure he ever will. But if he ever does, one thing I know: he’ll never cheat, and he’ll never look back. Nope. If Declan ever falls for someone, it’s going to be hard and there won’t be anything to cushion his landing.
So for now, I’ll play his game.
As a cop, even one out of serious commission, I have certain ingrained skills that will never leave me. Even though I’ve been talking, flipping through my phone, and lookin’ like I’m bored out of my mind, I’ve checked out everyone in the bistro, cased the emergency exits, eyed those wandering in, watched anyone who’s left, paid attention to who follows who into the bathroom, and kept tabs on everyone who passed by the large picture window across from us. I expect everything, and maybe nothing at all.
I do another sweep of the small room. There are lots of women here who fit Declan’s criteria. Some have given us the once-over a handful of times. Even now, one smiles my way. She’s pretty, no denying it, but I don’t really care. A fact that gives me a shitload of pause. My attention wanders to the smaller group of tables on my right. It’s there I find her: the right gal for Declan to release his mad moves on.
She’s a brunette, with thick hair that curls just below her shoulders. She walked in alone and is flipping through the pages of a paperback in between bites of her salad. She’s not Declan’s type. In a red dress with tiny white polka dots that hug her hourglass body, she’s more fifties pinup babe than the Barbie dolls Declan usually goes for. Her profile is to us, giving me only a small view of her deep red lips and creamy skin. She might be plain or she might be beautiful; the way her dark hair veils part of her face, there’s no real way to tell. That doesn’t matter, though. Declan never said anything about looks.
I motion with a tilt of my head. “Brunette, red dress. Tucked in the corner.”
Declan angles his body in her direction. He sighs, clearly uninterested. “Fine. But I thought you’d give me a challenge.”
He stands and fixes his jacket. I adjust my seat in the small booth to get a better look, but not enough that it’s obvious I’m watching the show. I chuckle when she crosses her legs and turns the page of her book just as he reaches her. Declan’s right; this girl won’t be a challenge. She seems lonely, defenseless even. Yeah. Glad we didn’t make a bet. This girl’s going down.
