Damaged Goods

by Dane, Cynthia

  Sure enough, a college guy in a sweatshirt and jeans tripped over the sidewalk. His eyes were glued to Sylvia the whole time.

  “All right,” Joseph said after the guy was gone. “You’re a hot woman. Congratulations.”

  She approached him, phone gone, attention solely on that fit physique lurking beneath dress shirt and trousers. “You’re beautiful,” he had told her their first night alone. “I hope you don’t think I’m too bad either.” Being undercover had made him infallibly confident, and Sylvia had been attracted to that. Joseph was attractive now, too, but in a different way. This was the real him. Although… Sylvia had a good feeling that he fucked the same either way.

  Wobbling in her flat sandals, Sylvia caught herself on the table and smiled at him. Why? Because she had no shame, and there was little sacred between them anyway. Flirting was second nature to her at this point. A handsome man was right in front of her, basically staring at her tits? Yeah, I see where your eyes are pointed behind those sunglasses. She was going to flirt. Hard. “I’m pretty proud of how I look, thank you.”

  “You should be.” Something rumbled. Was that a truck in the distance? Or something in his throat? Nah, man, that’s his loins rumbling. For little ol’ her? Damn this sexual chemistry brewing between them. “Anyway, I should get going. Don’t want to hold up your holiday.” He stood up, instinctively checking for his wallet in his back pocket.

  “I have no plans.” Sylvia shrugged. I have no real friends around here. Or at least nobody I would go watch fireworks with. She was going to have some champagne back in her room and watch Roman Holiday for the hundredth time. I don’t like this holiday anyway. Too many bad memories.

  Joseph pushed his chair in with finality. “Do you like enchiladas? I have leftovers from yesterday. My grandmother’s recipe.” His smile was capable of grabbing Sylvia by the shoulders and smacking her across the face. Or at least that’s how much it hurt to look at, the suave bastard. “I also happen to have a great view of the fireworks from my window.”

  At first, Sylvia had no idea how to respond to that. Other than to say, “Are you asking me back to your place, Agent Montoya?”

  “Purely platonic, I can assure you. But from the sounds of it we’re both alone this Fourth of July. You might as well have enchiladas.”

  “You’re really hung up on these enchiladas.”

  “Don’t think you understand how amazing my grandmother’s recipe is.”

  “Did she make them herself?”

  “Are you kidding? My grandmother hasn’t picked up an ingredient since she married my grandfather and was granted three of her own servants.” His grin grew wider. “She had to downsize after she moved to the US and things were more expensive, though. Only one servant.”

  “Oh, darn. Just the one? How does she live?”

  “Anyway, recipes are recipes. They’re pretty amazing. The enchiladas, that is. And recipes. I wouldn’t know. Don’t cook much.”

  “Neither do I.” Which meant Sylvia only got a “real” meal when she was allowed to take scraps home from the Italian restaurant. “All right. I wanna see where you live so I can rob you blind of half your stuff later. Bet it’s all fancy name-brand electronics and shit.”

  “Yes. And shit.” Joseph jerked his head toward his car still parked across the street. “Come on. I live on the South Waterfront. It’s a bit of a drive.”

  Sylvia stopped halfway across the street. “The South Waterfront?”

  Joseph looked back at her as he opened the driver’s side door and unlocked the rest of the car. “Problem?”

  “Nope!” That’s where I lived with Sebastian. One of the trendiest places for rich businesspeople to live. She was somewhat surprised that Joseph would want to live there. He seemed more of an Alberta or even Northwest kind of man. Does he live there with someone? Near his family? She forced her sweetest smile as she got in the car from the other side. A cool leather interior and air conditioning greeted her. She hadn’t even realized the car was on yet – that’s how smooth it was. The man had expensive watches, expensive clothes, an expensive car, and lived on the South Waterfront? Damn. Sylvia knew he was rich for a cop, but this was ridiculous. What was he doing working?

  Either way, Sylvia was not excited by the prospect of returning to her old stomping grounds, even with promises of enchiladas and fireworks. She needed to take her mind off it.

  “Why were you seeing Stella?” The car took its time heading toward Burnside. “Still involved with her?”

  Joseph stiffened in his seat. Look at that masculine rigidity. So proud. So tall. So hilariously thirty and virile. Sylvia may have been a few years younger than him, but most of her clients over the years were at least thirty-five. Honestly, Joseph was on the younger end of men she had rolled in some hay with.

  “That’s none of your business,” he coolly said.

  “Oh, that means it’s really juicy, then. So I’ve got to know. Come on. How’d you two break up?” Not that she ever thought of them as anything but a young, good looking couple who were together because they were young and good looking. Joseph never once talked about her while he was boning Sylvia, so there clearly wasn’t love there. All she knew about Stella was that she was a (former) undercover agent working with Joseph. Except she must not have been a very good one. Apparently, she was more interested in what could make her money than doing her damn job. Or her boyfriend, for that matter.

  “It’s a boring story.” Joseph’s tense, weary tone matched his solid shoulders as he drove down Burnside. “Some bullshit passion that led to a relationship that never should’ve been.”

  Sure, that was to be expected. Sylvia had heard her share of cops working together and bumping groins because of the job. Buuuut there’s something he’s not sharing there. Lucky for nosy-ass Sylvia, she was one observant girl. The way Joseph glanced into the rearview mirror wasn’t to check for traffic. He was looking into his past, long, long before Stella.

  And certainly long before Sylvia Rogers was a name on his radar.

  “She was a rebound, huh?”

  Joseph turned onto another street. “Like I said. None of your business.”

  Oooh, it went deeper than a mere rebound! To top it off, Sylvia was endangering her chance to eat some supposedly great enchiladas straight from Granddame Montoya’s servants’ quarters. Surprised he doesn’t have a driver. Sylvia hadn’t gotten the impression that the rich of Portland were into such displays of their wealth. They preferred to take extravagant trips around the world while eating quinoa out of their growlers.

  The familiar sites of the South Waterfront came into view after another ten minutes. They bypassed the Blues Festival at the park, the sounds of guitars and soulful voices slamming into the car. I did not miss this. The concerts at the South Waterfront park, that was. While they were great for those who wanted to go see them, she wasn’t one for being woken up from her evening nap to have her walls shaking from amplified drum sets.

  “Didn’t you used to live around here?” Joseph asked as they reached his building. The car deftly turned into an otherwise empty parking garage. “Or am I misremembering?”

  Now Sylvia was the one stiffening. Touché, Agent Montoya. “I did.”

  “With Sebastian?”

  “Yuuup.” Sylvia stayed in the car after it parked in a spot marked 12B. “A couple buildings down that way. To think, we lived this close the whole time.” That would’ve been dangerous. Considering how explosive their two encounters were… shit. Sylvia would’ve been tempted to hit him up for some companionship at the local Spaghetti Factory whenever Sebastian was being his usual jackassy self.

  Joseph put the car in park and opened his door. “I’ve only been here a few months.”

  “Oh.”

  Sylvia followed him to the elevator, where they were joined by a mother and her daughter one floor up. For ten floors they were silent while the little girl begged her mother to let her touch the buttons. They got off at the eleventh floor, and
by the twelfth, Sylvia’s stomach was growling. Her latte wasn’t enough to keep her full.

  “By the way,” Joseph said as the elevator doors opened, “I like that color on you.”

  He stepped out, keys in hand. Sylvia almost missed her chance to step out as well – she was too blindsided by that random compliment. I know he was checking me out, but… Well, only right that she return the favor. There went that sculpted ass down the hallway. Hips of steel, Joseph had. Real jackhammers when he was in the mood.

  Sylvia swallowed. Oh my God. I’m going into his apartment. For dinner. The two of us. What am I doing?

  “Are we even allowed to do this?” Sylvia looked up and down the empty hallway. Did another law enforcement agent live in this building? Would he tell on Joseph for bringing an undercover civilian home? For the lack of professionalism? There was no way his mother would approve of this. Sylvia had only met the woman once, but she could already hear the complaints. “How stupid can you be taking a woman like that home?” Was that an admonishment against Joseph’s work or dating choices? Both? “I mean, would you get in trouble if you were seen with me like this?”

  He withheld a snort as he opened the apartment door. “It’s not like you’re a witness in this case. We’re working together.”

  Sylvia remained on the threshold even after Joseph entered his apartment. “Like partners?”

  “Well, no.” He turned to her. “Are you coming in or not?”

  “Oh.” Sylvia entered, shutting the door behind her. “Sorry.”

  Joseph reached above her to turn the lock. Hi. Sylvia held herself to the door, a very handsome and nice smelling man extending his torso for her entertainment. Except she didn’t feel very entertained. She felt…

  Stiff. Caught. Trapped.

  Her body no longer accepted fresh breaths. Her hands sweated against the doorknob. When she did breathe again, her nostrils were full of sandalwood aftershave and that dangerous scent that could only be described as a false sense of security. For a moment, the base part of Sylvia’s brain convinced her that flinging herself into Joseph’s arms would provide a level of comfort and safety she hadn’t believed in for too long.

  She swallowed. Heat flushed her body, draining her face of color and instead sending all of it to her gut. Her nipples awoke beneath two layers of clothing. Her mouth was dry.

  Joseph? He spent every one of those agonizing moments staring into her eyes, his breaths shallowing, his pulse quickening.

  Shit. That hadn’t only been chemistry boiling between them. Sylvia should have listened to her body that first night she reunited with Joseph. It had screamed at her. Screamed at her to run, because a man like this was dangerous to her psyche.

  Probably to her pussy, too, but she was less concerned about that.

  “It’ll take a few minutes to heat up dinner.” Joseph pulled away, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter. “What do you want to drink? I’ve got beer and Coke. Nothing fancy.”

  Sylvia came back to her senses more dazed than confused. What is there to be confused about? I want to fuck him. God, why now? Why after she had already decided to help his investigation? Why after he found her in the bowels of his office building, preparing to spend the night in a jail cell because she wanted to make a living doing what she knew best? Why couldn’t they have rekindled a relationship under better circumstances? Not that us being in a relationship would be a good idea. For one, she didn’t exactly live the kind of life a cop would be proud of his girlfriend having.

  “What kind of beer?” she squeaked. Dumbass! Sylvia cleared her throat. Clearly, she needed something to drink.

  Joseph, who stood in front of his open fridge, looked back at her. “IPA. Local brew.”

  “Of course.” One thing Sylvia had quickly learned upon moving to Oregon was that everyone took their local brews super seriously. A woman couldn’t walk up to a bar without drowning in IPAs, each one more bitter than the last. “Think I’ll have the Coke, thanks.”

  While he pulled out the leftover enchiladas and threw them into the oven, Sylvia wandered across the wide room of his apartment and peered out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Willamette River. He hadn’t lied about the view. Twelve stories up, Sylvia could not only see southeast Portland on the other side of the river, but the bridge from which the city’s fireworks would launch in another hour. Sunset fell behind her, but there were enough summery colors in the sky to create a homey scene that briefly reminded her of New England.

  “Nice place.” Her voice echoed through the apartment. “Very manly.” The dark woods, black granite countertops, and likewise colorless, all-lines furniture screamed man cave of the rich, but never home. Sylva slid into a chair by the windows to take in the natural light. Every lamp in Joseph’s apartment emitted a soft yellow glow. It would be cozy at night, but during the day it made it feel like an actual cave.

  “Tha…” Joseph’s phone rang, interrupting him. He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and immediately switched to a style of speaking that startled Sylvia. “Hola. Feliz cuatro.”

  He launched into a long, meandering conversation in Spanish that made Sylvia’s head spin. Of course he speaks Spanish. One of the sexiest languages in the world, fuck. She had a weakness for all the Romance languages – and God knew the hottest men she ever dated were fluent in either French or Italian – but Spanish made her feel downright raunchy. The man was talking about work and his boring plans for the day, from what Sylvia could gather, but he might as well have been having phone sex with that hot accent.

  The only thing making it worse was looking over at him walking back and forth in his kitchen, one hand on his hip and the other holding his phone to his ear. His cool and collected demeanor forced Sylvia to look away before it sent her into a spiral of naughty thoughts. He never spoke Spanish when he was undercover at the club. So not fair. I thought I came hard the last two times we were together. Well!

  “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” she said, once he put his phone away. The oven timer beeped with that anxious ticking that implored someone to please liberate it from the contents within. Joseph popped it open, grabbed a pot holder, and pulled out the leftover enchiladas. “Although with a last name like Montoya, I should have guessed.”

  Joseph kept his back toward her as he served up the enchiladas on plain white plates. The scent hit Sylvia then. Spicy. Warm. Sauce and cilantro. Sylvia hoped that the Montoya granddame’s recipe didn’t call for a million pounds of cilantro. “There’s a lot about me that you don’t know.” He walked over with a glass of Coke and left it on the table before returning to the kitchen. “Like there’s a probably a lot that I don’t know about you.”

  “That’s true.” Sylvia plucked the red straw from her glass and let Coke drip on her tongue. The carbonation was going to be welcomed that Independence Day. “If you ever find me bleeding to death, my blood type is B-.”

  The microwave started up again. Joseph, who leaned against his island counter, reacted to what Sylvia said with disbelief. “Why would that be the first thing you tell me?”

  “Because you’re a cop. Isn’t that the sort of thing you want to know?”

  “Not even going to tell me your middle name first, huh?”

  “You already know my middle name. You processed my files.”

  “Sorry. I don’t recall.”

  “It’s June.”

  “That’s pretty.”

  He wasn’t keen on making eye contact with her. What was this? Did he think if he didn’t look at Sylvia – who he invited into his home, one had to remind – he wouldn’t have to face what festered between them? Typical male. The microwave dinged again. Joseph reached one toned arm out to open it while looking as fucking casual as possible. Stubble littered his face. The kind that said he shaved daily, but when a man had hair, it found a way to come back in no time at all. Best. Happy trail. Ever. Sylvia slammed her straw back in her glass and stirred the ice around until she created a soda pop whirlpo
ol. Her lips retracted into her mouth. Now was not the time to think about sucking Joseph’s cock. Again.

  Salad and enchiladas appeared on the table. “My blood type’s A+.” Joseph retreated to the kitchen, this time with purpose.

  “So!” Sylvia wasn’t going to let him be silent again. If she did, she had to face the fantasies entertaining her overactive imagination. Remember how he fucked you? Remember how good he tasted? Remember that cock, girl? “Why are you alone on this fine Fourth of July? I thought you had a huge family that lived in the area.”

  “Yes. They’re in Lake Oswego.”

  On one hand, Sylvia’s instant reaction was of course they live in Lake Oswego. Suburb of the upper class who had nothing to do with Nike or Intel. On the other, the Montoyas didn’t strike Sylvia as the type who would want to live in one of the whitest towns in the state, even if they were white themselves. They seemed more the types to have their own private, isolated property up in the Washington Park or West Hills areas. “

  “Before you ask again, we’ve already celebrated. Even on a holiday, my father’s business commands his attentions on Mondays. It was easier this way.”

  “What does your father do, exactly?”

  Joseph sat across from her, napkin in hand and beer opened. Even with soundproofed windows, the thrum of the Blues Festival only a mile or so upriver bounced against the glass next to them. Sylvia looked between the colorful sky and her host for the night as if she couldn’t decide which was more interesting to examine. Him.

  “He invests other people’s money for them, but he’s the guy you only go to when you’re already filthy rich. Those kinds of investments.”

  “I see. Big money around here for that kind of gig?”

  “Of course. The whole northwest is a hot bed of first-time millionaires. My father made his mark approaching those people before anyone else could. He kept his reputation by actually being good at what he does.”