by Tessa Bailey
Normally, my eyes would be heart-shaped watching Katie work magic on the waiter—and anyone within ear shot—but I’m eager to get back to our conversation. A little jealousy coming from either of us is one thing, Katie having valid concerns about Danika is another. I don’t want Katie to have any doubts that I’m all about her.
Unfortunately, explaining my friendship with Danika means talking about my past. I already told Katie my mother worked in a brothel, but she doesn’t know I lived there. Doesn’t know my life has revolved around sex since I can remember. The details of my past are the nasty part. Will she look at my differently if I tell her everything?
In the back of my mind, I hear a door slamming. Hear the sound of bedsprings rebounding, creaking, rebounding. Feel my clammy hands on slick skin—pushing away or pulling close? I can’t remember. Pushing away, I think. The door opens again and someone else comes in. A friend of my mother’s, just like the other woman who brought me into the room. The door is locked, tested. There’s laughter and the smell of whiskey. Strong. So strong. It’s pouring down my throat. Everything that’s happening feels good, but it feels fucking awful at the same time—
“Jack.”
Katie’s voice cuts through the images and sounds crashing in my head. Both she and the waiter are watching me with concern. “Oh . . . uh.” My gaze drops to the menu and it’s all a blur. Except for the beverages section. There’s a list of liquors and they stare back at me like old friends, clear as crystal. “Whatever she’s having is great,” I force out. “And a Coke. Thanks.”
Katie
That same thousand-yard stare Jack had earlier in the lobby is back, but just like before, he snaps right out of it. His recovery is so immediate and drastic, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing. As soon as the waiter leaves with our order, he’s back to toying with my fingers across the table, telling me I look gorgeous, generally distracting me from my worry. I don’t want to be distracted, though. There’s a dull throb in the center of my chest that gets worse the more he attempts to change the mood.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, cutting him off midsentence. When he only shakes his head and furrows his brow, like he’s not sure what I’m asking, I try another tactic. “What were you going to tell me before? About growing up.”
“Yeah.” His throat muscles bob. “I think maybe we can leave it for another time.”
I smooth my palm over his, notching our hands together. My calluses match up with the ones he’s probably been forming since I arrived, thanks to the training. “If you’re sure that’s what you want, okay.”
Green eyes snare me across the table, holding me there so long, I forget to breathe. “One year, my mother and a couple of her friends chipped in and bought me a Game Boy Advance for my birthday. You know, the handheld game?” I nod and he pauses, looking away. “When my mother had a customer, I used to go play it in the stairwell of my building.”
A wretched sound tries to escape me, but I hold it in. I think I don’t move at all.
“Depending on when the customer showed up, that could be in the middle of the night. Or during dinner.” His voice has turned rusty, so he clears it. “There were four bedrooms and a communal kind of living space with a table and chairs. That’s where I ate. Most of the time it was fine. I think they tried to send me outside as much as possible, or wait until I was at school to have johns over. But it didn’t always work out that way. And I saw and heard . . . everything.”
The waiter drops off our drinks and Jack drains half his Coke in one swallow, but I’m so frozen in place, all I can do is wait and hope/dread he continues.
“We moved into the brothel when I was six, after my mother’s boyfriend left. Danika moved in downstairs right after I turned eight.” He shrugs. “After that, I didn’t have to play Game Boy in the stairwell anymore. Her mother let me eat dinner at their place. They even gave me a key so I could come inside at any hour of the night and sleep on their couch.” He sees how devastated I am to know a child had been forced into such an awful independence, because he sighs and squeezes my hand. “I’m only telling you this because I want you to understand Danika and I are sister and brother.”
“That’s the only reason you’re telling me?”
“No,” Jack says quietly. “No, I want you to understand me, too. You said you felt like Little Red Riding Hood around me and it wasn’t your imagination, honey. I wanted to bring you home and get you naked two minutes after we met. That was the only outcome I could imagine. Never this. I couldn’t have pictured you sitting across from me, talking to me, if I’d tried.”
“Oh,” I whisper. “But here we are.”
“Yeah. Here we are.” Picking my hand up, he runs his lips over my knuckles, before setting it back down. “When customers showed up early to see one of the women, I entertained them with card tricks or singing. Sometimes they would be drunk and talk to me about things they shouldn’t. Or talk amongst themselves. I knew what they were there for, what they wanted and . . . how. Sex . . . I guess it became a given for me. I’m physical without thinking.”
Fire crawls up the inside of my throat when I remember referring to him as the Big Bad Wolf. I want to go back in time and slap myself now that I know how he grew up. The sexual energy I’d found so intimidating? I think deep down it intimidates him a little as well. He wasn’t born a wolf, he’d been encouraged by his environment to be one. “I’m sorry you went through that. I’m sorry for your mother, too.”
He’s surprised I said the second part. Surprised and grateful. “She didn’t have a choice, Katie, you know?”
“Okay.” I nod. “Okay, I’m sure she didn’t.”
The smile he gives me twists my heart into a knot, and it tightens when his expression goes serious once more. “Everything is different with you, Snaps.” He reaches across the table and cups my cheek. “It feels right when you look at me. Honest. When you touch me, it’s because you’re seeing me, same way I see you. Whatever happens after dinner . . . it’s important. But it’s more important that we both want to be here right now.” He hesitates, a shadow passing through his eyes. “Can it still feel right for you? Knowing all this?”
“Yes.”
If there wasn’t a set of invisible hands around my neck, I might have shouted the word. Whispering it was enough, though, because Jack releases a pent-up breath, the light growing brighter in his eyes. “Jesus. We come to this place because someone got murdered here . . . and we’re the ones making things heavy?”
My laugh is accompanied by a snort and I slap a hand over my face in embarrassment. But it only makes Jack laugh harder, that pirate smile in mass effect.
“You know . . .” He arches an eyebrow and tips his head down. “You’re sitting in the seat where it happened.”
I slap my hands down on the table, excitement flaring in my blood. “Get out of here.”
“Scout’s honor. I nearly broke out in a rash making the reservation for this table.” Sharp green eyes scan the restaurant, lingering on a table of suited men longer than necessary. “I don’t like having you near danger, even if it happened forty years ago.”
“But you sacrificed for me.”
He grabs my hand, turning it over and kissing my palm. “Damn right.”
Our dinner arrives just in time for me to melt into a puddle.
Things are going too well.
I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve gotten that niggling pinch in my stomach, but I have it now. It’s warning me I don’t know the whole story about Jack. Granted, the things he shared with me at dinner were horrible, which might be the culprit for my niggle. If he hadn’t spent the rest of dinner telling me hilarious locker room stories or turning me to mush explaining how Charlie and his girlfriend, Ever, ended up together, I would have dwelled on the reality of Jack’s upbringing much longer. He didn’t let me, though. Before I knew we’d moved past the difficult subject, it was in the rearview, Jack prompting me with questions about the Olympics and inside
secrets about my competitors. Not that I resorted to petty gossip. Much.
As soon as dinner was over, Jack and I paid the bill—him throwing me a conspiratorial look when he used some of the money he earned on the subway—after which, he gave me another piggyback ride to the train. And here we are now, on the mostly empty subway car . . . learning each and every corner of one another’s mouth.
He pulls me down into his lap before the doors even smack closed, cupping the back of my head and sliding us into a slow, heated kiss. Immediately, I’m his. The curve of his lips against my mouth tells me he feels the shift. How quickly I hand over the keys to my city, my breathless moan encouraging him to explore every hidden valley and rise. It’s a scary thing, the kind of control I lack when Jack touches me. If he laid me down on the subway bench and hiked up my dress, stopping him would cause me pain. His tongue is masterful, his hands touch me like I’m a fragile artifact, his own heartbeat wild against my shoulder.
We’ve just had this incredible date and now we’re going back to my hotel to have sex. It doesn’t even happen this perfectly on television—and I should know. I’ve watched loads. Because I’m an annoying, detail-oriented planner, I search for an imperfection. Something that makes this moment with Jack more realistic. I need to find something. Something that will keep a section of my heart in check, so that leaving in eight days isn’t impossible.
As it has for the last few days, my mind circles back around to that night in Central Park. When I got the feeling he was lying to me about how often he drinks. But my heart must be on Jack’s side, because it boots my concern across the train car. That morning at the academy when he showed up drunk was just an anomaly. As far as I know, he’s been sober ever since.
Everything is fine.
Jack’s hand leaves my hair and coasts down my front, journeying through the middle of my breasts. His knuckles drag over my stomach, shooting my thighs together, before he rests the hand on my hip. Then down to my thigh. Kneading. My whole body is tingling, waking up for the first time and dancing for Jack, its puppet master. I’ve never had sex and yet, when he touches me, these images rip through my head. Naked, sweaty, rolling bodies. Thrusting. I’m craving and missing something I’ve never had before. Only Jack could accomplish that.
He pulls away with a reluctant groan, lust making his eyes a bright, vivid green around dilated black pupils. “I have to stop kissing that mouth or we’re going to give these people a show they’ll never forget.”
“We could set your hat out on the seat.” I say, hypnotized by the way he licks his lips. “I bet we could make enough for our next five desserts.”
Jack dips his head to meet my eyes, giving me an incredulous look. “What happened? Did Brooklyn rub off on you or something?”
My smile springs to life. “Maybe. Are you going to rub it back off?”
His booming laugh echoes around the subway car, his fingers digging into my ticklish thighs. And I squeal. Squeal. “That is enough sass out of you, Katie Snaps McCoy. Our next date is going to be Sunday mass, if you’re not careful.”
“You sound like my father,” I tease, poking him in the chest.
“If you want to call me daddy, just say so.”
My groan makes him laugh harder. “I walked right into that one.”
“Sure did.” His mouth finds mine and he kisses me hard. “Our stop is next.” He searches my face with his eyes, those talented fingers stroking my hair. “I can walk you to your hotel room door and leave, Katie. You know that, right?”
“Yes.” I turn and slide off his lap, gaining my feet. “I also know I don’t want that.”
Relief and anticipation meet on his face as he takes my hand, leading me off the train.
Chapter 12
Jack
The hotel room smells like Katie. Minty and girly. Scarves are draped along the backs of chairs, lotion bottles are arranged on the nightstand, her suitcase lays open in the corner. I want to pick up every item in the room, feel it in my hand, smell it and commit it to memory. Especially Katie. God, this girl has me by the bones. I don’t want to get away.
She was bouncy and courageous on the train, but as we got closer to the hotel, I could feel the growing tension of her body from its perch on my back. Which is why I’m halfway across the room, hands shoved into my pockets. I might want to tackle her onto the bed and strip her down to the skin, but tonight is her first time. I’m lucky as shit she’s letting me have anything to do with it. So we’re going to take this slow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a second suitcase in the slightly ajar, mirrored closet alongside the bed. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a heavy packer.”
“Actually.” She winces, probably because her voice came out ten octaves higher than usual. “Actually, those aren’t clothes or shoes or anything.”
“What is it?”
Avoiding my gaze, she bends down to unzip her boots, stepping out of them. “Inside that suitcase . . . is the fourth item on my Katie Conquers New York list.”
“Yeah?” I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the desk chair. Then I slip my hands back into my jeans pockets. She watches me all the while and I think she understands what I’m telling her. One thing at a time. No rushing. “If you don’t want to show me what’s inside the suitcase, that’s okay. But if it’s a dead body, I’d help you bury it. Might want to take advantage.”
Some of tension leaks from her shoulders. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
I nod once.
The rest of her anxiety would go away if I put my hands on her. I’d disrobe her and distract her so thoroughly, she wouldn’t have time for nerves. I want her to feel comfortable before I touch her, though. Who the hell even knows why? Or how come I’m suddenly so goddamn Zen about fucking, but there it is. I want tonight to be about Katie. And I want it to be different for me, too. Different from any other time I’ve been with a girl. Nothing I’ve done in the past has any place in this room with us.
Just because I can’t touch her doesn’t mean I can’t remind her what it’s like, though. Right? Dipping my head, I watch Katie from beneath my brows and approach her. Slowly. Giving her time to anticipate it. Even in the room’s moody near-darkness, I can see her feet writhe in the carpet, see her sucking in a deep breath. But at the last second, I plant a kiss on her shoulder and move towards the window, pushing it open, letting the sounds of Manhattan fill the room. Whooshing wind, sirens, rushing traffic, distant bleating boat horns drifting from the East River.
“I want to show you,” she says, her voice mingling with the city noises. “What’s in the suitcase.”
She’s not facing me, which is probably a good thing, because she can’t see my eyes close, the gratified smile that ticks my lips up. Before Katie can venture to the closet to lift the possibly heavy luggage, I move past and do it for her, laying it on the bed.
“I’m going to ramble a bit now. I hope you don’t mind.” She unzips the suitcase, which forces her to bend forwards and give me a great view of her ass, the green material stretching over those works-of-art buns and moments like these, I really think Jesus loves me.
“I definitely don’t mind.”
Hearing my lecherous tone, she sends me a reproving look that can’t quite hide her amusement. “Once a year, my mother brought me to Blackrock Market and told me I could buy one thing. It wasn’t for Christmas or my birthday. More like a special girl’s day out present. Just one thing, and somehow it was always better than all my birthday and Christmas presents combined.” After a slight hesitation, she peels back the suitcase and color explodes across my vision. Yellows, reds, startling whites, robin’s egg blues, teals and pinks. “I always chose a purse.”
“These are them?”
“No.” Her chest rises and settles. “I made these ones.”
Look, I don’t know the first thing about handbags. Or pocketbooks, as my mother calls them. Whenever I happen to be down on Canal Street, knockoffs are being sold everywhere and I might giv
e them enough attention to spot the newest trend. Buying one has never crossed my mind, however, so my knowledge is pretty limited. Still, I can tell these purses of Katie’s are good. They’re quality. Without laying a finger on the packed leather bundles, I’m willing to bet they’re butter soft. The buckles—silver, shaped in a KM—gleam in the low lamplight. They’re organized according to color family, which is so like Katie, I have to swallow.
“When did you make them?” I finally ask.
“During downtime, when I was training.” She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Nighttime mostly, when it got hard to sleep. I ordered the materials from the Internet and had them delivered. Special-ordered the buckles with my leftover graduation money.” She shrugs. “I learned what I could online and taught myself the rest.”
That’ll teach me to think Katie can’t get any more amazing. “Can I hold one?”
“Yes, of course.” Her hands flutter over the purses, trying to pick one, and she finally lands on a fire-engine red creation with black stitching. I don’t miss the way she’s looking at me, like she’s holding her breath. For my opinion? “Damn, Snaps. These are . . . wow. I know Ever and Danika would rock this. My mother, too. It’s beautiful.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” I give her an are-you-insane look. “Hasn’t anyone told you?”
“You’re the first one I’ve shown.” She’s pink to the roots of her hair. “Well, apart from my mam.”
Humbleness closes in around me, making it necessary to gather my thoughts. “Why do you have them here?”
“That’s where my list comes in.” She takes the purse from my hands, wedging it back into place, and closes the suitcase. “Making bags is the only thing I’ve ever done just for me. Because I love it. And I thought . . .”
