“Now then, back to business.”
“Her business?” Thorpe laughs.
My anger only grows until he stomps out, pissed and one company lighter.
I’ve made up my mind that amusement and respect aside, Indie McGee just poked the wrong tiger.
***
Indie
“Dammit!”
I run faster as I hit the corner two blocks away from my building and glance back again to see a hooded figure sprinting my way, his much longer legs eating up the distance way too quickly for my liking.
I may be tough and I can throw a punch, but the brute dogging my every step is massive and I am frankly not in the mood after the shitty day I’ve just had.
I run harder, my lugs wheezing, legs burning as I give my last burst of speed and hit the next block. This next stretch is downhill though, and while you assholes may think that’s a good thing, I can assure you it isn’t. It requires a lot more control and muscle than I have.
“I’m sorry!” I yell over my shoulder, squealing when I hear his feet boom on the sidewalk behind me and practically feel his hot breath on my neck.
“Sorry?”
Oh God, please don’t let him catch me. I have absolutely no defence and I hate being wrong.
“Yes! Sorry.”
How I’m even talking when my lungs are toast and my poor legs are noodles is beyond me. I’m almost down the hill and to the flat portion of the next street when I just can’t go another step. In lieu of tumbling head-first down the road I just stop and drop to my ass, breathing so hard I think I taste blood.
Of course the mutt isn’t even winded when he stops beside me and glares, his hands planted on his hips, lip curled in disdain.
“That’s it? That’s all I get? You’re just gonna fall down here and give up?”
“My legs won’t work.”
“Hmm. I wonder what I should do to you now.”
I hurt everywhere and I’m sweating so bad I’m terrified to lie down in case I slide right on down the hill like a stick of butter.
“Shove it, Jones, you should shove it up your ass and choke on it,” I snarl, finally losing the will to live and flopping down onto my back.
The man makes me want to snarl what with the way he looks all fresh and ready to walk a runway while I probably look like Bette Midler in the morning right now.
I feel worse too, because my leg just cramped and I think I may have peed myself a little.
“Is that any way to talk to the man who’s about to recue you?” he chides, tsking me like I’m a five-year-old.
“Rescue me? You ran me into the ground, you freak. Are you on steroids or something? Jesus, who runs like that without breaking a sweat!” I yell, closing my eyes and just praying for death.
Aside from yoga, I do not exercise, but since I’m starting a new chapter I figured I may as well go all out. Too bad for me I was wrong, although I do think that if Superman hadn’t been chasing me like a serial killer, I could have made a respectable showing.
Right now all I have to offer is pathetic whimpering and a crotch stain I know he can see but have no energy to even cover.
“Aw come on, Indie baby, surely you can do better than three miles without wheezing. You used up more energy in the limo,” he drawls.
My temper flares so bright I’m on my feet and shoving a finger at his chest before I can stop myself. Man, why is his chest so buff and yummy?
Focus, Indiana! You can think about that later. With the toy he sent you.
“You shut your filthy mouth, Jones. There was no limo. There is no limo and there will never be another limo! You hear me?”
Sure, now my legs can move, I think as I stomp my way down the hill and start hoofing it to my building.
“Oh come on now, baby, surely it wasn’t all that bad. Why if I remember correctly—”
“Remember? How can you remember a thing when you were so drunk you got whiskey dick and passed out like a wittle baby?” I taunt, growling at Ed Franks as I stomp into my building and hit the elevator button.
The big ass is right beside me as the box opens, and I hit the button like a madwoman and pray for release. I’m almost at the point of letting out a relieved breath when the doors start closing but the fool just grins and steps in at the last minute, effectively caging me in with his smug ass for the ride up.
“Whiskey dick, baby? You sure?”
All I do is grunt and try to ignore him as the door opens. Running right now is impossible but I give it a try, ignoring my screeching legs because I need to get inside and lock the door before he gets wind of my plans.
“Uh-uh, Indie, that is not polite,” he croons, his palm hitting the door before I can get it closed entirely.
“What do you want?”
He’s in my apartment and looking around like he’s never seen the place as I rip my hoodie off and flop onto the sofa, my body yelling at me even as it sighs in relief.
“I want you to know that this little game you started has just cost you big time, baby.” He laughs, grabbing two waters before falling at my feet and lobbing one at me.
I want to say that I drink the water gracefully but the truth is I swallow it down and half of it ends up running down my throat in a cool slide of bliss.
My exercise bra is useless, of course, and I blush when I see his eyes dart down to my now wet and saluting nipples.
“Eyes up, pervert. I told you I don’t do chicks anymore. Congratulations, you cured me.”
He just smiles and goes on drinking his water and staring at my boobs like he wants to do them and I find myself going all gooey at the thought.
Bad, Indie!
“Indie? You okay?”
Ah to hear such quiet gentleness and worry in his tone now, when I can’t even find the will to look at him and revel in the expression he’ll carry.
And just like that crazy girl in the movie who everyone thought was nuts, I go against the thing screaming in my head and smile a little.
“I won’t bug you anymore, Jones. You can rest assured I’m done.”
Chapter Eight
“A boy’s best friend is his mother.”
Woody
I should be doing a fist pump and yelling a hell yeah to the world after Indie just gave up and asked me to leave, effectively releasing me from whatever the hell else she had planned for me, and thereby also absolving me of the guilt I’ve been lugging around for weeks.
And yet I feel nothing at all like relief.
I went over to Randy’s last night with the intentions of screwing and celebrating my liberation form the force that is the tattooed Indie McGee, but instead I ended up watching TV with her while she guzzled a pound of chocolate, and leaving around twelve to come home to an empty bed.
The fact that I wanted to call Indie and have another phone session with her got me so annoyed I couldn’t sleep, so now here I am, working out at six in the morning and thinking myself to death.
“Just get a fucking grip and move on, Jones. You have a date with the Mesner girl tonight. She’s blonde, stacked, and she knows which fork to use at a state dinner.”
Yeah, and I am so looking forward to an hour or two of listening to her drone on about bullshit and simper every two minutes. Not. For some reason, every single time I think about sex or even kissing a woman, I see a pair of brown eyes and a tight tattooed body that makes my dick hard enough to rip my shorts.
Now, for instance, I have to stop running just when I was getting into the grove because it’s freaking painful pounding the treadmill when my dick is waving at me from my gym shorts.
This hard for that sharp-tongued harpy?
“Goddammit all to fucking hell.” I roar as I drop down onto the mat and catch my breath, glaring at my shaft with so much rage the asshole is lucky he’s my favorite part of anatomy.
I need to think. Or not think.
God! Why am I so confused? It’s not like I could just have an affair with the woman and walk away. Logically I
know that would be wrong…
Unless I make her want me enough to actually proposition me?
Yeah, yeah I like that plan. But how?
Now that I’ve made up my mind to go after Indie, if even for a temporary sexual arrangement, I feel so good I’m smiling as I jerk off in the shower and get ready for a brand-new day.
I will get Indie McGee to want me, and to do that I have to spend so much time with the woman she’ll eat, sleep, and breathe all that is Brentwood Jones. I already know exactly how I’m going to accomplish what I now want; it’s just a question of getting all those fat little duckies in a neat row.
***
“Mom, stop yelling at me and just hear me out, would you?” I yell, glaring at Freddie from across my desk with so much heat, it’s a miracle the man doesn’t just catch fire and melt into the seat he’s leaning back in so indolently.
“Don’t you yell at me, you little shit. I should come over there and beat some sense into you, you little runt. How could you just do that to that sweet little girl?”
I snort and roll my eyes at her description of Indie, wondering not for the first time if Mom actually knows that the “sweet girl” can throw a punch that would knock a tweaker on his ass.
My great mood has all fallen beneath the tidal wave that is my very deceptively sweet and sane mother.
The thing you have to understand about my mom is that despite her five-three stature and sugary sweet smile, behind those twinkling green eyes so like mine lurks a monster who’d tear your nuts off with little to no provocation.
Dad once told me that he gives Mom everything she wants and humors her, no matter what he thinks, because he likes going to sleep at night and actually waking up the next morning.
Trust me, it’s true. I once broke her favorite vase and hid it in the linen closet. I went to bed and woke up with the crazy bat standing over me just staring until I started crying so hard and begging her forgiveness. I actually thought I was about to draw my last breath.
I was sixteen at the time and never lived that episode down.
Honestly, my mom is not as well in the pate as most people may think, and for that reason I actually feel my balls shrivel a little at the fact that I just yelled at her, albeit not in volume but tone.
Mom has a key to my place, I need to make this right.
“Mom? Mommy? Please don’t say that to me. I swear I will make it right, I just need to find a way to get her to talk to me again.”
“You’d better, you little twerp, or I’ll make what Rosalee did to you seem like a stroll in the park at spring time,” she hisses.
Hell, I actually feel myself shudder at the memory of what my eldest sister did to me one summer when I spied on her and her boyfriend smooching each other’s faces off.
That was the longest twelve hours I ever spent locked in the closet in the attic. I still can’t go up there without shitting myself, and what’s worse, my entire family knew she’d locked me up there and cut the breakers to the lights. I was seven and afraid of the dark…
“I promise you I will fix this, just don’t come after me till I at least get the chance to try.”
She doesn’t bothered to respond, just slams the phone down and leaves me sweating, guessing at her intentions as Freddie laughs like the mutt he is.
“I knew they’d tell her eventually.”
“You shut up, fucker,” I mutter, leaning back and loosening my tie.
Gone now is all the confidence and cocky swagger I walked into the office with and back is the nail-biting angst I’ve felt since Indie booted my ass with all that finality.
“So? You have a plan to get Indie to look at you again?”
That smug doubt and the way he’s looking at me has my hackles rising but I tamp down the urge to hurl a paperweight at his face and take a minute to just breathe.
“I do. I just have to find a way to make it work since I’m pretty sure Mom’s already called her and is helping her in her ways of evil.”
Freddie laughs like the jackass he is and just shakes his head as if something I’ve said is actually amusing. Bastard.
“Woody, don’t take this the wrong way, man, but you’re out of your mind if you think using those charms and run-of-the-mill flirtations on a woman like Indie will get you anywhere. She’s way too classy for that shit.”
“Classy?” I snort, feeling like an ass as the words leave my mouth.
I see his eyes narrow, his nose flaring out in anger as he gives me a look and cocks his head.
“You don’t think Indie is classy, Woody? You look at her, see tattoos, and just automatically assume you’re too good for the likes of that woman?” he asks in a deadly voice that sends chills down my usually stiff spine.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Tell me what you meant then, Woody, because I swear to God I don’t know if I should kick your ass right now or feel sorry for you for being such a blind fool.”
“I don’t know how to answer that with the right words, Fred. All I know is that classy isn’t enough to describe a woman like her. She’s an asshole. She enjoys laughing at people when the occasion warrants it, and she’d rather insult you than pay you a compliment. But she’s also just a woman like any other who loves her family and would do something silly like search the city for a purple unicorn just because a child she loves wants one.”
Christ. How the hell am I going to earn her forgiveness and have a chance to at least just live in her light when I screwed up so much I want to kick myself in the nuts?
I’d laughed about Indie sending Ginger to the office this morning while I plotted because it was so her, but sitting here now, actually thinking about the meaning behind it, I feel so ashamed of myself I could cry.
I made that woman feel like a cheap whore because I was too messed up and afraid of feeling anything for her to treat her with the respect I throw at women like it means nothing.
Most people think I’m such a good guy, and maybe I am. Maybe a part of me is good because I never want to hurt a woman and make her feel like less than she is.
But the other part is also so used to doing it that I can’t say I do it with any conscious effort anymore.
“Shit, Freddie, how am I gonna make this right?” I groan, dropping my head into my hands.
“Just let her get her pound of flesh and it’ll all be good, man. A few more bleached hair incidents and maybe next time take the hooker with a little more flair and she’ll let it go.” He chuckles, still tickled by the debacle as if he was here for it instead of hearing Jack’s embellished account of it.
“I can’t. She told me not to sweat it since she’s giving up and moving on.”
“Oh no.”
‘What?”
“Luci told me that if Indie ever just gave up on something, it meant that she’s either really ashamed of herself or really hurt. Since we know Indie wasn’t born with a scrap of shame…”
“She’s hurt,” I finish, closing my eyes as my chest tightens.
“Dude, you’d better do something or that mother of yours is going to murder her only son.”
You think? And here I thought Mom was my champion.
Chapter Nine
“I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” -Don Corleone
Indie
Woody called me this morning and begged for an appointment. I hung up without answering.
He called again ten minutes later. Again after that, and again and again till I got so mad I had to decide whether slamming my phone into pieces or responding was the better choice.
I answered, damn my everlasting curious soul, and now I stuck sitting here in the coffee shop I love to visit when I’m in the mood for a walk. I’m also trying to convince myself not to be a nervous wreck when the door opens and he strides in, looking all kinds of lickable in a grey suit and matching tie.
“Indie.”
“Jones.”
He sits and my heart skips a beat when he leans back casually and
takes minutes to just look me over like I’m a piece of meat. I don’t want to be a piece of meat, I assure myself even as my nipples go hard and the pulse at the base of my neck starts tripping wildly.
“God, stop staring, it’s just weird. What do you want, Jones?”
He smiles at me and I just know I am not going to like what he has to say one bit.
Stop thinking negatively, Indie. You swore you were going to be all positive and all that other crap “normal” people are. Just shove it all aside and look at the man the way you’d look at Marks or any of the other guys.
Hilarious since I never wanted to bang, or have banged Marks or the other guys in our circle.
“I would like to employ your services, Indie baby.”
“Explain,” I say, proud when my voice comes out a neutral, flat breath that my throat just manages to let out.
Jones waves a hand to signal for the waitress and leaves me waiting while he orders us fresh coffee and muffins, coincidentally the flavors I like, which is just weird.
I’m still waiting and gnawing savagely at my blueberry delight when he cocks his head and regards me keenly.
“It hasn’t escaped my notice that I’m lacking in what my friends would call romance in my life.”
“Ya think? No offense, Jones, but for someone like you, a man who shits hearts and flowers and is never without one of those nauseatingly sappy speeches, you sure are one hell of a hound dog. To my way of thinking, you must be a worse player than any of the guys ever were, the only difference is they don’t spout one thing while doing another.”
That makes his jaw clench and I take a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that I got a direct hit and hulk smashed a sore spot for the man. Most people think he’s oh so sweet and in touch with all those feelings he can’t help but sling around like dirty hooker panties, but the man is useless when it comes to romance.
“Yeah, okay, I won’t argue with that. Hence the reason I’ve asked you to meet me today. According to Marks and Percy, you have the touch, or the sight, whatever. They say you can make the perfect match just by talking to two people for ten minutes.”
I’m dusting off my shoulders without a speck of humbleness in sight, because this is true. I have yet to see anyone I can’t match with a good, if not perfect life partner.
THE NAUGHTY ONES: The Complete 5-Books Series Page 54
