Want You

by Jen Frederick

  “Bitsy’s fine the way she is.” More than fine. She is beautiful and any man who doesn’t see that is blind. Beefer’s probably trying to hide his attraction to Bitsy so I don’t pluck his eyes from his skull.

  “You have to say that. You’re her—” He breaks off and frowns. “How was it that you were related? I forget.”

  Here’s where I say she’s my sister because as my sister, no one is touching her, just like no one would have dared lay a finger on Camella before Beefer gave her to Cesaro. But when my dumb mouth opens, I say, “We’re not related.”

  Beefer’s eyes widen in surprise. “The hell you’re not. Why’d you take care of her all these years?” And then the eyes narrow. “Wait. Are you? Have you?" He doesn't finish either sentence, but I know what he's thinking. "That’s not right, Leka. Not right at all.”

  I turn toward the coffee pot to avoid his insightful gaze and fight the heat threatening to crawl up my neck. “She’s a kid, Beefer. I took her in because she had nowhere to go. If you believe I’m that kind of man, why the hell would you have worked with me all these years?”

  “Right. Right. Sorry, man.” He slaps me on the back, making me feel guiltier than ever. “We’ve all been weird fucks lately. It’s the pressure from upstairs. Here’s what I’m thinking. We should all go out. It’ll be a good bonding time.”

  Bonding time means one thing. Strippers.

  “We have a run tomorrow night,” I remind him. We're protecting a shipment of guns moving south.

  “All the more reason to do this tonight. We’ll be a tighter, better unit. Who do we have driving?”

  “Mason.”

  Beefer looks up in surprise. “That kid? Isn’t he a little young for this?”

  “I was younger than him when I was at the wheel.”

  “All right. I trust your judgment. Let’s have PJ and Donny on lookout.”

  “What about Snow?”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

  “He’ll be mad. He’s been complaining about the light paychecks.” And a mad crew member is a talkative, easily bought off one.

  “Snow can suck my left ball. He’ll get what he gets and be happy about it. Not like he has a choice. If he complains, you can treat him to a Glock special.”

  Meaning, shove my gun into his mouth and let him swallow the bullet. “We’re going to run out of men if we do that.”

  Beefer snorts. “Fuck that. There’s always some hungry runt willing to do anything including strangling his own mother in exchange for a few greenbacks.”

  I try once more for Beefer to see the light. “He’ll leave then.”

  "Ha!" Beefer barks. "You know that no one leaves. Once you’re in, you’re in. Only a bullet takes you out. Either in my brain or yours.” He flicks a finger in front of my face but doesn’t quite make contact. He’s not that dumb.

  I hesitate because I promised to have dinner with Bitsy, and since I'm going to send her away soon, I deserve a little time with her.

  “Look, I’ll be honest,” Beefer says when I don’t immediately agree. “You’re real closed off and I get that’s just how you operate, but there’s a lot of newbies in the crew and they don’t understand. Some of them are starting to wonder if your loyalty belongs to the business or yourself. If you go out and spend a little time with them, all that uncertainty will clear up in a sec.” He snaps his fingers. “If it was up to me, I’d pretend to care for the rest of the guys so that when we were out on a job, I wouldn’t always have to be looking over my shoulder, worrying whether some friendly fire was going to plug me in the back of the head.”

  Beefer’s always been insightful—far more insightful than me. He’s giving me a warning that I should pay attention to.

  "It'll have to be later," I tell him and then cast around for an excuse that doesn't involve Bitsy. "The good dancers don't work until after the dinner hour."

  “Need to go home and see your girl, do you?” He pegs me perfectly. Like I said, insightful—uncomfortably so.

  “She just got back,” I say by way of explanation.

  “Take her over to La Frais tonight. The wife loves that place. Says it makes her feel rich or shit. A fancy dinner goes a long way to settling hurt feelings.”

  I give him a short nod. He’s closed off all my exits. Besides, Beefer might be right. Seeing other women might give me the relief I need to keep ignoring my feelings for Bitsy.

  "Great. Get the word out to the crew. We'll blow off steam tonight and tomorrow the unit will be tight as a witch’s pussy.”

  Beefer pours himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee and salutes me with the mug. "To pussy."

  I hold up my mug, too. If this is what it takes to make sure that I don’t fuck things up with Bitsy, then I’ll be at strip bar every night until she’s shipped out of here.

  28

  Bitsy

  "I thought you were bringing vermicelli salad from Pho What down the street," I whisper in Leka's ear. I had plans for us tonight that didn’t include leaving the apartment. Seduction is not an easy task in public.

  “This place is more popular,” he replies tersely. He shifts away, as if my nearness is irritating. He's been mad since I came home, but we haven't had a minute to talk about it.

  Is he still upset about the revelation of his sex life last night? He shouldn’t be. I don’t think any single piece of information could have made me happier. I’m glad he’s a virgin. It’s incredible, of course, that a man who looks as good as Leka has managed to live twenty-seven years without a single female jumping him, but I’m not complaining.

  I want to tell him that I’m a virgin as well, but I don’t know how to bring it up. Maybe I should’ve texted him. That way he wouldn’t be embarrassed. We are in the same inexperience boat together. Although I’ve read enough fiction that I feel like I could show him a good time.

  I clutch my arms around my waist and shiver at the image of me teaching Leka anything to do with sex. What a delicious, marvelous concept. I should tell him now. I’ll whisper it in his ear and all dinner long he can be tormented by the same fantasies that are swirling through my head.

  I lean forward on the tips of my toes. “I was thinking about what you said last night and—”

  “Your table will be ready in a moment, Mr. Moore,” interrupts a tall, slender hostess who is a dead ringer for Taylor Swift with crinkly blonde hair and deep red lips. “Would you like to be seated or wait for your guest?”

  Leka jerks a thumb in my direction. “I’m with my guest.”

  The hostess’s eyes widen in surprise.

  “Oh, of course. Yes, well, I didn’t see you there. As I said, it will be just a moment,” she babbles and totters off. She stops by another tall, slender woman draped in black. The two look in our direction and for some reason, the two misjudge how noisy the crowd is because I can hear their whispering.

  Can you believe she’s with him?

  No. You’ve got to be kidding me!

  They must be related.

  They look nothing alike. Maybe it’s work?

  It has to be. She’s not attractive enough to actually be his girlfriend.

  I glance at Leka to see if he’s heard them, but his gaze if focused straight ahead. My newfound confidence dives to the floor. Leka may be a virgin, but it doesn’t mean he’s been saving himself for me. And maybe I misinterpreted it. He said he hadn’t been having sex, but he didn’t say ever. He could be in a dry spell.

  Sadly, that makes so much more sense than him being a virgin at the age of twenty-seven. What an idiotic mistake to have almost made. I should get on my knees and thank the hostess for saving me from an embarrassment that would be impossible for me to overcome.

  I force my gaze away from the whispering women and take in the dim interior of the fancy restaurant with its white tablecloths and suited waitstaff who all look good enough to have stepped off a runway. My unmanicured hands dig into the folds of my black skirt, which I bought from ASOS today off the sale ra
ck because my entire wardrobe is leggings, track pants, T-shirts and school uniforms. I do have the guilt gifts as Audie calls them, but none of them are clothes unless you count the cornucopia of jackets that Leka's bought me.

  But clothes wouldn’t make a difference. Leka, in his decade-old black jeans and a thin black crewneck sweater, is causing people to stop and stare. I hear speculations behind me as to whether he’s an actor. Maybe theatre, someone suggests when they can’t place his face.

  The hostess returns. "Your table is ready, Mr. Moore. If you'd please follow me."

  Leka reaches behind him to cup my elbow. He drags me forward and then we dive into the restaurant, following her through a maze of tables and people until we arrive at a small table at the back. Leka waits until I sit down before grabbing the chair in the corner, presumably so he can stare broodingly at the crowd.

  Menus are dropped in front of us and a new person appears, this time a male, to explain the specials of the day. I don't understand a tenth of what he says, so I tune him out and try to read the menu with the aid of the centerpiece candle.

  "Water for me," Leka says after the waiter asks what he wants to drink. "She'll have water, too," he adds before I can request one of the fancy martinis in the front of the menu.

  The waiter bows slightly and then takes off. When he's out of earshot, I lean over the giant menu. "I wanted a drink."

  "You're underage," he reminds me. “Stop trying to act older. It’s not a good look.”

  His words are like a slap in the face. This is not how I imagined the evening would go. I’d come home with, what I thought, was good news of a job on a cleaning crew at a meat processing shop. The hours were at night, but that worked well with his work, and the pay was decent. When I told him about it, he’d grown cold and abruptly ordered me to get dressed or we’d miss our reservations.

  This place is so fancy, too. I don’t like it. We’ve never eaten at a restaurant like this before. Before I left for Boone, we’d go to a little Italian café by the apartment or pick up sandwiches at the deli. Sometimes, we’d order food to be delivered. But we never came to a place that had multiple forks and spoons framing a giant white plate with gold trim.

  I wonder how Leka even found this place and worse, who he brought here. Everywhere I look there are couples.

  “What are you going to order?” Leka asks.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” I can’t decipher the stuff on the menu. A preparation of langoustine? Dashi gelée? Lemon-potato mousseline? Is that like a potato stuffed with mussels? A real woman would know what these things are. A real woman would have already eaten all of these things and would be able to explain in five-syllable words exactly why they’re all so delicious.

  I shrink down in my chair. “I’ll have the special.”

  “Okay. Me, too.” Leka snaps the menu closed.

  The waiter shows up seconds later and takes our order.

  “Two specials,” Leka says.

  “Very good. I’m sure you’ll love it,” the waiter replies. “The yellowtail collar is considered the best part of the hamachi.”

  “Yellowtail?” I echo. “Isn’t that fish?”

  The waiter shoots me an odd look. “Yes. Hamachi is Japanese yellowtail. The hamachi kama is so special it is traditionally reserved for family or friends of the owner. Unlike most hamachi, this isn’t raw, but caramelized under a low flame.”

  “I didn’t know you liked fish,” Leka says.

  I hate fish. “I thought hamachi was grilled beef.”

  The waiter sniffs. “You mean hibachi.”

  I couldn’t have sounded stupider if I’d planned it. My cheeks grow hot.

  Leka takes pity on me. “Do you have beef?”

  “No, we do not have beef,” the waiter replies in slightly offended tone. “We serve a lamb loin and belly with chayote gratin topped with a chili-infused cranberry reduction.”

  Leka and I lock eyes. He rises and throws several hundred dollars on the table. “Thanks. We’ll pass.”

  “What?” The waiter is shocked.

  I spring to my feet. Leka rounds the table, brushes by the frozen waiter, and grabs my hand. We power walk past a dozen tables and arrive at the hostess stand where the two gossipy women are greeting guests.

  Leka halts. “This girl? She’s as beautiful and bright as the sun. Anyone who doesn’t see it is blind.”

  The Taylor Swift lookalike blanches and tries to stammer out an apology, but Leka’s already moving on. I give the girl a wave, though, just so she knows there are no hard feelings. Leka just told a room full of rich socialites and business people that I was beautiful and bright like the sun. I’m floating on air.

  “Sorry,” he says as we climb into his car. “I thought we could do something nice since you just got home.”

  “It’s the thought that counts.” A pithy statement, but still true. I smile to myself.

  “What those women said, about you not being pretty enough for me, that’s all bullshit. You know that, right?”

  “I don’t care.” Most of the time, my looks—or lack thereof—don’t bother me. It’s only when I get fearful of losing Leka that I start feeling insecure.

  “Good.” He guns the engine and we head for home. “Call for the vermicelli. Tell them to leave it with the doorman. While we’re driving, you can tell me what you were doing all day.”

  “Don’t you already know? Terry tailed me the whole time. Your day doorman isn’t a very good PI.”

  Leka grunts. “He’s a doorman. What do you expect?”

  “I didn’t expect to be followed around the city as I applied for jobs.”

  He tightens his hands around the steering wheel. “And why exactly are you applying for jobs?”

  I sigh. “We already went over this. I’m going to get my own apartment—”

  “You’re going back to school as soon as we can arrange it,” he interrupts coldly. “Until that time, you’ll live in our apartment.”

  The joy at being called beautiful is obliterated by his terse words. “It’s not our apartment. It’s your apartment. If it was ours, you wouldn’t be telling me what to do.”

  “Is this about you being eighteen?”

  “No. This is about you seeing me as an adult. It’s about you acknowledging that I’m a woman and it’s okay for us to be together. It’s about me sleeping in a bed we call ours instead of mine or yours. That’s what this is about.” My words end on a shrill note.

  “That will never happen,” he growls.

  “Why?”

  “Because it won’t. End of discussion.” His jaw tightens so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack.

  “I’m not done talking about it. Why are you stalking me?”

  “It’s called protecting you, and it’s a good thing I sent him along because you left your phone at home.”

  “You track my phone?” I squawk, turning in my seat to glare at Leka. “For how long?” He slides a reproving look toward me that asks how dumb am I. “Since you abandoned me in Boone?” I exclaim.

  “I didn’t abandon you. You went to school like two hundred other girls from across the country.”

  “I disagree with your characterization, but can we get back to the stalking thing? Have you really kept tabs on me since you left me in Boone?”

  He doesn’t reply, but that’s all the answer I need.

  As soon as he pulls up to the curb next to the apartment, I jump out, ignoring the night doorman and passing by the food sitting on the lobby desk. I jab the elevator button. By some miracle, the elevator doors slide open and I’m able to dart inside before Leka gets to the lobby doors.

  “Wait, Bitsy.”

  But I let the elevator doors close. I need some time alone. All this time that I was in Vermont, he was tracking my every move? And he never once came to visit me? Did he also have spies up there? Did they report to him how I cried myself to sleep for the first six months? Did they tell him how I didn’t have any friends other than Audie because
I felt so odd around these rich girls who grew up in big houses and took European vacations and never once went to a restaurant where someone got knifed in the throat?

  It’s a good thing he’s not in the elevator. I might have had to go all Solange on him and beat him with one of my ugly black pumps.

  He’s waiting by the apartment door when I step off the elevator. His chest is heaving only slightly from having run up the four flights of stairs. It’s irritating how sexy that is. I brush by him angrily into the entryway and kick off my shoes.

  “You’re my charge,” he says, as if his actions were perfectly normal. “It’s my job to keep you safe, which is a hundred times harder now that you’re here instead of in Vermont.”

  I stick out my chin. “Well, I’m sorry you’re so put out. I can defend myself. I have mace in my purse and my cell phone can call 9-1-1 just as easily as it can call you.”

  His brows crash together. “You think mace and a phone are going to protect you from some asshole on the street?”

  “I also took self-defense courses. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Really? Then what if a man does this?” He moves so fast, I don’t even realize he’s bodied me up against the wall until I feel the flat surface pressing against my shoulder blades. “Look at you. I’m not even using my hands and I’ve got you pinned,” he mocks.

  I shift and press my knee against his leg. “I’m only letting you do this because I don’t want to hurt you.” I could easily shove my kneecap into his groin. He wouldn’t be so smug then. I should do it—just to teach him a lesson.

  “You wouldn’t be able to land a finger on me, let alone get a knee even close to my dick,” he retorts.

  I straighten. “Wanna bet?”

  I bring my knee up, and when he reaches down to block it, I slide my hand right over his groin. His breath catches. So does mine. He’s hard. And huge. In my fantasies, I didn’t imagine him to be this big, but the length is larger than my unfurled hand. In that moment, my anger is replaced by something hotter, darker, and more insistent. My fingers curve around the shaft.