Work Me Up

by Wylder, Penny

  I smirk. “What can I say? I’m old school. I believe in calling the girl you want to check up on, when she doesn’t show up for her shift at work.”

  “I’m sorry, do you miss me or just the greasy dirty work you wanted my hands doing today?”

  “That’s a trick question, right? Because I remember how well you use those hands of yours, believe me,” I say, and I can hear her take another quiet breath on the other end, like the double meaning hadn’t even occurred to her. I laugh, and she groans into the phone.

  “You’ve got a dirty mind, Antonio.”

  “And you’ve got a dirtier mouth, Selena. We make a perfect match.”

  She laughs, but she doesn’t disagree, I notice. After a breath, though, she sighs. “Did you need something, besides guilting me about neglecting my duties?”

  “I needed to make sure you were all right. After that stunt yesterday, and then you not showing up this morning… I had to make sure everything was okay with you.”

  There’s an even longer pause this time. “Yeah. Sorry,” she finally replies.

  I stroll over to the bench on the far side of the garage and drop onto it, pressing the phone closer to my ear so I can hear her. “So… is everything all right, or…?”

  “I’m fine,” she says. Her voice sounds tighter now. More restrained. “Sorry that I didn’t come in today. I should have texted or something to let you know not to expect me. I’m just… not feeling well.”

  “Is this about what happened between us yesterday?” I can’t help asking. “Because if you’re regretting that—”

  “What? No. Of course not,” she says, so fast and unquestioningly that I know she’s telling the truth. “I’m just sick today, Antonio. That’s all.”

  Sick. The day after she had what looked like a borderline panic attack in the driver’s seat of my car, right before she sprinted out of the garage. Sure.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek, thinking. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. Thank you, but… no.”

  Another pause. This one feels weighted. I can hear her breathing on the other end of the receiver, just as I’m sure she can hear my own. Like both of us are waiting for the other one to break first, to say something, anything. Finally, I run a hand through my hair. “Well… I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know, Antonio, I. It’s…” I wait, expecting her to add more to that sentence. To explain what’s actually going on here, because I feel truly clueless. And that’s not a feeling I’m used to. I’m the guy who solves puzzles. Who figures out what’s wrong with the mechanics of a situation.

  I don’t like feeling this way. Helpless. In the dark.

  “I’ll text you in the morning and let you know if I’m feeling better. Does that work?” Selena finally says.

  “Sure. Feel better, okay?” I say. Then I disconnect the phone, before she can drag this out any further. I’m not getting answers out of her like this. She won’t talk to me over the phone. Not without more persuasion. But I just know that if I look her in the face, I’ll be able to get the truth out of her.

  Which is what gives me the idea. It’s probably a bad plan. A stupid, insane one, in fact, but it’s the only way I can think of to get some answers as to what’s actually going on with Selena. What caused her breakdown yesterday, and what I can actually do to fix this situation going forward. Because I’m pretty sure just ignoring it and pretending that I believe she’s home sick today is not going to do the trick.

  First things first, though… I’ll need to do some snooping.

  With that, I step outside and lock the garage behind me, before I hop behind the wheel of the Bentley I keep as my backup car, whenever Betty’s out of commission. Then I reach for my phone and pull up my contacts.

  * * *

  It’s surprisingly easy to talk Selena’s father into giving me her home address. All I do is tell him what Selena told me—that she’s taking off today because she’s sick, and that I’m concerned about her and want to check and see if I can bring her anything to help her recover.

  When this is all said and done, I should really talk to Mark about protecting his daughter’s privacy a little bit better. But for the moment, it’s working in my favor.

  As I drive toward the address he gave me, I can’t help it. My eyebrows start to climb my forehead, higher and higher. It’s not that I expected Selena’s place to be as elaborate as her parents’ borderline mansion. But given where she comes from, I guess I expected her to be in a penthouse somewhere trendy. Not just in a tiny little box apartment in a building that looks like it was last renovated in 1970, in a neighborhood that’s on the still-coming side of up-and-coming.

  I knock on the door marked 3C, in peeling black paint that could use a touchup. There’s no doorbell to speak of. And music plays from inside, something loud and rock sounding. After a minute, I knock again, a little louder.

  Just as I’m raising my fist to try a third time, the door swings inward, and there she is.

  Selena squints up at me, confusion melting into surprise shifting into pleasure, before she forces that expression away, smooths her face into a calm, expressionless mask. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  “You said you were sick.” My gaze drops to her outfit. She’s dressed in a sundress, strappy sandals, a big hat. And she has a beach towel slung over one shoulder. “Are you just skipping work to go to the beach?” I lift an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Somehow, whatever I expected in coming over here today, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t just that she’s been lying to me this whole time about whatever’s going on with her.

  No way. I saw her yesterday. There’s no way she could have faked that kind of freak out. I know there’s more to this story than meets the eye.

  “What?” Selena replies, looking down at herself first, and then the towel. “Oh. No. Well, I… Sometimes the beach makes me feel better. When I’m under the weather.”

  I take a step closer, and she mirrors me, backing away. Which gives me enough space to slip past her into the apartment, at least. “You know, I had a feeling you weren’t sick, but I didn’t think you were just playing plain old hooky,” I say, casting my eye around the room.

  What can I say? I’m curious. I want to know more about her life, about where she lives and how she keeps the place.

  Hell, I want to know everything about this woman. All her ins and outs. But most of all, why she’s so desperate to hide whatever happened yesterday.

  My gaze lands on a framed photo on the wall near her TV screen. It’s Selena with her arms around a handsome man, around her age. They’re both beaming at the camera, wide smiles. From the way their cheeks are pressed right up against one another’s, it’s clear they’re close.

  “I’m not playing hooky,” she snaps, before she clears her throat, and smooths out her own tone. “I’m sorry, Antonio, really. I shouldn’t have run out yesterday the way I did. Today isn’t so much a sick-sick day as it is a… mental health day, I guess.”

  I turn back to her, my eyebrows rising. “Why didn’t you just say that, then?”

  Her cheeks flush red. “Well… some people don’t see mental health as a real problem. Most of the places I’ve worked only care if you’ve got a cold or flu, something you could transmit to other people in the office. That’s the only time they’ll allow you to call in sick.”

  I raise an eyebrow, frowning. “Where the hell have you been working?”

  “Schools,” she admits with a grimace. “And only part-time. I can’t blame them really, they’re overworked, understaffed…” She shakes her head and waves a hand in the air. “Not the point. You’re right, I should have just been more straightforward with you.”

  I fold my arms. Now that I’m seeing her closer up, she doesn’t look like her usual chipper self either, even if she was clearly planning on a beach day today. Her eyes are red-rimmed, a little puffy. Like she’s been crying. �
�Does this mental health issue have anything to do with what happened yesterday?” I ask, more gently than ever.

  Her teeth close over her lower lip. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” I take a step toward her. This time, at least, she doesn’t back away. “Just tell me what’s going on? I want to help, Selena. If I can.”

  “You can’t.” She meets my gaze for a second. But she can’t hold it any longer than that. Still, it’s enough time for me to spot the shimmer of tears along the edges of her vision, before she looks at the floor again, and wipes angrily at her cheeks with a clenched fist. “Nobody can. So just drop it, okay? The best thing for me right now is to just… not think about it. Pretend it never happened.”

  “Okay,” I say, slowly. “That sounds an awful lot like repressing your emotions, but hey, whatever you say.”

  She snorts and shakes her head. But I notice a hint of a smile reappearing beneath the teary-eyed look. “Look, forget the beach, you’re right, I shouldn’t have called off.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I reply, but she speaks over me.

  “I’ll come back to the garage with you. Right now, let’s go.” She starts for the door, but I reach down and catch her wrist to stop her.

  She feels so warm. So delicate. “I didn’t say that either, Selena. Besides…” I raise an eyebrow and look pointedly down at her sundress. “You’re going to work on a car in that? This is even worse than the tight jeans.”

  She rolls her eyes. But she keeps her wrist in my grip. Twists around to face me, so we’re chest to chest, inches apart. Then she raises her chin and locks those dangerous dark eyes on mine. “Is this your way of telling me you don’t like my dress?”

  “Not at all,” I reply, my gaze raking over her curves again, slower this time. “Though I do think it would look better on your bedroom floor,” I can’t help adding.

  Her face flushes again, darker red now. “You’re impossible.”

  I wink. “I try.” But I notice her gaze flicker, and I follow it, my eyebrows rising as I notice another photo in her hallway. It’s taken a few years earlier than the one I spotted in the living room, but it’s clearly a younger Selena and the same man from the other photo. Hugging again, arms draped around one another with casual intimacy. “Who’s that?” I ask, before I can think better of it.

  “Nobody. Look, can we just go to the garage? I’ll grab a change of clothes.” She circles around me, and actually tries to push me toward the door. “Meet you outside in five?”

  I glance from her to the photograph and back again. A million and one questions bubble up inside me. Who is that guy? A recent ex she’s still not over? Is that why she freaked out yesterday? Or is he something else to her?

  I can’t figure it out. But to judge by the tense expression on her face, now isn’t the time to push for an answer. Now isn’t the time to force this girl into manual labor, either, so I plaster on an easy smile and shake my head. “I’ve got a better idea,” I tell her. “Leave the sundress on and come with me.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

  I gesture to her outfit. “You’re dressed for the beach. So let’s go to the beach.”

  8

  Antonio

  Selena’s even more impossible to look away from as she trudges barefoot across a sandy beach, the sun bright on her skin and the wind whipping her hair across her eyes. I’m so busy staring at her backside that I miss her question. Something I only realize when she lets out a soft snort of laughter, and I lift my eyes to find her staring at me, smirking.

  “Distracting you, am I?”

  “Always,” I reply, completely honest. “What was the question, Your Honor? Or should I say Your Fineliness.”

  She laughs louder this time. “That’s not a real word.”

  I jog to close the gap between us and take advantage of her distraction to slap her ass lightly. She squeals, and I grin as she dances a step ahead of me, then whirls around to land a fist in the middle of my chest. Somehow, that fist turns into her standing right before me, her palm flattened over my heart, her eyes fixed on mine as I gaze down at her, smiling.

  “Sure it is,” I reply. “I just made it an official title and everything, Your Fineliness.”

  “You’ve got to stop that,” she says, although it’s through a broad smile.

  “Why?” I arch an eyebrow. “I need some incentive, Your Fineliness.”

  She tilts her head sideways and squints her eyes at me. “Because if you don’t stop, then I’m not going to let you defile me later tonight?” she says, though her voice lilts up at the end of the sentence, giving the game away.

  I lean down, so close that we’re sharing a breath of air, so she can feel my breath across her cheeks when I whisper my response. “As if you could resist me,” I say, so low and sure that I actually feel her shiver a little, thanks to her hand still resting over my chest. To emphasize the point, I catch her wrist, bring her hand to my face and spread her fingers with my own, right before I lay a soft, slow kiss in the center of her palm.

  The trembling happens again. Her pupils dilate, in spite of the warm, bright sunshine beaming directly down on us. “I could if I wanted to,” she says, but even her voice isn’t steady. It quivers, giving away the telltale desire burning hot beneath those dark eyes of hers.

  I can tell, because I feel the same desire. All the time, every second I’m around her. “But you don’t want to,” I reply, tilting my head, smirking just a little.

  “No,” she admits, her tone breathy with surrender. Just the way I like it.

  I lean forward and cup her chin. Tilt her face toward mine until our noses brush, our lips so close that I can practically taste her already, the way those sugar sweet lips of hers will be faintly coated with salt from the sea breeze… “Then I guess this means I win, Your Fineliness,” I whisper.

  Those dark eyes narrow, right before she rolls them and, with obvious physical effort, takes a huge step back from me, striding away across the sand without so much as a kiss. “You are impossible,” she adds over her shoulder.

  “Now you’re getting the idea.” I jog after her, keeping pace easily, in spite of the shifting sand underfoot. I’m used to the beach. I used to come here all the time when I was younger; I grew up a surf bum, before I started working in the garage. It’s funny. I didn’t even realize how long it had been since I’d seen the ocean until I came here today. Until she reminded me how much I love it here.

  “What is it?”

  When I look back over, I find Selena watching me now, her expression curious. “Hmm?”

  “You looked like you were thinking about something,” she says. And I’m reminded of just how observant she is. I’m used to being the one who notices things about the girls I hook up with—not that I’ve hooked up with anyone in a long time, and certainly nobody in ages who I’ve felt as sudden a connection with and draw toward as I have with Selena. But still.

  I’m not used to other people asking me questions. I’m used to being the questioner.

  I squint out over the sea, which glints in the bright afternoon light, and ponder my response. “I used to come to the beach all the time,” I say slowly. “My mom worked a lot, so she’d leave me with my neighbors in the summers—they had a big family, about a dozen kids. Only thing they could afford to do with all those kids all day long was come down to the water. I taught myself how to surf on an old used surfboard they let me borrow. Then in high school, once I got old enough to take care of myself while Mom was working, I’d come down here solo. Some of the older surfers took me in, gave me tips… I was pretty decent at one point.” I run a hand through my hair, still studying the ocean.

  “What made you stop?” Selena asks quietly.

  I shrug. “I guess with all the work I had on at the shop, I just sort of… forgot to keep coming down here. Life gets in the way, you know?”

  She lets out a small sigh. “Do I ever.”

  And I squint at
her, curious too. What in the world could life do to the daughter of one of the richest business magnates in the city, after all? She could buy her way out of just about any real problem that came her direction.

  But then I think about the apartment she lives in. The way her father ordered her to help me fix up the car she damaged herself, in order to teach her a lesson. Maybe problems aren’t as easy to solve for her as I assume they are, just based on her family history.

  Maybe life can be a bitch to anyone, regardless of their social class.

  “What did you used to do for fun?” I ask. “Growing up.” Because what I really want to ask her is about what happened yesterday. What made her freak-out. But I also don’t want to shatter this moment of calm understanding between us. It feels so fragile and perfect right now, a moment I want to press like a flower inside a book and save for later.

  She’s gazing out over the waves too now, and she looks like a damn painting, she’s so gorgeous. The sun picks up highlights of reddish brown in her dark, wavy hair, and it makes her skin glow an almost burnt golden color. I’m not sure what I expect her to say, but it’s not what she actually does. “I used to like going fast,” she says quietly. “Any way I could. Started out riding bikes around my neighborhood, racing with my— with all the kids there… Then, when I was a little bit older and I finally got my license, driving my dad’s sport car collection all around the city.” She smiles, a little repressed grin. “Well, actually more outside the city than within it, since, you know.”

  “Traffic is a bitch here,” I reply, smirking.

  She nods and lets out a huffy little laugh. Something about it sounds strained. And there’s a strain around the edges of her mouth, too, and the corners of her eyes.

  I hold my breath to keep from saying anything. To keep from shattering this moment, when it feels like she’s finally trusting me with something important.

  “I used to drive up the highway alone late at night, just… blasting music, feeling the wind in my hair.”