Rebel North

by JB Salsbury

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Those don’t sound like date-worthy activities.”

  “You’re asking me out on a real date?”

  “I am.” He tilts his head. “Does that surprise you?”

  I cross my arms at my chest. “A little. As long as we’ve worked together, you’ve never asked me out before.”

  “I am now.”

  “Okay.”

  He grins kind of crooked, and it’s endearing. “That’s a yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. This weekend work? I get off at two on Saturday, and you have the day off.”

  “You scouted my schedule before asking me?”

  “A man needs to be prepared.”

  “Saturday works.”

  “Great, I’ll pick you up.”

  “How about I pick you up.”

  “Modern day woman.” His expression softens. “I like it. Seven o’clock?”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’ll text you my address.” Another brush of his foot against mine, and he leaves.

  I look down at my phone and see a new text from Kingston. An address followed by the words see you tonight.

  Eight

  Gabriella

  When Kingston asked me to meet him in SoHo, I made sure to go home and get cleaned up first. The address he gave takes me straight to the Balenciaga store, and my nerves threaten to send me back home.

  Why would he want me to meet him here?

  “Everything okay?” Tamara, my Uber driver, looks over her seat at me after I stall and don’t get out of the car.

  “I’m good.” I give what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Thanks for the ride.”

  I grab my purse and get out of the car. With little time to get ready, I ended up leaving with damp hair, opting for it to air dry, and the natural waves fall around my shoulders. I dip my forehead to hide my scar.

  “You came.” Kingston’s smooth, velvety voice comes from my scarred side, so I didn’t see him approach.

  There’s no hiding my ruined skin when I look up at him, but he doesn’t pay the damage even a passing glance as his gaze settles on mine.

  “Of course I came.” You need me.

  He smells incredible—like cedar, cinnamon, and citrus blossoms. His hair, which is usually pushed off his face, hangs longer around his cheekbones as if he also left with it wet, and he’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen him, wearing a T-shirt, blue jeans, and tan leather, lace-up boots.

  “You look great.” He takes me in from top to toe.

  I squirm under his inspection, feeling insanely inadequate in my jeans and pink velvet cami.

  “May I?” He holds out his hand with a crooked smile that makes my body feel warm all over.

  When I put my hand in his, he twirls me slowly in a circle, and when I come back to face him, he’s grinning.

  “Pink is your color.”

  “It is?”

  He hums softly.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear on my good side and shove my hands into my back pockets. “So, uh… what are we doing here?”

  “Retail therapy.” He motions for me to walk ahead of him to Balenciaga.

  “Bad day, huh?”

  “The worst.”

  Kingston

  “No.” Gabriella stares into the full-length mirror, eyes wide as she slowly turns from side to side wearing the Balenciaga bodycon mini-dress I begged her to try on.

  A little breathless, I lean against the wall and meet her eyes in the mirror. “Yes.”

  “Are you crazy,” she hisses. “Absolutely not.” She does another half-twist, checking out her body’s profile in the matte spandex—round breasts, flat stomach, full hips, and a pert little ass. The woman is a Bernini sculpture, all marble skin and soft curves.

  “Are you crazy?” I push off the wall and walk around her while studying the way every hem hugs her body. “I can’t let you leave here without that dress.”

  “How can you say that so casually, like I’m buying lipstick instead of a two-thousand-dollar dress?”

  I imagine her in heels wearing blood-red lipstick and instantly swell behind the button fly of my jeans.

  “We’ll take it,” I say to the salesperson, who has been standing dutifully by, awaiting instructions.

  His eyes light up. “Great choice.”

  I lift my brows at Gabriella. “See? Even he agrees with me.”

  She props her hands on her hips. “I thought we’d be doing retail therapy for you, not me.”

  “We are.” There’s nothing sexier than watching women try on expensive designer clothes. The way they light up when they see themselves encased in the kind of fabrics and design their beautiful bodies deserve. The look of awe when they see their reflection in the mirror and actually feel sexy. It’s my favorite kind of porn. “This is very therapeutic.”

  Being with her, watching her try on clothes, I nearly forget how much I hate North Industries and August. And fuck Hayes, too.

  “Do you own red lipstick?”

  She licks her lips self-consciously. “No.”

  “That’s next on the list.” I nod toward the dressing room. “Go get changed.”

  “You know, you’re a lot bossier than I thought you’d be.”

  She has no idea.

  She disappears into the dressing room, and I close my eyes and listen to the sound of fabric sliding off her skin. I bite back a moan and then give myself an internal bitch-slap for being such a creep.

  She steps out with the dress back on its hanger. “I’m not buying this.”

  “I know.” I take the dress from her and hand it off to the salesperson. “I am.”

  “No, you’re not!” She chases after me as I follow the man to the register and hand him my black Amex.

  “I thought you said you’d be my wingman.”

  “I did! I am!” She looks confused until her gaze darts to the salesperson. Her big eyes get bigger when she looks back at me. “Ohhhh.” She smiles knowingly. “Got it.” She winks, using not just her eye but the whole side of her face, then bounces her eyebrows.

  What the hell…?

  She saunters up to the salesperson as if she’s John Wayne and leans an elbow on the register. “So… Burke is it?”

  “Yes,” he says, smiling with glossy lips.

  “Tell me… are you single?” She gives me another obvious wink.

  “Stop it. That’s not what I—”

  “I am,” Burke answers and slides my card while eyeing me.

  “Really.” She mouths he’s single at me.

  “I heard. I’m standing right here.”

  Even if I were gay, and she was my wingman, she is the absolute worst at subtlety.

  I take my card back and grab the garment bag. “Thank you. We’re leaving.” I hook my arm around her neck and pull her toward the door.

  “But wait, let’s get his number—”

  “No.”

  “I’m your wingman!”

  I sigh and hang a left out the door, where just a few yards away, my driver James waits outside the black SUV. He pops open the back door and smiles at Gabriella as I motion for her to get in.

  “I could’ve sealed the deal for you if you’d just given me another minute.”

  After shoving the bag into her lap, I climb into the backseat with her. “That’s really sweet of you, but no thanks.”

  “Why not? He was handsome.”

  “He’s not my type.”

  “What is your type?” she says just as the SUV lurches forward into traffic. “Where are we going?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over. I need all the details, Kingston North.” She leans in close enough for me to see the flecks of navy in her pale blue eyes. “Because I’m going to be the best wingman you’ve ever had, and I will not give up until we find you a man.”

  “Great,” I say deadpan.

  She doesn’t seem to pick up on my tone because the next thing she
does is grab my hand excitedly and squeal. She pulls my hand into her lap and holds it there, just inches from her pussy.

  I watch intently at how our hands are intertwined and think how easy it would be to slip my hand higher into her sweet heat—no! I rip my hand from hers and play off the sudden move by reaching into my pocket for my phone.

  This woman is turning me inside out.

  Again.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather grab something from a restaurant?”

  The man cooking the food has long hair and is wearing a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The brown, wiry hair that sticks out of his armpits makes it look like he has two guinea pigs clamped under his biceps.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never had jerk chicken from a food truck—yes, extra gravy, please,” she says to the man taking her order.

  “I don’t eat food from automobiles. It’s weird.” I tried to take her to a nice place in SoHo, but she insisted I let her buy and dragged me to a Midtown food truck.

  She pays for our food with a twenty-dollar bill. Another thing I don’t make a habit of? Eating food that costs less than a parking ticket.

  “Don’t be such a snob.” She rocks into my side. “I used to eat here all the time. You’re going to love it.”

  She hands me a bottle of water and then snaps the tab of her Diet Coke.

  “You spend a lot of time in the city?”

  “Not so much anymore.” She sighs and closes her eyes into the warm breeze. “I love springtime in the city.” She inhales deeply. “You ever notice the smell?”

  I do. It’s a common topic. The Callery pear trees in bloom have a very distinctive and erotic scent.

  I run my teeth along my lips to keep from smiling. “Smell?”

  “You don’t smell that?”

  I inhale. “I smell exhaust and Jamaican food.” I tilt my head to get her eyes. “Why? What do you smell?”

  “It smells like cum.”

  I choke on a laugh but cover it by clearing my throat. “Male or female?”

  She smacks my chest and laughs. “Male! Don’t pretend you don’t smell it.”

  I take another sniff of the air. “Is that what that smell is?”

  “You’re trying to tell me you don’t know what semen smells like? Now I know you’re lying.”

  I don’t correct her. Of course, I know what it smells like, though not for the reason she thinks.

  “You know when you get it on your—”

  I hold up a hand. “You don’t need to elaborate.”

  “Anyway, I call them cum trees, and I know I should be grossed out by the smell, but I kind of love it—”

  “Our food’s ready.” I step away from her to grab our food, walking awkwardly because apparently, my body can’t handle shit when it comes to this woman. She mentions cum, and my body acts like she’s offered a formal invitation to do so.

  And here I thought being her gay friend would keep me safe from any kind of romantic possibilities, but her brutal honesty is making me hot.

  I hand her a Styrofoam bowl and sit next to her on a bench.

  She takes a bite and moans around the food. I grit my teeth and push the food around before forcing myself to take a bite—hold on… I chew the chicken, rice, and gravy, and the flavor explodes on my tongue.

  “Good, right?” she says with a cheek full of food.

  “Really good.” I take another bite.

  She leans into my side and drops her head onto my shoulder for a few seconds. “I told you.”

  I turn to bury my nose in her hair, maybe even press my lips to the shiny, auburn locks, but all too soon, she lifts her head and goes back to her food.

  “I’ll pay you back for that dress.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “I can’t let you spend two thousand dollars on me.” She shovels another bite into her mouth. “You hardly know me.”

  “I begged you to meet me and forced you into that dress. The least I can do is pay for it. Besides, I have money to burn and no one to spend it on.”

  “Aww, don’t worry. We’ll find you someone.”

  “That’s not what I mean—”

  “Oh!” she bounces on the bench next to me. “I can wear the dress on my date this weekend.”

  “What the fu—” A piece of chicken gets lodged in my throat. I clear my throat to try and knock it loose. The meat doesn’t budge. I grip my neck and cough, forcing the food deeper.

  “Oh, my God, are you okay?” She bangs her palm on my back.

  The chicken doesn’t budge. I break out in a sweat. My pulse rockets through my veins. Is this how I die? By a food truck in the street?

  She jumps to her feet, and I cough, hack, and gag. “He’s choking!”

  A pair of large arms come around me from behind, wrenching me from my seat and violently pressing on my sternum. My ribs feel like they’re going to snap. Before they do, the chicken dislodges and shoots from my throat, off the sidewalk, and down into a subway grate.

  “You okay, buddy?” The guy at my back has a thick New York accent.

  “I’m fine.” I step out of his hold and away from him, my face hot with embarrassment and damp with sweat. “I’m good, thank you.”

  I’m not good. I’m a fucking mess around this woman. I can’t speak, and when I do, I say the stupidest things. I can’t eat without practically dying. I look like a bumbling idiot without an ounce of swagger. What the fuck is my problem?

  “Oh, my God.” Gabrielle slams into my chest, her arms wrap around my middle. “That was so scary.” She squeezes me tightly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Everything inside me melts at feeling her against me. I shouldn’t hug her back, but I want to, so I do. I bury my nose in her hair and breathe, holding her tiny body against mine.

  Looking like a complete doofus has its benefits. If I’d known all I had to do to get her into my arms was choke on my dinner, I would’ve done it sooner.

  She pulls back and looks up at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  No. I’m not okay. Not at all. “Did you say date?”

  Her brows pinch together. “What?”

  “You’re going on a date this weekend.”

  “Yes. A guy from work.” Her eyes light up. “Will you help me get ready?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Please?” She pouts, and that bottom lip taunts me. “I haven’t been on a real date in… well, a really long time.” She chews that lip self-consciously.

  Guilt slams me in the ribs along with a lot of other shit, all of it bad. I can’t have her, so what? No one else can have her either?

  Fuck, yes. No one.

  I shake my head to rid those unfair thoughts. I could help her get ready, maybe even meet this guy, make sure he’s good enough for her. There are perks to being the friend. If this guy is a douchebag, I could talk her out of seeing him again.

  “Fine.”

  “You’ll do it? You’ll help me?”

  Fuck. “Yes.”

  She goes back to hugging me, and I hold her there, thinking that maybe Hayes was right.

  I am a dumbass.

  Nine

  Gabriella

  Kingston told me to come over early since neither of us had to work, and he said getting ready for a night out should be an event, whatever that means.

  I showered, shaved, and shoved my makeup and hair products in a bag, along with my sexiest undergarments and a few options for shoes.

  It’s almost four o’clock when my Uber drops me off in front of the Lenox Hill building. The doorman greets me by name, as does the elevator attendant.

  “He’s expecting you, Miss Gabriella,” the gray-haired man says with a tiny bow.

  I exit on the top floor, which opens to a small lobby and large double doors. Before I can lift my fist to knock, one the doors opens, and Kingston appears, wearing nothing but sweatpants, slippers, and a smile.

  “Holy fuck,” I breathe and try to close my m
outh, which refuses to listen to the ‘shut it’ command.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he drawls and motions for me to come inside.

  “He—hi. You…” I swallow hard. “Where’s your shirt?”

  He narrows his gaze, and heat flares at my neck. “Does my bare chest bother you?”

  “No?”

  A slow smile tilts his lips. “You sure?”

  “No… I mean, yes. Yes, I’m sure.”

  “I just got out of the shower.” He closes the door behind me. “I’m still hot from my workout.”

  Yeah, you are.

  I can’t look at him without gawking, so I redirect my attention to his space. I can tell a lot about a person from their home, and modern design filled with overstuffed couches and bright artwork is exactly the kind of beauty–comfort combo I would expect of the man I’m getting to know. Stylish, sleek, masculine with a hint of feminine flair, and filled with light.

  “I’ll take these.” His warm fingers brush against mine, and he takes my bags and my dress. He hangs the dress in a coat closet and sets the bags nearby. He stands to his full height in front of me, and I shiver at his nearness. “Are you nervous?”

  I lick my bottom lip in the hope that it’ll kill the mild tingling I feel there. “You’re just…” Another thick swallow. “You look really good without a shirt.”

  “Hmm…” He steps closer, his voice almost a whisper. “That’s sweet, but I meant, are you nervous about tonight.”

  My cheeks turn to torches, and I press my fingertips against the heated flesh. “Oh, um, no, not really. I’ve known Evan for a while.”

  Kingston’s eyes take on a predatory glint. “Evan.”

  “Yeah, you uh… you met him… the night you passed out.”

  He blinks as if searching his memory bank.

  “You probably don’t remember. You were pretty out of it. He’s the one who helped me bring you to a bed.”

  He grunts and then crosses to the kitchen. “Drink?”

  “No, uh… no, thank you.”

  He pulls a bottle of Krug Rose Champagne from his window-front refrigerator, followed by a cold glass. “You should sip on something while you get ready.” He pops the cork, then pours the blush bubbles. “Help settle the nerves.”