part0104

P erfectly-sculpted ginger locks withstand the brutal assault of the muggy July air as I pad across the street in my flip flops. After sitting in Gemmie’s chair for over an hour, the humidity has my dark jean shorts clinging to my ass like a sticker while my white button-down blouse has an equally appealing adhesive feel to my back.

Chipped grey bricks, peeling red-painted trim, and Rogue Seduction drawn on the window in white with the perfection of a five-year-old makes this joint look like a real hole-in-the-wall. Gemmie’s a miracle worker with my hair, but I’m not feeling as confident about how my face will look when I leave this dive.

Opening the door, Peggy Lee’s “Fever” fills the air with a surprise appeal for all of two seconds. Then I take in my surroundings with a few slow steps toward the heart of the room. The seductive classic plays from an actual turntable in the corner, which fits in with the rest of the swing and big band era theme. If my Grandma Carmichael’s ghost comes for a visit, I’m certain this is where she hangs out. This place reminds me of her attic: a pinup of Betty Grable, an old trumpet, a photo of Harry James, a Casablanca movie poster. It’s a clash of generations. There’s a photo of Marilyn Monroe next to one of Kelly Ripa and … I look closer …

“You must be Gemmie’s friend.”

How does this happen to me? I don’t even have to turn around. That deep resonating voice has lingered in my ears all week. Squinting, I lean closer to the picture of Kelly Ripa. She’s perched with her signature grin on the same stool that’s next to me with the same trumpet hanging on the wall, and standing behind her is a guy that looks like a slightly gothic version of Patrick Roth. I turn.

“Patrick?” I’m not sure why I sound unsure—it’s him.

“Darby … Carmichael.” My name sounds like sex dripping off his tongue. I feel dirty, embarrassed, pissed off, turned on, and scared shitless all at the same time. This city’s too damn big for me to see the same squirrel twice in one week.

“Patrick?” I need to find a new word; I sound like a parrot.

“Trick. Have a seat.” He tilts his head to the side, gesturing to the stool next to me.

Patrick was a wounded squirrel of very few words. He was a little dark and mysterious mixed with a whole lot of sexy. Trick is dangerous and intimidating—the lion circling the sheep. His sex appeal isn’t just distracting, it’s unnerving; a fitted white T-shirt exposes his toned arms and yes … tattoos. God, I love those tattoos!

I swallow; actually I gulp.

My torso sways forward a smidgen to inspect his face or what appears to be dark shadows under his eyes, doubling their intensity, in fact—oh hell, I think he’s wearing black eyeliner or guyliner. I went through a brief goth phase in my early college years, but the guys I was with back then looked like amateurs with Crayolas for makeup. Trick looks like he stepped off the cover of Rolling Stone .

I ease onto the stool, propping my feet up on the lower bar. He moves in front of me—staring. I look at his eyes; I look away. I wet my lips then bite them together. I fold my hands then drop them to my sides. Then I repeat this cycle of nervous gestures over again.

I’ve had my makeup done before, but this is a visual interrogation. Gemmie’s parting words ring in my head. He’s gay. It’s weird that doesn’t calm my nerves, cease the slow leak between my legs, or soften my nipples. Time’s up ! I can’t look at him anymore.

“I’m thinking something soft and sophisticated.” I look down at his black boots and black jeans, his hand still bandaged, and black leather wristbands cuffing the end of his sleeve tattoo. Steven wears a medical I.D. bracelet for his nut allergies, but it’s not as sexy as Trick’s leather bands.

“It doesn’t matter what you’re thinking.”

I cock my head to the side, and if I were a dog my ears would be pricked forward. “Excuse me?”

He steps closer and brushes my hair back over my shoulders. “I didn’t tell you how to do your job.”

Gemmie failed to mention I’d be dealing with Mr. All-Star Personality. He turns and messes with things on his counter. I exhale louder than I intend to, not realizing I’ve been holding my breath.

“What color is your dress?”

He glances over his shoulder.

“That’s green.” I relinquish a tightlipped smile.

His eyes go wide; he turns back around. It’s possible he already knew that emerald is a shade of green. I can only imagine what my next brilliant statement will be … my eye color is sky … that’s blue . He moves close with the stealth of a slithering snake—tempting, teasing. I can smell him … taste him. He’s gay. He’s gay. He’s gay. I cringe at the way my body stiffens as he touches my skin.

“Relax.” That damn seductive voice wrecks me!

His face, mere inches from mine, suffocates me with an awkward … intimacy . My heart drums against my chest over and over, and I can’t control it. Surly he hears it or feels it. Hell, I think it’s vibrating the whole room. I lick my lips and swallow. My body will collapse on itself if I look at his eyes, but I can’t not look at them. They’re right here staring at me. Why does he have to be so close? Is he nearsighted? Jade was right; he’s intense.

I squeak and it’s an actual I’m-so-pathetically-losing-it sound when his hand rests on my leg.

I hadn’t noticed my pent-up energy being channeled into my leg, bouncing out of control. What is wrong with me? HE’S GAY!

The problem is … I’m not. His sexual preference doesn’t take away from his scorching sex appeal. I bet my ass is singed from his nearness burning my panties right off.

“Close your eyes.”

If he doesn’t remove his hand from my leg I’m going to lean in and attack his neck like a rabid animal. Just one little taste.

“H-how’s your hand?” I grasp at anything that might be a distraction.

He doesn’t respond, but thank God he removes his hand from my leg.

“So you like the big band era, huh?”

“Are you the owner?”

What’s his deal? I give up. I’m pitting out, nipping out, and striking out. He doesn’t want to talk. Fine—neither do I! My focus turns to the music, the long list of assholes I plan on avoiding tonight, and the test results I need to check on at the hospital in the morning. Then, against my will, he manages to draw me under his hypnotic spell with those black-framed eyes.

Time drags on and on. I need a shower, but given my hair and makeup I’ll have to settle for a sponge bath. He outlines my lips with a pencil then makes a slow, torturous production of applying lipstick. I have to keep my lips slightly parted, which means he can hear and even feel my quickening breath … I’m panting.

Trick steps back, leaving me naked to his scrutinizing gaze.

I choke on my tongue in disbelief that he just said that, then I look past him at the mirror. Words are inadequate. I’m … holy hell, it’s like I’m staring at the cover of a glamour magazine. I didn’t get it before, but now I do. Hello, Sistine Chapel.

“Is there a problem?”

I blink a few times and shake my head like I’m lost, and I am … for words.

“You look disappointed. That’s not a look I’m accustom to seeing.”

I continue to shake my head. Closing my eyes, I give myself a much needed mental bitch slap for being disappointed that the gay makeup artist is admiring his work and not me. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

I pay for the most expensive and most erotic hour of my life. Glancing at my watch, I realize I need to make haste if I’m going to beat Steven to my place.

Trick’s enigmatic personality makes even a simple goodbye feel like an awkward conversing between two people who don’t speak the same language. “So … thanks.”

He nods. Once again, I’m left guessing what his simple body language says. Maybe it’s “you’re welcome,” or maybe he’s just dismissing me.

I shuffle in my flip flops to the door and give him one last smile, one last chance to say something! He doesn’t reciprocate. I’m not sure he actually has teeth. He’s never given me more than a barely detectable smirk. A full-fledged smile with the straight white teeth I imagine are behind those yummy lips would make me climax. Maybe it’s best if I never know.

The massive waste of money for political fundraisers, or politics in general, makes me physically ill. It’s greed and gluttony. If I really think about it, it’s all of the seven deadly sins. Ironically, I think committing them is a prerequisite to running for any higher office in this country “One nation under God.” God has to be shaking his head.

I’m showered with compliments on my dress, hair, and makeup. If the school-girl popularity contest were my thing, tonight would make up for the debacle that was my prom. Sadly, none of it matters … anymore.

“Hospital called. I have to go, babe.” Steven hands me his empty glass and slips on his black Armani jacket.

“Can you drop me off?” I scoot back in my chair, reaching for my wrap.

“Your place isn’t on the way to the hospital. You know that. Besides, don’t you want to stay?”

I look around, a little nauseous, a lot unimpressed. Dinner was over an hour ago, and my father and Rachel seem to have vanished. Wishful thinking. If only aliens were real. “No. I don’t want to stay. I’ll get a cab.”

“No you won’t.” Steven holds up his finger, walking a few tables over to where his parents are seated. He whispers something in his dad’s ear then smirks coming toward me. “Jack will drive you home.”

“I’m not taking your parents’ car and driver away from them, Steven.”

He helps me with my wrap, pressing his lips to my shoulder. “They’ll be here for several more hours yet. Jack’s just waiting outside anyway.”

I agree with a reluctant lingering of guilt as Steven escorts me out of the hotel.

He bundles me in the back of the town car and kisses me with eagerness. “Did I tell you how sexy you look tonight?” He brushes his lips along my exposed shoulder.

“More than once.”

“Take her back to my place, Jack.” He calls up front. “I’ll hurry. Don’t take off your dress before I get there.”

“Steven, I have to be to work at seven. It’s already eleven.”

“My place,” he growls while sucking my neck like a hormone-crazed teenager.

“You give me a hickey and I’ll cut your dick off.”

He stands, straightening his tie. “No hickeys, then. Steven has something he’d rather you do to his dick later. Bye, babe.” He closes my door and I shiver, but not like goose bumps of anticipation, more like the skin-crawling heebie jeebies begging for a stay of execution from the promise or threat of his words. That annoying third person crap didn’t help, either. Seriously, just massage my scalp!

Both Gemmie and Trick have messed with my head today. Steven’s not an unleashed tiger in the bedroom, but he has adequate skills. Though, he could use more tongue and less fingers. Sometimes I’m not sure if he’s trying to turn me on or prep me for a pap smear. Regardless, since my afternoon tease, I could really use a good release. But now Trick is in my head. I can’t stop wondering where the rest of his tattoos lead and what they all mean. Do they cover something or expose something? He’s gay so none of this should matter, but I just—Can’t. Stop. Thinking. About. Him!

The car begins to shake with the subtleness of a small earth quake as Jack pulls to the far right just before the stop sign. A barely detectable grumble escapes his chest as he gets out and walks around back.

“What’s happening?” I ask, rolling down my window.

“Flat tire, Miss Carmichael. I do apologize for the inconvenience. It shouldn’t take long to fix it.”

“That’s fine. It’s not your fault.” I open my door and step out.

“Miss, please stay in the vehicle. It’s not safe—”

I wave a dismissive hand. “It’s not safe to change a flat tire with a passenger in the vehicle. I’m fine.”

Jack concedes and continues to rummage through the trunk. Rubbing my hands along my arms while hugging myself, I contemplate grabbing my wrap, but instead lose focus as I gather my bearings of where we are. Gemmie’s neon sign is off, but I still recognize a few stores down on the other side of the street. That means … I continue walking until I’m standing in front of Rogue Seduction. I move closer to the window to see inside. The lights are off limiting my visibility to a few shadows from the filtered street light.

“We’re closed.”

I jump, smacking my hand against my chest as I turn. “Oh my God! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Well that sounds messy.” Trick shoves one hand in his pocket while the other twists a toothpick that’s hanging from the corner of his mouth. A mouth that still refuses to relinquish a smile. His hazel eyes look black tonight as he looks me over like I’m asking for his opinion of my dress … but I’m not.

I shiver, despite my heat-flushed skin. “You live here?”

“You stalking me?”

My head jerks back. His comment laced with a hint of narcissism sucker punches me. “What? No. I—my—I mean the car has a flat.” I point down the street. Trick looks and nods just as Jack walks toward us.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Carmichael. There’s not a spare tire. I’ve called for assistance and they should be here soon.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jack. I’ll get a cab.”

“I could call—”

“It’s fine, Jack, really.”

His backbone turns to Jello while he hangs his head, moping like a child all the way back to the car.

Trick looks around, fiddling with his toothpick. “Good luck finding that cab.” He sidesteps past me to an alleyway cut between the buildings.

I assess my dark surroundings—closed businesses, broken street lights, and a few homeless people drifting in and out of the alleys. Digging through my purse, I grab my phone—it’s dead. Just perfect! I look over at Jack leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette. After taking two steps in his direction, I pivot, for some insane, unexplainable reason, and waddle in my tight dress down the alley, heels clacking against the concrete.

“No cabs?” Trick asks without looking up as he unlocks a large metal door.

“My phone is dead. Can I borrow yours or pay you for a ride?”

He grunts, opening the door. “I don’t want your money.”

I rub my hands over the tight, chilled skin on my arms. “You didn’t have an issue with it earlier.”

“That was business. In.” He gestures with his head.

I step inside like I’m testing it for quicksand. It’s completely dark. The heavy door slams shut leaving an eerie echo bouncing off walls that seem wider and higher than my eyes can see. Trick flips a switch to a single light bulb that looks like it’s dangling from nowhere. Dark shadows drape everything but a freight elevator with the old scissor gate a few feet in front of us. He opens the gate and steps into the elevator. I don’t.

We have a silent standoff. I’m not getting on that old thing and he … well I don’t think he cares what I do.

“Suit yourself.” He starts to shut the gate.

“Wait!” I scurry into the elevator and he shuts the gate behind me.

It starts its ascent with a jerk as the old wheel and pulleys moan in protest. I lean against the back wall with my hands flat against it to brace myself. The fright in my face is palpable; I can only imagine how ugly it must look from the outside. My fear is met with another toothless smirk.

The elevator grinds to an equally jerky halt. Trick slides open the gate and steps off, turning on the lights. With less hesitation than before, I follow him like a horse he’s breaking with fear, not trust. He lives in an old warehouse. It has monstrous open ceilings with exposed duct work and conduit and a panoramic grid of windows at the far end. The walls are all naked red brick and there’s a spiral iron stairway in the distant corner, leading to an open loft area.

“I’ll get you a jacket.”

“I’m fine.” I force myself to stop the nervous friction of my hands rubbing against my arms. It has to be eighty degrees on this upper level, but I still have chills.

Trick continues to the stairway, of course not acknowledging a word I’ve said.

This place is void of interior walls with the exception of two translucent glass brick walls about ten feet high near a cluster of bedroom furniture. Watching the stairway for his return, I ease my way over and peek around the corner of glass—it’s a bathroom. Shuffling on my toes to silence my heels, I move toward the kitchen so he doesn’t see me snooping near his bedroom area. With my hands clasped behind my back in innocence, I wait for Trick. Beyond the sitting area in the middle of the room are multiple figures near the far windows. The dim lighting makes it impossible to tell if it’s more furniture or something else. It looks like different things draped with sheets.

“Here,” Trick says coming down the stairs, holding out a black leather jacket.

“I like your place.”

He raises a single disbelieving brow at me.

“I do. I like the industrial feel.”

He gives me a slow yeah-sure-you-do nod, clearly not convinced. In my own home I surround myself with modern decor trimmed in clean lines and very little clutter. Step-mommy Rachel thinks it has a hideous “sterile” feel to it: stainless steel appliances, white and shades of gray paint, and all hard surface flooring.

“You’re a man of very few words, Patrick Roth.” I smile, hoping to capture the ultimate prize—a return smile.

“It’s Trick, and maybe you’re a woman of too many words. Put the jacket on. Let’s go.”

“You could offer me a drink.” Internally, I grimace. Where did that come from? I have no idea what I’m doing or what’s my angle—my motivation. It might be fifty percent stupidity and fifty percent curiosity. Okay, more like seventy-thirty.

He sighs. “I don’t have anything to offer you.”

What does that mean? Are we still talking beverages or something else, as in he’s gay and I’m not?

No shake, just a glare—a you-just-woke-the-beast glare.

“Water?” I whisper, a squint of apprehension on my face.

His jaw clenches as he turns. Retrieving a bottled water from his refrigerator, he tosses it to me. I catch it and stare at it for a few seconds.

“What?” he says with biting aggravation.

My nose wrinkles. “Well, my teeth are sensitive. I can’t drink cold water.” God’s honest truth.

He rests his hands on his hips and looks up at the ceiling, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.

“I’m fine with tap water.” I squeak the words out like I’m waiting for the ceiling to collapse.

He grabs the bottle from my hands, screws off the top, and gulps down the contents. Then he fills it with tap water, glancing back at me with an evil scowl. “Jacket. Go. Now!” He hands the bottle to me, brushing past to the elevator.

The clicking of my heels echoes with each step as I hurry to catch up. On the descent, I take a small sip of the water and give him a sheepish sidelong glance. He doesn’t look at me, eyes firm ahead, hands fisted.

Leaving me and my lukewarm water on the elevator as if I no longer exist, he flips on another single light that illuminates a door off to our right. There’s a keypad by it and he enters a long code before the door buzzes and he pushes it open. I hustle to catch up before the heavy door slams in my face. It’s pitch black again until a large service door opens. Trick yanks off a cover with a magician’s confidence, revealing a motorcycle.

Sucking my wet lips into my mouth, I release them with a pop. “I’m not getting on that thing.”

We both stare at the motorcycle in silence for a few moments.

“Suit yourself.” He tosses the cover over it and backtracks toward the elevator.

I point to a larger something that’s also covered. “What’s that?”

I sigh, a lack of trust pulling my eyes into a tight squint. I know there’s more beyond whatever isn’t his, but I can’t see that well in this meager lighting. I could share with him motorcycle fatality statistics and the life-threatening injuries I see come into the ER, but something tells me my words would be nothing more than miming to a blind person.

“I can’t get my leg over a motorcycle in this tight dress.” I gesture to my fitted skirt that falls just above my knees. There’s an inch slit up one side, but not enough give to allow me to swing a leg over. It takes him three meaningful strides before we’re standing toe to toe. I shrug in the most innocent it’s-not-my-fault-I-have-this-dress-on way while looking up at him, thinking he surely understands my predicament. Eyes that give away nothing inspect the full length of my body, then he bends down and rips the skirt of my dress to my hip, exposing the waistband of my thong.

“What the hell?” I screech, grasping for the torn pieces in a losing battle to cover my bared ass.

Trick pulls the cover off his bike and grabs a helmet. Now it’s my jaw that grinds in rage. He wedges the helmet between his knees and gathers my hair, twisting it until it’s piled on top of my head before he shoves the helmet on me and flips down the visor.

“Jacket,” he grumbles, picking it up off the floor by my feet.

He slips it on me and zips it like I’m a child; then he gets on the bike and brings it to a roaring start.

“Get on.” He looks back at me, eyes drifting to my naked leg.

“Jerk!” I huff while throwing a leg over the bike and my patience to the wind.

“Hold on,” he grates, reaching back, palming my ass, to scoot me closer to him, which just makes me more pissed. And turned on in a praying mantis sexual cannibalism way.

I hug his body out of necessity with a scoop of detest and a drizzling of lust. How did my night turn into this fiasco?

“What’s your address?” he asks as we pull up to a stoplight.

I don’t say anything. I’m too livid to speak.

“Suit yourself.”

I flip up the visor. “What the hell does that mean? Why do you keep saying that to me?”

The light turns green.

“Address, Darby … now!”

I spew out my address like venom as he speeds forward. If I didn’t know better—and maybe I don’t—I’d think his mission is to send me flying off the back of his bike. My fingers make a death-grip claim to his abs. If I had long nails he’d be bleeding by now.

I say an instant prayer of thanks when we pull to a safe stop in front of my place. Nearly tumbling to the ground to get away from him, I jerk off his helmet and heave it. He catches it with a look of shock on his face. Shrugging off his jacket, I whip it on the ground.

“Have a nice life, asshole!” Turning, I stomp to my door. The lock evades me as I make desperate stabs at it with my key. It slides through the teeth, but before I can turn it Trick pins me to the door, my cheek pressed to the cool metal. I swear my ribs could crack from my heart beating in such a thunderous rage; every labored breath seethes through my clenched teeth.

His lips are so close to my ear I can feel their warmth. “I’m not an asshole. I just don’t like rich-bitch women who think they can strut their whore asses around and own me because they have a bigger bank account. I offered you a ride … period . So stop trying to buddy up to me. You don’t have anything I fucking want. Got it?”

I wriggle out of his grasp and turn.

Fire rages through my hand, the effects of which I’m sure will last longer than on his face. “You are an asshole.” I shove him, but his feet stay rooted firmly to the ground. He doesn’t even sway. “You don’t know me, and you sure as hell don’t know the balance of my bank account. So get the fuck away from me, and make sure you never end up in my ER again, because I won’t lift a goddamn finger to put you back together! Got. It?”

I whip around and stumble inside, closing and locking the door behind me before collapsing to the floor.

“Fuck!” he yells. “Darby!” He bangs on the door, but I don’t move.

I’m so pissed. The nerve of that jerk! But damn if I’m not as equally turned on. For the love of God, he ripped my dress. That was so damn hot! And when he slammed me against the door and rambled all that inconsiderate shit to me with a completely unwarranted judgmental attitude, I was even more pissed and proportionally aroused. I’m sure after a good night’s sleep and the return of my rational thinking, the only memory I’ll have from tonight will be his asshole attitude. But for now, the thing I’m most miffed about is that he’s gay!