I tighten my grip on the knife. “Hold still.”
My victim—I mean my friend Waldo, the spectator—looks uneasy. “Are you sure about this?”
It takes all of my acting skills to let just the right amount of doubt appear on my face. “Just don’t jerk your hand away.”
He’s holding his palm against mine, as though we’ve been glued together in the middle of an awkward high five. My hand is gloved, of course.
I glance around. We’re alone in the outdoor seating area of the coffee shop, and the pedestrians passing by on the street aren’t paying us any attention.
Too bad. I love an audience.
As I hoped, Waldo mistakes my gawking for nervousness, and his hand trembles.
Am I a bad friend for enjoying this so much?
Dumb question. That’s like asking if I’m a bad sister for putting my twin’s hand into warm water that night when she happened to wet her bed “for some reason.”
I’m just a fun friend. And a fun sister.
I glare at the back of my gloved hand to make my victim more nervous. “I’m going for it… now.”
Matching actions to words, I lift the knife in a wide, dramatic arc, channeling the shower scene from Psycho.
Waldo snatches his hand away before the blade reaches its target.
Whew. This wouldn’t have worked if he hadn’t chickened out.
I go through with the stabbing motion and yelp in fake pain before doing the sneaky move to complete the illusion.
The resulting picture speaks for itself: the knife is buried to the hilt on one side of my gloved palm, with the blade sticking out of the other side.
Waldo gapes at it, his thin face almost as pale as mine—and as part of my stage persona, I haven’t let the sun touch my skin in years.
I take his reaction as a compliment. He must believe I actually pierced my hand. The reality is different, of course. The blade that was sticking out of the knife is now hidden in the hollow hilt, and the blade that’s protruding from my palm is held in place by a powerful magnet inside my glove.
“Wait a second,” Waldo says, his breathing steadying. “There’s no blood.”
Before he can use more pesky logic, I triumphantly “rip” the knife out and claim to have healed my hand with a magic word.
“That was obviously an illusion,” he says, peering at the knife.
I hide it in my pocket. “You sure?”
He grabs my wrist to inspect the glove. It’s intact, and I dropped the magnet in my pocket when I hid the knife, so as we say in my profession, I’m clean.
“Let me see the knife,” he demands.
I pull out the normal knife hidden in my pocket next to the gimmicked one.
Waldo examines it, looking more confused by the second. Finally, he utters every magician’s favorite eight words. “I have no idea how you did that.”
I grin. “Then you might be even more surprised by this.” I take a red-striped watch out of my pocket. “I believe this is yours.”
Gasping, he snatches his possession away. “How did you do that?”
“Extremely well,” I deadpan.
“Holly?” an unfamiliar male voice says from the street.
I glance at the newcomer, and suddenly, it’s my turn to gape.
I didn’t realize this kind of masculine perfection existed outside of Hollywood.
Chiseled features. A Roman nose. Vaguely feline hazel eyes that zero in on my face predatorily, making me feel like an about-to-be-devoured gazelle.
I swallow the overabundance of saliva in my mouth with a loud gulp.
The stranger’s broad-shouldered, muscular torso is clad in a tight white t-shirt, and despite the raggedy jeans riding low on his narrow hips, there’s something regal about him—an impression supported by the strange design on his belt buckle. It resembles a crest that a medieval knight might put on his shield.
I’ve been told I compare people to celebrities too much, but it’s hard to do with this guy. Maybe if the love between Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain had borne fruit?
Nah, he’s even better-looking than that.
Realizing that I’m staring at his face too intently for it to be considered polite, I drop my gaze lower and notice that he’s holding two leather straps in his fists. Leashes, presumably.
Half expecting to see willing sex slaves on the other end of those leashes, I instead find two weird dogs.
At least I think the creatures are dogs.
One sports black-and-white spots that make it look like a panda. Actually, given the creature’s ginormous size, I can’t rule out the possibility that it is a bear. And, if looking like an endangered ursine species wasn’t odd enough, the beast is wearing goggles.
Is it because of bad vision, or is the panda about to go snowboarding?
The second creature is eyewear-free and reminds me of a koala, just much bigger and with a lolling canine tongue.
I force my gaze back to their ridiculously handsome owner. “Hey,” is all I can manage. My overactive hormones seem to have robbed me of the ability to speak.
The stranger narrows those hazel eyes. “You are Holly, right?”
This is your chance, my inner magician pipes up. Trick the hot stranger. Fool his pants off.
Banishing lust with a heroic effort of will, I inwardly rub my hands together, à la evil villain. Until I adopted my current pale-skinned, raven-haired stage persona, I was mistaken for my identical twin on a regular basis, even by people closest to us. Our oval-shaped faces are exactly the same, right down to sharp cheekbones and a strong nose. I was literally born for this particular deception.
Adding the slightest touch of poshness to my voice, I say, “Who else would I bloody be?”
There. If he knows that Holly has a twin named Gia (as in, me), he’ll voice that guess now and I’ll stand down.
Maybe.
I bet I can bluff him out even if he does know I exist.
He stares at me intently. “You’ve changed your hair.”
“Addams Family cosplay,” I say in my best Morticia Addams voice. It’s not my most convincing lie, but the guy looks like he’s about to buy it anyway. Then I see a problem. Waldo, who’s blinking in confusion, is about to speak. I kick his leg under the table and cheerfully ask the stranger, “Have you met Waldo?”
I’m hoping the hottie will extend his hand and introduce himself, thus letting me learn his name.
My evil ploy is thwarted by the panda. It pulls on the hottie’s pant leg with its teeth. Seeing this, the koala does the same on the other side, except its movements are clumsy, puppy-like, leaving a hole in the pants.
If this is how the dogs get his attention, no wonder he wears something so raggedy. Also, yuck. I hope he washes that dog saliva off his pants ASAP.
“One second, guys,” the stranger says to his furry friends in a warm, paternal tone that tugs at something in my chest. “Can’t you see I’m talking to Holly?”
Score! He believes I’m Holly.
Looking up from the dogs, the stranger gives Waldo a once-over. Does he also think my friend looks like Willem Dafoe, only when he played Aquaman’s mentor, not the Green Goblin from Spider-Man?
Before I can ask, the stranger’s gaze returns to me. “That’s not your boyfriend.”
I blink. He knows Holly’s boyfriend? Where does my sister find all these hunks? This one is even hotter than her Alex.
“Indeed,” I say, channeling her again. “This bloke is just a friend friend.”
The stranger’s wicked smirk is like a flick on my clit. “I don’t think men and women can be just friends.”
They so can. My sisters and I have been friends with one particular guy forever, and he’s never made a move on any one of us. Granted, he’s gay, but still.
Waldo stands up, all wounded dignity. “Look, chum, I’m allergic to dogs, so if you don’t mind…”
“Chum?” The stranger’s feline eyes are mocking as they capture mine. “See? He doesn’t like me horning in on his territory.”
The heat that flashes through my body is no longer lust. The nerve on this guy. “I’m nobody’s territory.” And certainly not Waldo’s. He’s never made a move on me either, not in the entire eighteen months we’ve known each other.
Waldo’s face reddens, and he tightens his grip on the knife that he never gave back.
Seriously? Can testosterone make you that stupid?
“She’s right, chum,” Waldo says in his most menacing voice, which, if we’re honest, sounds a bit like he’s doing a Cookie Monster impersonation. “You’d better skedaddle.”
The stranger curls his upper lip at him. If he’s aware of that knife, he doesn’t show it. Another testosterone-poisoning victim, no doubt.
“Skedaddle?” He looks back at me. “Where did you find this Waldo?”
Okay, that’s it. I’m the only one allowed to make “Where’s Waldo?” jokes at my friend’s expense.
The hot stranger has just crossed a line.
I push my chair back and rise to my full five-foot-five height. “How about ‘get the fuck out of here?’ Is that a better choice of words for you?”
This is when the panda growls at Waldo—a threatening sound one wouldn’t expect to come out of such a cute, if overlarge, dog. It reminds me of this news report about a man who tried to hug a panda at the zoo, only to end up in the hospital after the frightened bear mauled him.
Paling, Waldo sets the knife on the table. There are clearly at least ten brain cells inside that thick skull of his.
The stranger pats the bespectacled beast’s head and murmurs something soothing in a language that sounds Eastern European.
Huh. He didn’t have any accent when he spoke to me, but English must be his second language. Otherwise, he wouldn’t address his dogs in that foreign tongue.
Crap. With our luck, the hottie is some Russian mobster.
“Sit down,” I hiss at Waldo, and to my relief, he does as I say.
Make that twenty brain cells.
The stranger’s beautiful eyes roam over my face before narrowing again. “You’re not Holly. She’s nice.” A touch of that wicked smirk returns to his lips, and his voice deepens. “Whereas you are naughty.”
That does it. No more Mrs. Nice Magician.
I slowly saunter over to him.
Although… maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
Now that I’m closer, I realize just how tall he is. And wide-shouldered. The giant dogs threw off my perspective, creating a visual illusion that their owner was normal-sized. He’s not. Worse yet, he smells divine, like ocean surf and something ineffably male.
A trick under these conditions will test all of my abilities.
Hold on. Will the dogs get mad that I’m so close?
As if reading my mind, the stranger gives them a stern command, and they sheepishly fall behind him.
Was that command intended to make me want to behave like a good, obedient bitch? Because I kind of want to.
No, screw that. I’m sticking with my plan, which requires me to get within pickpocketing distance.
“Do you want to see just how naughty I can be?” I ask in the sultriest voice I can muster.
Is it normal for human eyes to go all slitty like that, as if he were a lion?
“How naughty is that, myodik?” the stranger murmurs.
Did he just say “me dick?” Nah. It was something in whatever language he used with the dogs. Still, his dick is now firmly on my mind, which doesn’t help the hormonal overload situation.
Forcing away the X-rated images, I purposefully lick my lips. “I’ll steal your wallet. Or your watch. Your choice.”
The supposed choice is misdirection, obviously. My real target is neither of those things, but he doesn’t need to know that.
His nostrils flare as his gaze drops to my lips. “Is it stealing if you warn me?”
If it were possible for me to forget my concerns about germs and consider placing my lips on someone else’s, I’d do that now. It’s the strongest such urge I’ve ever felt.
“What’s the matter?” I say breathlessly. “Chicken?”
He pats the right pocket of his jeans. “How about you steal my wallet?”
I take in a steadying breath. “Thanks for showing me where it is.”
Before he can reply, I delve into that pocket. I need major misdirection for what I’m really trying to steal.
By Houdini’s eyebrows, is that what I think it is?
Yup. There’s no mistaking it. As I brush my gloved fingers over the wallet, I feel something else behind the fabric of the pants.
Something big and very hard.
Well. Someone is overly happy to be pickpocketed.
Maybe he was saying “me dick” before?
I do my best to hold his gaze and not clear my suddenly dry throat. “Can you feel me stealing it?”
As I speak, I work on unclasping the fancy buckle—his belt being my real target.
His lids lower to half-mast, and his voice deepens further. “Your nimble fingers are exactly where I want them.”
Crap. Between my gloves and his ridiculous sex appeal, I’m having trouble with the clasp.
But no. I can’t get caught. That would be like revealing a magic secret—the biggest taboo I can think of.
“These fingers?” I ask huskily and gently stroke his hardness through the layers of fabric, using the misdirection this slutty move creates to pull harder on the clasp with my other hand, finally opening it.
I’d like to see David Blaine do that.
The stranger’s low, guttural groan is animalistic and makes my nipples so hard they feel on the verge of turning inside out. He now looks like a lion about to pounce.
Gulping, I yank my hand out of his pocket and try to give him a sneaky smile. It comes out faltering instead. “I changed my mind. I’ll steal your watch.”
I grab his wrist and give it a tight squeeze while pulling out the belt with my other hand.
Yes! Got it. Hiding the belt behind my back, I pout at the watch. “On second thought, I think I’ll let you keep your possessions.”
He looks triumphant, probably convinced that his sex appeal has defeated my pickpocketing skills. Since it almost did, I can’t really fault him for thinking it.
I carefully back away. “Oh, by the way, did you lose this?”
I show him my prize.
Eyes wide, he shifts his gaze back and forth between my hand and his pants.
“How?” he asks.
The question is music to my ears.
“Extremely well,” I say, but I can’t manage my usual bluster.
He extends his hand to get the belt back. “You’re a dangerous woman.”
Two things happen simultaneously as I step toward him to return the belt.
The panda tries to get his attention again by pulling on his left pant leg. Not wanting to be outdone, the koala does the same thing on the right side—only this time, there’s no belt holding the pants up, and they slide down.
All the way down.
Fuck. Me.
The biggest erection in the history of phalluses juts out and—though this could be my imagination—winks at me.
He’s been commando all this time?
Me dick indeed.
I gape at the ginormousness. Even though I touched it and felt its size when I was rummaging in his pocket, I never would’ve imagined it like this.
Smooth. Straight. Delectably veiny. It just begs to be touched, or sucked, or licked—but I can’t for reasons that are difficult to recall right now.
A concealed carry license should be required to pack that kind of heat. And also whatever license you need to operate heavy machinery. And a hunting license. Maybe even a 007-style license to kill—
Behind me, I hear Waldo gasp. Poor thing. I bet even he is ready to get on his knees for a taste, and to the best of my knowledge, he’s straight.
I can’t tear my gaze away.
If that cock were a magic wand, it would be one of the Deathly Hallows—the one Voldemort wielded at the end. And if it were a banana, it would be just the right-sized snack for King Kong.
The stranger should be turning red with embarrassment and scrambling to cover himself, but instead, a cocky smirk lifts the corners of his lips. “Like what you see?”
I do. So much so I want to pull out my phone and take a selfie with it.
To my huge—and I do mean huge—disappointment, he pulls up his pants. His voice is husky. “Like I said. Naughty. Very naughty.”
Snatching the belt from my nerveless fingers, he loops it back into his pants and saunters away with his dogs, leaving me standing there, mouth agape.
“Can you believe that guy?” Waldo asks somewhere in the distance, his tone outraged.
No. I can’t.
I can’t believe what just happened, period.
All I know is this wasn’t what I had in mind when I set out to fool that guy’s pants off.