Текст книги "Reveal"
Автор книги: Elle Brooks
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
I HAVEN’T GONE back to my apartment in almost a week. I’m not even sure what I’ll find when I do. Callum has assured me that Mr. Carter isn’t still there, a rotting corpse on my living room floor, waiting to be discovered by poor old Mrs. Heckles. He’d gone back to my apartment after I’d fallen asleep, the night everything kicked off. When I’d asked him why, he answered, “To make sure he won’t be causing you any more problems.” I’m not sure what that was even supposed to mean, and I don’t dare ask for clarification. Apparently when Cal had arrived back at my place, Mr. Carter had already gone. The only evidence of the whole horrific ordeal was my blood-soaked rug, which he’d cleaned up as best he could. The thought of Cal cleaning my apartment is more than a little strange; I’m not quite sure what to make of it.
I do know that I owe him so much already. I can’t even bear to think what might have played out if he hadn’t arrived when he did. The whole event didn’t really leave me with much of a choice when Cal’s questioning began. I had to tell him the truth; I owed him that much, at least. So I bit down on my pride, and started at the beginning with Danny: the loans, the fact that he skipped out on me, and how it led to me being here now—working in his club—to pay back the debts. Cal doesn’t give much away when you talk to him; he was sitting stock still, absorbing everything I was telling him, and I couldn’t read a single emotion. I’ve no doubt he thinks hiring me was a massive mistake. He wanted a dancer; instead, he got lumbered with babysitting a twenty-four-year-old with more baggage than the luggage claim at JFK.
We argued about me returning to my place. Arguing with your boss less than a few weeks into your new job is a sure sign your work-life balance is way off kilter. But then again moving in with him isn’t exactly normal, and now my work and my home life are one and the same. I’m not a prude; I cuss like anyone else, but Cal’s swearing would have made a sailor blush when I’d told him that I was going home. It was the morning after Carter had visited, and Cal hit the roof, telling—no, shouting at me– it wasn’t safe, and he wouldn’t allow it. I’d countered that it wasn’t up to him to make my decisions, but really I was relieved that he had. The thought of being home alone scares me, and Carter doesn’t know where I am when I’m here. I feel safer.
The downside is that I’m holed up in Cal’s spare room. Sure, it’s handy for work, but it’s awkward as hell in every other way. He told me I could stay indefinitely until everything is sorted out with paying back the debts. He’s obviously more optimistic than I am about how quickly I can do that. It’ll take forever to clear them, and after everything that’s happened, I’m sure there will be interest to pay. Mr. Carter was an unforgiving man before, after what’s happened I can’t think of a single scenario where he won’t hold it against me. That thought alone is terrifying.
I called Mrs. Heckles this morning; I was worried that she’d be wondering where I am and if I’m okay. I’d gotten away with telling her as little as possible, lying and pretending I was staying with a friend for a while, unsure of when I’d be back. I attempted to warn her not to talk to anyone that may come asking for me. She agreed, but if she manages it I’ll be amazed. She just can’t help herself sometimes. Callum promised to take me back to my place today to collect some more of my things. I didn’t do a stellar job of packing the night I’d left.
Despite his constant reassurance that it’s not the case, I can’t help but feel that staying here is a burden on him. Cal stays out of my way as much as possible, to the point that he leaves a room when I enter. We don’t talk much; a strange tension seems to have settled around us, and I don’t know what to do to lift it. The night of our almost kiss is when things took a strange turn; at least, I think it was then. I’m calling it the almost kiss, I could have read the signals wrong, and he wasn’t about to kiss me, but I’m not convinced that’s the case. Kissing him would have been a huge mistake, but I can’t dislodge the thought of what it might have been like if Annie hadn’t interrupted us. Would I have stopped him? Walked away and ignored it? Or would I have leaned in and made it happen?
The sad truth is I feel so lonely right now—I crave physical contact. I want to feel anything other than this…fear, hurt, anger. It’s all aimed at Danny, right or wrong, and the fact that I still find myself missing him makes the rage intensify. I don’t want to miss him. I’m tired of wanting to curl into a ball and cry. Maybe that’s the reason I almost let my boss kiss me? Maybe it’s the reason that I’ve agreed to meet Cole this afternoon for drinks—I need to feel wanted right now.
My mom insists that I touch base with her regularly but I haven’t called in over two weeks, and I still haven’t told her that Danny is gone. I don’t want to worry her, but more than that, I’m embarrassed to tell her how badly things have turned in such a short space of time. I know what would happen…she’d tell me to come home. My pride won’t let me dial her number. I’m supposed to be the success story of our family, the one who’s living out her dreams and making it work in the Big Apple. My older sister, Erin, gave up her dreams to play house with a complete asshole straight out of high school. Not surprisingly the relationship didn’t last, although she gave it a go for a few years. She’s with a pretty great guy now, but she’s been left paying the price for not going to college.
I should tell Mom what’s happening, but it’s easier to tell myself that I’m doing her a favor by not burdening her with my problems. She has enough of her own; Dad had to give up work around a year ago because of his arthritis, so Mom is run off her feet. They downsized to a smaller house when I left for New York; there’s no room for me to go back even if I wanted to. I couldn’t even stay with Erin, she has a husband, twin two-year-olds, a dog, a rabbit and two cats to contend with. Adding me to her equation would be far too much. So I can’t tell them, any of them, it wouldn’t be fair.
The display on my cell reads 2:40 pm. Cal should be here soon; we made arrangements at breakfast. I’m not a morning person and have never professed to be anything other than a little bit of a cow before 10 am. I don’t function well without caffeine. Instead, I wander around in a state of sleep-induced semi-consciousness.
I was headed to the kitchen this morning to get my coffee fix when Callum stepped out of the bathroom and straight into my path. I probably would have noticed him if my eyes hadn’t been almost closed as I fumbled my way toward the kitchen, using the wall as my guide. My face planted straight into his damp, solid chest, making me stumble and stealing my annoyance as I realized his state of undress. His hair was dripping tiny beads of water down his face, his toothbrush still tucked neatly into the side of his mouth. I gawped at the fluffy gray towel wrapped low around his waist. I had no choice but to follow the deep v that pointed down to his crotch. He was talking on his phone and dropped it from his ear, smirking at me, when I ran into him. I can’t be sure what he’d said as he pressed the cell into his chest to shield the caller from his words, my embarrassment overshadowed all my other senses.
He walked away, but not before ruffling my hair, much in the same way an adult does to a small child before he resumed his phone conversation. It took me a few minutes to recover from the sight of Callum Speight, shower-damp and almost naked. It was a fine wake-up call, and infinitely better than any cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted.
By the time I’d washed and changed he was on his way out the door. He told me he’d be back to take me to my apartment, winked and told me to have a good day, pointing to the table as he left. He’d made me breakfast—coffee and croissants. It’s strange how the smallest gesture can feel so monumentally overwhelming. It was one small act of kindness, and I’m glad he’d walked away when he did—because I broke down and cried. Hot tears spilled over my cheeks and dripped into my coffee as I nursed it close to my chest. I remembered what my life used to be like not so long ago, and how quickly things can go from picture perfect to a horrible dream you can’t wake up from.
I suppose that’s the thing with pictures, they can capture one perfect moment in a day full of distinctly average ones, and immortalize it. Tricking you into thinking that all your moments were perfect, when in fact they were mediocre at best. Perhaps our pictures didn’t fool Daniel, the ones we’d hung around the apartment attempting to make it homey. Maybe they served as mementos for how unspectacular he thought our relationship was, and prompted him to make a change. Looking at images of us goofing around, seemingly carefree and content, I guess it would be easy to forget the daily struggles. Rejection letters from music execs, mounting bills, the little things that were almost insignificant on their own, but added up to big problems. Maybe he saw something different in those pictures than what I saw. Or possibly I’m just pissed that he bailed first.
Ringing pulls me from my pity parade down memory lane and snaps me back to the here and now. I drop my phone in my haste to answer, and it bounces unceremoniously off the corner of the table. The crackling noise of my screen as it splinters fuels my theory that I must have been a terrible person in a former life; why else would the Powers That Be dole out blow after blow on me? I scoop it from the floor and see the crack only spans the width of a quarter—not so bad. The positioning seems almost cathartic. My screen saver is a picture of Danny and me murdering Bennie and The Jets in drunken karaoke. I’m wearing a rainbow-colored afro, and he has on a pair of giant heart sunglasses. The crack covers all of Danny’s face. I smile.
“Hello, Tweet? Tweet, you there? Hello?”
“Sorry, dropped the phone,” I tell Callum.
“I’m downstairs now if you’re ready to go?”
I quickly check my reflection in the mirror over the mantle.
“Be right down.”
I slide my cell into the back pocket of my ripped jeans, smooth out my tank top and grab my purse and keys. I twist my hair into a messy knot and hastily smear on a little lip gloss as I descend the stairs to the bar. It’s only because my lips are dry, it has nothing to do with wanting to look pretty for my boss, I tell myself.
There are two kinds of people in this world, those who love motorcycles, and those who don’t. I’m undecided. I did belong to the latter, but as I cling to Callum, my arms circling his waist, and my face pushed into the hard ridge of his shoulder, I’m beginning to change my mind. We’re weaving through traffic, and although I don’t like the vulnerability I feel on his bike, I do like the closeness it forces as we ride it. There’s something comforting about being pressed up against his back, breathing in the smell of soap mixed with his cologne. I’m not thinking about Danny or Carter, and it’s a welcomed respite. If I have to ride on the back of a potential deathtrap to satisfy my need for a sense of peace, no matter how fleeting, I’ll take it.
We pull up outside of my apartment building, and I throw my leg over the bike, pulling the helmet off and handing it to Cal. Mrs. Heckles is sitting by the entrance on a rickety old wooden lawn chair, wrestling with a bag of chips almost as big as she is, as I make my way across the sidewalk.
“She’s been on the pot again,” I whisper to Cal as he jogs to catch up. His eyes flick from mine over to Mrs. Heckles and back again. His brows are furrowed like he thinks he must have misheard me, but we’re right in front of her now, so he doesn’t ask for clarification.
I smile and take the bag of chips from her, then open them and pass them back. “Here you go, Mrs. Heckles.”
“Ah, thank you, sweetheart,” she says, shoving one into her mouth and talking around it. “I’ve been struggling with them for the last five minutes…damn arthritis. Hands are riddled with it, makes it hard to open things, packets especially. The marijuana makes it hard not to want to eat everything in sight, and it’s all in packets. Vicious circle, I tell ya.”
I laugh, and Cal stands slack-jawed and disbelieving that the sweet old lady in front of us is complaining about the munchies. It’s written clear as day all over his face that he can’t quite comprehend that she just said that out loud.
“You know you shouldn’t really smoke this stuff in plain sight of everyone, right?” I ask her. “It’s illegal; if a cop walks by, you’d be in trouble.”
Mrs. Heckles looks at me with a grin that tells me she’s not worried.
“Please child, what policeman is going to come over here and question what I’m smoking? I could be stark naked and dancing around wielding a gun and nobody in this city would pay a blind bit of notice. People these days are far too preoccupied. Always busy, walking around with their heads down as they’re surfing on the line, updating their face tubes with pictures of what they just ate for lunch.”
Cal’s laughter interrupts her train of words and her eyes sparkle as she looks him over. She stuffs a few more chips into her mouth and munches on them loudly before asking, “Now, now, whom do we have here?”
She smiles at me then looks back over at Callum, her approval etched just as deeply as the wrinkled folds of skin around her eyes and mouth.
“Mrs. Heckles, this is my boss, Callum Speight. Cal, this is Mrs. Heckles, my neighbor.”
Cal’s hand darts out to take hers, but she has different ideas. Her frail hand swats his away as she reaches up and pulls him down, planting a wet kiss to his cheek. Their height difference is significant; he’s folded in the middle and bending like he’s cuddling with a small child.
“None of that formal stuff where I come from, boy. I much prefer a little sugar with my hello’s.”
“I don’t have a problem with that, ma’am,” he answers. Amusement is clear in his tone. My eyes drift over to his as he dazzles her with a gleaming bright smile. Damn he’s pretty when he does that.
“We’ll catch you on our way out,” I tell Mrs. Heckles as I make my way past her to the stairwell, waving for Callum to follow.
“It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Heckles,” he says.
“Please, call me Mary. Nice to have met you, too,” she tells him. The dirty little old flirt, I think as Cal follows me up the stairs. I’ve known her for years and she’s never once asked me to call her Mary.
“I think I love your neighbor,” he whispers.
“She’d eat you alive,” I reply. He grins, and I smile to myself because I’m not joking.
There’s a note sitting prominently on my kitchen countertop, folded and placed like a tent, waiting for me to find it.
I look over to the door; it doesn’t look like anyone forced their way in here. My skin prickles. They either had a key to get in, or the locks are so useless they were able to pick them. I’m not sure which scenario scares me more; they’re both equally disturbing. I show Callum the note, and he assures me not to worry. It’s easy for him to say, he’s not the one who’ll suffer the consequences of not paying. I busy myself gathering up what I came back for. I can’t help but think back to Athena and her predictions as I’m folding clean underwear into my bag. That damn Death card, and the explanations she spouted At the time I had told myself I was looking for scenarios to match up what she’d said to me. Now I’m becoming more and more convinced she was spot-on. Everything she said fits.
Annie had fixed me a sweet tea when I’d gone backstage, visibly shaken and more than a little perturbed by my encounter with Athena. She’d laughed at first, thinking that I was over-dramatizing the whole confrontation. When she’d realized that I wasn’t putting on a show—that what she’d said had genuinely worried me, she swiftly told me that Athena was hired from an agency. She explained she had been booked out from the same company that offered flab-a-grams, middle-aged men with swollen beer bellies in rhinestone jumpsuits who, for a modest fee, would marry you and your partner, thanks to their online ordainment certificates. As an extra, they could even serenade you with a slightly off-key rendition of I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You. The chances of her knowing anything about the future were as likely as stepping outside the club and being hit by a meteorite. I’d laughed, but it would be just my luck. I played along, agreeing that she made a valid point, but inside I was still very much freaking the hell out. I still am.
I pull my romper out from my closet; it’s black with white daisies printed on it. Casual enough to not look overdone for an afternoon, but pretty enough to show that I at least made an effort. I begin to fold it carefully into my bag, but stop and decide to change now so I can be ready for when I meet Cole. Drinks in the park sound like heaven at the moment. I need to lose myself for a few hours, and Cole seems like the perfect distraction from ex-boyfriends, thugs, and sexy bosses.
I DON’T MEAN to stare, at least not at first. Her bedroom door isn’t closed all the way, and the mirror in the corner of the living room angles just enough to afford me a clear view of her peeling the tight ripped denim slowly down her long tan legs. I look away quickly, not wanting to invade her privacy but then my resolve crumbles to dust at the mere sight of her. I’m the worst kind of person: I realize that looking again would be a gross violation of not only her trust but also her privacy, but I toss that knowledge aside to sate my own desire and hazard another brief glance. She’s wearing a black thong and her shirt’s on the floor, cast aside with her pants. My pulse quickens, the air suddenly too thick to breath as I stand paralyzed, unable or perhaps unwilling to avert my inspection of her nakedness.
Her back is still facing me; the curve of her flawless pert ass has all the blood in my body redirected straight to my dick. I close my eyes and will her to close the door, but when I open them again, she’s still standing there, gloriously bare and unaware that she’s being watched. She stretches like a tired, lazy house cat, her back arching, her head falling back. I watch transfixed as she raises her arms, lifting them above her head and then pushing them out wide, enjoying the stretch. The throbbing ache in my pelvis intensifies tenfold as she moves to pick up a bra from somewhere low, just out of view. One perfectly formed breast and dark pink nipple snaps into view, and I feel dizzy with want. The thought of her bent over me as I take that nipple into my mouth and run my tongue over the hard bud clouds my judgment. Instead of turning away and letting her dress away from my prying eyes, I take a step closer to the mirror, hoping to better my view. My hardening penis is pushing painfully against the zipper in the tight confines of my pants, begging me to push them down and allow it to spring free. For a moment, I contemplate taking myself in my hand and easing the ache.
Get a fucking grip, Cal.
I take another step closer to the mirror, and the floorboards groan under the pressure of my boots.
I jump back startled as she turns, and I quickly look away from the mirror, calling out, “You about ready?” It’s a feeble attempt to cover up the fact that I was just watching her undress like a pervert.
“One minute,” she calls. I hear her bedroom door click shut…fuck. Did she notice me watching, I wonder? I feel like I’ve hit a new low. I’m doing my best to avoid spending too much time with her, but it’s no use. I want her like a parched desert wants rain, and the more I deny myself the more intense that desire becomes. I adjust my throbbing cock, pulling at my jeans hoping to create enough space to ease some of the discomfort. I brace myself against her kitchen countertop, taking a few deep steadying breaths and willing the effects of seeing her undress to subside.
The door to her bedroom creaks on its hinges as it opens, and I turn in time to see her emerge from the room with her hair flowing loosely across her shoulders. I try not to watch the way her chest bounces with each step—I fail. What’s left of my decency forces my gaze south, away from the magnificent display that she has no concept is playing out. My vision crashes into her legs; they look a mile long, barely covered by the tiny scrap of material she’s wearing. I swallow hard, my mouth dry, and look away completely. She exudes innocence and sensuality all at once; my whole body is on fire, and if I look at her face right now, there’s no way I’ll be able to conceal the hunger.
I fumble in my attempt to make small talk as I carry her bag down to my Harley, securing it to the back as she tells her neighbor goodbye. I refuse to look over, instead focusing my gaze at the street ahead. The bike dips as she settles her weight behind me, bare tan legs clamp down around me and I have to make a concerted effort to hold back the groan making its way from my chest. It’s threatening to spill from my mouth in a confession of how badly I want to pull her around me and bask in the delight of her chest pushed into my face. Her fingers slide around my torso painfully slowly and lace together as she secures herself.
I know she doesn’t particularly enjoy riding the bike; it scares her. And if I weren’t such an asshole, I’d have brought her in my car. I’m not even sure she knows I own one. After letting her ride pillion that first time I brought her home, I’d unintentionally ruined the enjoyment I get from driving this thing alone. I rev the engine and pull away from the curb at top speed. I don’t mean to scare her, but I’m annoyed with myself. The bike lurches forward, and her body reacts by squeezing every part of me that it’s touching even tighter. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my t-shirt and I slow down, not because I want her to loosen her grip—fuck, I’d love for her clamp down on me harder—but the thought of scaring her doesn’t sit well. I’ve witnessed her frightened already, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the cause of that fear.
In kindergarten it was physical abuse: pulling hair, purposefully tripping and being a little shit, all with the intention of getting attention. Then came the whispering, passing notes and bribing your best friend to put the feelers out in middle school. By high school it was straight-up defamation—now it’s subtle tactics, playing it cool and admiring from a distance. Why? Because to actually admit to one, yourself, and two, the person in question that you actually like them would be nothing short of fucking crazy. But I’m considering it. The whole journey back from Tweet’s apartment had my mind in tatters. So what if she works for me? The only rules I’d be breaking are self-imposed.
I almost do it.
As I’m walking back into the club and watching her ass ascend the stairs, I almost tell her that I can’t think of anything but her when she’s within 200 feet. And right as the declaration lingers on the tip of my tongue, ready to stumble forward off the cliff, straight into the murky waters of mixing business with pleasure, she tells me she has a date. I swallow my admission like a bitter pill, disappointment and jealousy fusing acridly, leaving a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I reason that it’s a good thing. My rules are intact; no lines have been crossed—at least none that she’s aware of. Yes, Tweet dating is a good thing…and if I keep repeating it to myself. I might even start believing it.
She’s smiling as she tells me she’ll be back before her shift starts, and I fake disinterest. I want so badly to ask her where she’s going and who she’s going with. Is this a spur-of-the-moment thing, or a first-time occurrence? And fuck if I don’t want to interrogate her and then forbid her to go.
“See you later,” I reply. I sit my phone in the docking station, selecting the moodiest, pissed off anger-infused piece of music I can find while she’s still in the room. I try not to watch her twisting her long waves into a loose knot at the base of her neck as I sink down into the sofa, the weight of my annoyance balanced precariously on my shoulders. Not overstepping the mark, telling her to stay here, is far harder than it should be.
Muse fills the room, the heavy bass pulsing through the speakers. She stops halfway to the door.
“You have really eclectic taste in music.” She grins. “I like it.”
It’s not the response I was expecting. I don’t want her to like it; I want her to get it.
“I play what reflects my mood, so if you come home and I’m playing Nine Inch Nails, you should probably stay out of my way.” I mean it, but she laughs, thinking I’m joking, and all I want to do is groan in frustration. Can she really not see the effect she has on me?
“So if you’re playing Pharrell’s, Happy, I’m all good. But if I can hear the tortured sounds of Ian Curtis singing Atmosphere, I know to go get the whiskey and Xanax.”
“Something like that.”
She looks at me for a beat too long and I wonder if she’s finally noticing my mood, but if she does she dismisses it with little contemplation and a small wave as she disappears out the door.
I’m coiled like a spring, angry and confused and so frustrated that I don’t know what to do with myself. The thought of her meeting up with some asshole has my mind reeling. I shut off the music and storm into the bathroom, turning on the shower and deciding that I need to let the burning hot water soothe the tension in my shoulders. The room steams as I tear out of my clothes and step into the spray in a foul mood.
The scalding water bounces off my skin but I don’t feel the heat. My blood is already boiling. I lean forward resting my forehead against the smooth, cool, wet tiles. My eyes close as water cascades over my face and drips from my nose. I remember the bounce of Tweet’s breasts as she walked through her apartment, and the curve of her ass in the tiny black thong that left nothing to the imagination. I want to blame the steam for making it hard to breathe, but I know it’s not the case. Tweet’s responsible and I can feel myself swelling as I continue to imagine what she would have looked like from the front in that tiny thong. The ache in my groin strengthens. Fire licks at the base of my shaft and my balls draw up at the thought of walking into her room, laying her across the bed and removing her panties with my teeth while my tongue tastes every delicious inch of her. I reach down to palm my dick; my thoughts are making it impossible not to do anything other than sate the need for a release.
I go back to Saturday night, her first real performance. She’d been part of the chorus girl lineup, wearing little more than feathers and sequins strategically placed but showing enough flesh to drive the customers and me senseless with the intrigue of what lay underneath. I thought I’d about die watching her, but when she graced the stage a second time that evening dressed as a marionette doll, I almost lost it. Annie had told me Tweet and Rae were working on a new routine Tweet had come up with and Rae had agreed to, which in itself is a miracle. She’s not known for her openness to suggestions. Robyn must have weaved one heck of a spell over her.
They took the stage along with Lauren and three of the other girls who acted as the puppeteers. It was slapstick and sexy and so damn hot. The puppeteers pretended to pull the strings and make the dolls dance sensually, in a range of what seemed to be ballet movements interlaced with classic burlesque. It should have looked completely out of place, and not utter perfection—it was mesmerizing. The dolls stayed in a fairly modest state of dress throughout the entire performance until the very last moment when the puppeteers dropped the strings, and the dolls corsets dropped too, leaving them in awkward and unnatural positions, much like a real puppet would land. They were wearing only tutus and nipple pasties. The whole performance was nothing short of magical. When I’d looked around the room, everyone’s eyes were trained on the stage—even the staff had stopped to watch. They had the whole room in a frenzy of sexual tension and awe.
I’m beyond hard as I close my hand around myself and begin to pump harder, remembering her languid graceful moments. I can feel every ridge and swollen vein as I stroke. My head falls back, the heat blossoming from the base of my spine, through my pelvis and traveling the length of my cock. I drop my head forward and look down at my hand jerking myself in intense, deep thrusts. I picture her long delicate fingers closed tightly around me, wanting it so badly to be her here doing this right now I don’t know if I want to come or punch a hole through the shower wall. My muscles tighten as my pace quickens, and I’m furiously plunging my fist back and forth at a punishing rate. I keep the image of Robyn’s ass and full firm tits in my mind as I let go, and jerk myself with wild abandonment at the thought of her. My whole body spasms as I watch cum spurt fiercely from my tip, coating me in my release and washing away as quickly as it appeared, the water concealing the evidence of my weakness for Tweet. I continue a slow stroke, milking every last drop of tension and wanting this feeling of replete and all-consuming satisfaction to stay while I sink into the wall and my orgasm slowly ebbs.
Robyn Spears will be the death of me, I’m sure of it.
