Body of Work (24 page)

Then the meal started. Since it was Angus’ birthday dinner, they were having his favorites, Fiona explained while serving the first course. No salad for a man like Angus. Its replacement in the appetizer category—Scotch eggs. Hardboiled eggs wrapped in sausage meat, rolled in seasoned crumbs, then pan-fried in oil. Delicious, but dear god, her arteries…not to mention how all that saturated fat would find its way straight to her butt.

“Have another.” Angus pushed the tray her way.

“I’d better not, or I won’t have room for Fiona’s amazing-smelling dinner.”

Angus scooped another egg and demolished it in two quick bites. “Aye, you’ll want space for that. Makes the best haggis you’ve ever tasted, she does.”

Beside her, Brian coughed. No haggis, he’d promised. Uh-huh.

“Brian told me about it. He said it’s delicious, I can’t wait to try it.”

“Try it? Is this your first time—a virgin, are you?” The way Angus said virgin, the word had about six Rs in the middle.

At this, Brian chuckled. Beneath the tartan-covered table, she knocked her knee against his. His eyebrow rose in challenge. So she did it again.

This time, his quick, strong hand clapped over her leg. And not just to still her knocking knee. His fingers caught the hem of her skirt and worked it upward, the corner of his mouth curling higher with every inch of skin he uncovered.

He wouldn’t…

Oh god. Yes, he would. She lowered her eyes to her plate, focusing on pressing crumbs between the tines of her fork rather than the finger gently stroking the crease between her legs.

“Brian, get the Glenlivet and four glasses.” Angus crossed thick forearms on the table and leaned toward her, the casual move demanding eye contact. So much like his son. “You drink whisky, don’t you?”

“I do now.”

Laughter rang up around her. As loving and kind as her grandparents were, their house had never been filled with fun moments like this. Sitting in this kitchen, being immersed in the easygoing warmth that seemed to come so naturally to all three Blacks, the future she’d always dreamed of unfolded in her mind. This was it, in bold, living color. In tartan, actually.

By the time Fiona stood to clear the table—a job she refused to accept help with—two glasses of whisky had joined the haggis, neeps and tatties in Cassie’s belly. The third glass went down easier and faster than its predecessors. The glass was half empty when Brian cupped his hand over the top.

“You okay?” His close, softly spoken words tickled her ear. “Dad’s whisky’s strong stuff, careful it doesn’t sneak up on you.”

“Too late,” she said on a giggle. “You’re going to have to drive.”

“Not a problem. I’ll even put the doors on so you don’t fall out.”

She leaned into his shoulder and whispered, “I wasn’t referring to the Jeep.”

Angus snorted and pushed back from the table.

Okay, so maybe she hadn’t quite whispered. Oops.

“You’re drunk.” Zero accusation, just a smile.

“Not
too
drunk.” She snuck her hand into his lap, under the flap of his kilt. Wrapped her fingers around his cock and slid her fist up and down the rapidly swelling shaft. She knocked the twill aside with her wrist. One glance at his lap and her mouth was watering.

“Careful.” Despite the warning, he didn’t stop her ministrations, merely pulled the tablecloth over her tugging fist.

“Spoilsport.”

He leaned in close. “Wait until I get you past the town limits. There’s a tie-down rope in the back of the Jeep that now has your name on it.”

The tingling in her core had nothing to do with the alcohol loosening her limbs and lips. Images of Brian binding or restraining her, fucking her hard against the metal of his Jeep, or—

“Who wants dessert?” Fiona asked, snapping Cassie from her X-rated thoughts.

“I do. I’ve been waiting for dessert all day.” Brian’s eyes darkened as Cassie dragged her nails along his hard length.

“Good thing I made a double batch.” Fiona plunked a big bowl in the middle of the table.

As if magically summoned, Angus reappeared from wherever he’d gone and dropped onto his chair. “Ever sampled a Tipsy Laird, Cassie?” The twinkle in his eye belied his innocent tone. “One mouthful and you’ll be addicted.”

“No, but it looks delicious.” Under the table, she used her thumb to spread a bead of pre-cum over the head of Brian’s cock. “I love thick, creamy treats.”

Brian exhaled sharply, his cock pulsing in her hand. “Guests first around here. Cassie, you’re up.” The conniver winked victoriously as she was forced to trade his handle for that of the serving ladle.

The Tipsy Laird looked like an innocent trifle. One bite revealed this version had something Nana’s had not. Something with kick. “What’s in this, sherry?”

Angus snorted as if affronted.

“Drambuie, darling,” Fiona said between mouthfuls. “Speaking of, want a nip?”

“Of course she does,” Angus threw in before Cassie could answer. “Brian, get the ladies a couple of fresh glasses.”

A little shuffling of his kilt and Brian stood, kissed the top of her head and fetched the goods. A couple minutes later, a half-filled tumbler of golden liquid landed next to her bowl.

“Sláinte,” Fiona said, raising her glass—then draining it.

“Um, cheers,” Cassie said, following suit. She coughed and sputtered as several ounces of amber devil cut a hot groove down her throat. Dear god, these people were trying to kill her. And by the laughter bouncing around her head like a pinball in a lit-up machine, they found the process hilarious.

“Shame your brother couldn’t be here to meet your lass.” Angus spoke from two feet away, but his voice sounded more like a muffled echo.

“Just as well. He’d have monopolized her all day, talking shop.”

She turned her head, attempted to focus on Brian’s smiling face, but he kept swinging back and forth. She wanted to ask why he was moving around so much, but between the pre-dinner wine, Drambuie and the three glasses of Angus’ whisky, her tongue seemed to have disintegrated.

“Aye, you’re probably right. Good boy, big ego. Thinks he’s world famous already.” Angus nudged her shoulder. “You must see that a lot in your line of work.”

The room careened wildly as she turned to look at Angus.

“Fiona, show Cassie a picture of Ian.”

“Here’s our vain boy.” Fiona slid a framed photo across the table, requiring yet another change in Cassie’s heading.

She blinked and took a breath. Focused on controlling the hand reaching for the wooden frame. Had it. She pulled it in for a look. A handsome, dark-haired man stared up at her from the picture. A familiar man. He wore a long-sleeve t-shirt in the photo before her, but she knew what was underneath, had photographed every hard—very hard—naked inch of him.

Meat, potatoes, sponge cake and booze rolled over in her gut. “Oh god, I’m going to be sick.”

* * * * *

The digital clock slowly coming into focus read 5:50. She lifted her head and regretted it instantly. “Ugh, I’m in hell.”

A soft chuckle sounded beside her. The mattress dipped as he shifted, then Brian’s large, warm hand stroked her head. “Probably feels like hell, but you’re home. I packed you into the Jeep after your stomach eased up. Figured you’d rather wake up in your own bed.”

“Thank you.” The return trip from his parents’ was nothing more than a few choppy moments of awareness. With each blink, pieces of what’d come before it trickled into the front part of her brain. “I made it to the washroom before I puked—oh, thank god.”

“Yeah, you did. You were in there a while. You kept saying, ‘whisky is the devil’.”

“It is.”

“Nah, it just requires conditioning. It won’t hit you as hard next time.”

“No next time.” She buried her face in the pillow to stifle a sob. There wouldn’t be a next time for whisky because there wouldn’t be a next time at the Blacks. There wouldn’t be a next time for anything with Brian.

The framed photo changed everything—that part of the evening was crystal clear. She’d thought giving up the explicit photography jobs would be enough. That if she parted ways with those clients, she could keep all those contacts and their activities safely hidden in locked files, never to be seen or heard from again. Brian wouldn’t need to know about that part of her life. She wouldn’t have to worry about how he’d react, or worse, the potential fallout from his knowledge should they part ways down the road. One look at the picture his parents had innocently shown her and that road had ended on the spot. Of all the people her alter ego had photographed, the only one that mattered now was Ian Black.

“Hey,” a gentle touch coaxed her face in his direction, “don’t cry. I’m here. The worst part is over, trust me.”

She pushed his hands away before clutching her temples to tamp the stabbing pain. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh, no apologizing. I’ve been there, I don’t know anybody who hasn’t.” The soft touch on her hair resumed. “This’ll probably sound crazy—and not help your hangover—but my dad was proud of you.” He chuckled while gently massaging her spine with his knuckles. “My mom cuffed him for that statement, by the way. She said to tell you to come back soon. She likes you a lot, they both do. How could they not when I feel the way I do?”

She groaned and stuffed her face back into the pillow. Every sweet word made it worse. Made the inevitable harder. “You should go.”

“No, I shouldn’t.” He pulled a blanket over her when a silent sob racked her body. “Try to get some more sleep, I’ll be right here.”

Puking had drained her physical strength and energy. Brian’s never-ending attentiveness had eroded her emotional walls. If she let him stay now, she’d have to say goodbye in the light of day. The first rays of dawn already peeked through the bottom of her window. She had to do it now.

She turned on the pillow to face him. Tried to look through him, rather than at him. Even in the dim lighting, she could see the warmth in his eyes and smile. The love.

“I’d like to be alone…I’m a mess.”

“I’ll take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me.” The
need
part of that statement was true. What she wanted was another story, and no longer mattered.

He propped on one elbow and lorded over her in his dominant yet endearing way. “What if I need to take care of you?”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“I wasn’t talking about the hangover.”

“Neither was I.” Sunlight inched its way up the window. Plenty of light to see Brian’s eyebrows draw together and his jaw clench. She swallowed despite the desert in her mouth. “You should go.”

“If that’s what you want.” Seconds ticked by as he waited for a response she couldn’t give. He swept his thumb over her cheek, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear—killing her bit by bit, even though he couldn’t possibly know it. “Call me later.”

“Okay.” She bit back tears at the soft touch of lips and beard on her forehead. Later had a lot of meanings.

* * * * *

“You don’t look so hot.” Trevor clapped Brian’s shoulder. “Rough week?”

It was as if the motherfucker knew. And he could, to a point. Brian had checked the member logins for the past four days—the bastard might’ve done the same. Cassie hadn’t scanned in once. She also hadn’t called. Not really. The single, brief voicemail telling him she needed space and time to think sure the fuck didn’t count.

“Yeah, actually, it has been rough. Some of us have been working our asses off, assembling equipment, dealing with broken tanning beds, contacting members about a recall that came down the pipe for one of our bestselling testosterone boosters. And you’ve been out of the club why?”

“Listen to you, mister almost-a-partner, demanding to know how I’m contributing to the team.”

The words
you’re not
licked at Brian’s lips, but he swallowed them. Instead, he made normal, human conversation with a couple who approached the front desk inquiring about group strength-training classes. Unluckily for Brian, Trevor stuck around until they left.

“You’re bouncing tonight?”

“Yeah.” If the asshole was looking for passes to jump the line, fuck that. Brian tipped his chin at Trevor’s suit pants and tailored shirt. “Might want to downgrade the clothes if you’re heading to Blur. You’ll sweat your bag off dancing in those.”

“Oh, I’ll be sweating tonight, but it won’t be from dancing, and it won’t be while I’m dressed. On that note…” A flick of the wrist had Trevor checking his Rolex. Or more likely, demonstrating he owned one. “I’d better head out. Wouldn’t want to keep Cassie waiting.” He walked away, but turned to face Brian before pushing through the doors. “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything you wouldn’t—or haven’t.”

Brian watched Trevor walk away. “He lays a finger on her, I’m going to kill him.”

“I don’t think it’s his finger you should worry about,” Sam said as he drifted behind the counter and snagged his usual bar from the rack. He tore into the wrapper and dusted off the protein bar within seconds. “Am I in some bizarro world—aren’t you gonna tell me I owe three bucks?”