Crash Lights and Sirens, Book 1 (7 page)

“Yeah, well. Next time don’t wear such tight jeans.” He leaves her socks on in half-assed concession to where they are and strips everything else, shucking his own coat and tee so Falvey will stop complaining about being naked alone. She’s pretty, Jesus Christ, high girlish breasts and that neat rib cage, the pale curve of her hip so fine it could have been inked. Nick doesn’t know how he forgot, but he did.

Falvey bites her lip. Her mouth has that smudged look from too much kissing, like it’s been erased and redrawn repeatedly. “Next time, huh?”

Nick blows out a breath. He wants to lay her out across the bench seat but there isn’t room, small and skinny as she is. “Sure,” he says, pulling her back into his lap and shrugging. “Seeing as how we’re working on a twice a year tradition here.” He ducks his head to suck at a puffy nipple, not keen on waiting for her reaction.

“Hmm.” Taryn curls her warm, bare arms around his neck and holds tight, reaching down between them to line him up. Her fingers are cold through the latex. “Maybe we won’t wait six months next time,” is all she says, and Nick doesn’t have time to answer because the very next second she’s sitting down on his cock.

“Fuck.” She’s snug, something Nick knew from having his fingers in her—remembered from the night of the fire—but it’s different to feel, her head tipping back and those pale eyebrows drawing together. “You okay?” he asks when he catches his breath, petting up the ladder of her spine. She took him all at once without pausing, one fast slide home. Too fast, maybe.

Falvey nods. “Fine.” She wiggles around, getting used to it. Starts up a rhythm after a beat. “You?”

Nick closes his eyes against the tight drag of her body. “Yeah, Falvey.” He laughs, strangled. “I’m doing good.”

Taryn hums to herself then, this low, pleased sound like she knows she’s getting to him. “Good,” she echoes, squeezing her arms around his neck as he palms up and down her rib cage.

Nick growls quietly, how tight she is, how neatly her chilly ass fits into his hands. He’s only been with one other woman since Maddie, a private-school teacher from Great Barrington with blonde hair in a tidy knot at the crown of her head. Nick hadn’t used a condom since high school and the latex felt strange and impersonal, like he could have been with anyone and not been able to tell. He’s glad for it now though, how it cools him down a bit. Falvey looks like a Renaissance painting come to life, all that pale skin and fiery hair. If he isn’t careful she’ll end him way too fast.

And she’s trying to, he realizes after a second, these dirty twists of her hips and a singularity of purpose he recognizes from when he’s watched her do CPR, laser-beam focus like she thinks she’s got something to prove here. Like she thinks she owes him one. Nick wonders about Falvey sometimes, her proud back and how she’s always offering him gas money. Wonders what it is about her specifically that makes an orgasm feel like a debt to paid.

“Hey,” he tells her, nudging her backward so he can get to her breasts, thumb at her nipples and learn the weight of her. He wants to know every single detail of how she’s put together with an urgency that surprises him, how long it’s been since he’s felt anything like it. Whenever they next do this, he’s sure as hell going to take his time. “Relax.”

Taryn’s eyes narrow. “You relax,” she retorts, but there’s no real heat behind it. She lets him slow her down anyway, this deep, fantastic arch and her head dropping back with pleasure. Nick shifts his hips to meet her stroke for stroke. He’s close, God, he’s so fucking close; when Taryn gasps, shoving down and then just staying there, one hand fisting in his hair, the groan he lets out is relief as much as anticipation.

“I was imagining it,” she whispers in a rush against his mouth, right as she’s about to fall over the edge. “You bringing me back here. I was imagining it.”

Well. That gets it done, all right.

Nick clutches at her hips and loses it, closing his eyes for one second before wrenching them open to the mindfuck that is Taryn watching him get off, curious and focused even through her own orgasm. She stays pin-drop silent this time, teeth so deep into her bottom lip there are grooves when she finally lets go. Nick feeds his salty fingers into her mouth and watches her suck, her clever fox-face gone slack with satisfaction.

“Okay,” she says eventually, pulling off. “Yeah. So—that happened.” She’s sweating, baby-fine hairs curling up at her temple.

Nick huffs a laugh. “Like you imagined?” he asks quietly, not necessarily teasing. He’s pretty sure, two orgasms plus how slick she is down between her thighs, but he just—wants to check.

Falvey wrinkles her nose. “Give you an A for effort,” she tells him archly, breaking off into noisy giggles when he lunges for her. Her teeth are wide and white. Nick wrestles her lightly for a minute, upper body only, to be careful of the condom, reaching down to grab at the base when he finally slips out.

Taryn wiggles free and starts picking through her clothes as he ties it off. “Here,” she says, holding up a square of Kleenex she ferreted out of her purse. Nick takes it with raised eyebrows. “What?” she asks, hips in the air to pull on her underwear—purple to match the bra, he notices. “The tissues are in there all the time,” she promises. “Nothing to do with you.”

Yeah, but Nick bets her lingerie choices were at least a little related. “Uh-huh.”

Taryn rolls her eyes. “Oh, whatever, don’t get smug,” she scoffs, hooking her bra on backward and twisting. “You wanted me bad.”

He did, Christ. Didn’t know quite how much until they started up again. “Yep,” is all he says, which sends Falvey to grinning. They’re both fully dressed in minutes, Taryn combing both hands through her hair until it’s lying relatively flat and neat.

“’Kay,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “Take me home?”

Like there was ever a question. “Sure.”

They clamber out the back doors and into the front, Taryn retrieving her coat from the floor before she settles into the bucket seat. The ride is silent, mostly, something Nick can’t peg as a good or bad sign. Maybe neither. Taryn keeps glancing at him out of the corner of her witchy eyes.

The last thing she says before ducking out into the night: “Let’s not make this awkward at work, okay?”

The last thing she does: kiss him, quick and clumsy off the corner of his mouth.

Nick can’t decide if one cancels the other out.

Chapter Five

It’s snowing by the time Nick drops her off, and when Taryn wakes up before the alarm the next morning there’s a couple of inches settled on the roof outside the window. The sky is still a murky black-gray. She lies there in the warm huddle of blankets for a minute, taking stock of her chapped mouth and the satisfying ache between her legs, feeling alternately pleased and embarrassed.

Perfect
, he said.
Taryn, you’re—

And whatever, clearly you can’t believe anything a guy says to you when you’re naked in the backseat of his car like some kind of horny high-schooler, but…

Pete definitely never told her anything like that.

Finally she reaches over and flicks on the clock radio to listen for school closings, quiet enough not to wake Caitlin on the other side of the room. She was still up and reading when Taryn got home last night, flashlight bobbing under the covers like she thought their mom or Jesse was going to come in and make her get some sleep. “How was pizza?” Taryn asked, holding her hand out for the book,
Murder on the Orient Express
this time, which Taryn knew she’d read at least twice already. She made a mental note to Google good books for fifth graders next time she got her hands on Jesse’s old laptop.

Caitlin smiled, her strawberry-blonde hair all crazy from being under the blankets. Justin Bieber leered down from his post on the wall. “Good,” she said, yawning. “Did you have fun with your work friends?”

Taryn turned away to pull some pajamas out of the bureau, barely resisting the urge to spill her guts about Kanelos to her eleven-year-old sister, his big shoulders and those dark, dark eyes. “Yeah,” she said finally, this stupid, uncontrollable smile stretching the corners of her mouth. “I had a lot of fun.”

The kids are on a one-hour delay so Taryn tries to go back to sleep, winds up staring at the wall and grinning to herself like a loon. God, she really needs to slow her roll. It was just sex—really, heartbreakingly good sex, yeah, but still just sex, and with a guy she works with, who’s old enough to be a widower. She’s definitely not about to start doodling his name on her Trapper Keeper.

Perfect
. Jesus. Who even says that?

Still, it is possible that Taryn would not hate hearing it again.

Finally she gives up and gets out of bed, pulling a heavy cardigan over her pajamas—the house is freezing, which is annoying since she just sorted out a payment plan with the gas company—and heading downstairs to make coffee. She cleans up the kitchen while the machine gurgles, wiping crumbs and something sticky off the counter, washing out yesterday’s cereal bowls and setting them in the dish rack to dry. The letter from the bank she ignored last night is sitting on the kitchen table next to Connor’s reading workbook and a couple of Transformers, another late notice on the mortgage, probably, which she’s going to have to call and deal with. She’s practically on a first-name basis with the loan office, and this is the longest she’s let it go without paying. As of February, they’re a whole month behind.

Caitlin thumps downstairs fully dressed just as Taryn’s slitting open the letter. “Aren’t we going to be late?” she wants to know. Her sweater is an old hand-me-down, pearly detailing starting to fray off around the front pockets. Taryn is going to have to find the money to buy her some new clothes before she moves up to Lee Middle.

“Buses are on delay while they plow,” Taryn explains absentmindedly. The letter is big and bold, dated the first of the month. It informs a Mrs. R. Falvey that she has missed two mortgage payments and additional late fees will apply. Taryn stares at it for a second, adding up the new amount.

“Who wants pancakes?” That’s Rosemary herself, coming into the kitchen with Mikey tossed over her shoulder and Connor trailing behind. She’s got jeans on for once, hair up in a knot instead of a scraggly ponytail. Caitlin was right, at least. Pizza obviously went really, really well. “School doesn’t open until nine fifteen,” she informs Taryn airily, plunking Mikey down at the table. “We’ll have a special breakfast to celebrate.”

“Yeah, Mom, I know.” The fact that Rosemary remembered to check is a miracle in and of itself. Lately, it feels like her good days are getting fewer and farther between. Taryn takes a deep breath and holds out the letter.

Rosemary’s brow furrows as she reads, then smooths. “It’s okay, baby,” she says, looking up at Taryn with a smile. “We don’t have to pay the full amount all at once.”

Taryn darts her eyes over to Caitlin, who’s listening avidly from her seat at the island. “Looks serious,” she murmurs, reaching up into the cabinets for the pancake mix.

Rosemary waves a hand. “I’ve missed three in a row before, back when you were little. We didn’t lose the house then, did we?” She takes the box from Taryn and pulls out the rest of the ingredients for her Everything Pancakes, a recipe she’s been making since Taryn could walk. They’ve got M&Ms and crushed chocolate bars in them to cover the cardboard mix taste. “Falveys have been living here for over forty years,” she tells Taryn, measuring out a cup. “We’ll be fine.”

The house used to belong to Taryn’s grandparents, a very serious, very Catholic couple who died when she was five and Jesse was just a baby. “Yeah,” Taryn allows. “But we didn’t have a second mortgage then.” Mikey and Connor’s dad was the one who came up with that brilliant idea, back when Rosemary still worked. Then he left, and Rosemary gradually became less and less able to hold down a job. Taryn and Jesse have been treading water ever since.

Rosemary puts down the mixing spoon and cups Taryn’s cheek. “Baby. I promise it’s fine. We’ll call them later, you’ll see.”

It’s stupid—
later
is nebulous and Rosemary could be anywhere by then, in bed with the blinds drawn or over at Sully’s, checked out again for the next week—but the
we
placates Taryn anyway. She wants today to be a good day. “Okay,” she says, smiling as Jesse slouches in from the living room. He slept on the couch last night, which is better than nothing.

“Hey, Ma.” He kisses her cheek, nodding at Taryn. “Really coming down out there. You got a ride to work?”

Which—hm. That’s both a really good question and the first civil word he’s said to her in a while. “Not sure yet,” she says, nudging him out of the way to get four mugs out of the cupboard. Caitlin started drinking coffee last year, although Taryn only lets her have half a cup at a time. “Guess I’ll have to see who’s around.”

She leaves Rosemary to the pancakes and brings her cup upstairs to the shower, turns the water up as hot as she can get it. There’s a smudgy red-purple bruise at the base of her neck. She’ll have to cover it with some makeup or wear a scarf all day or something. Taryn thinks of Nick’s sharp teeth and the pull of his mouth and shivers under the steamy water. Tries to stop thinking about it.

She could text him and ask for a ride, obviously, except it seems weird to do it now, like maybe he’ll think she’s expecting something from him. It feels like calling too soon after a first date.

Not that that was a date, but. Same difference.