Mr. Mysterious: A Mister Standalone (The Mister Series Book 4) (16 page)

“Cindy.”

“When I masturbate, it just—it gets—overwhelming and then… you know. That happens. And the way you were touching me in there. It felt like…”

“Masturbation?” I say with a cock-eyed smile. “Nice recovery.” I drop to my knees, push her back so she’s resting against the wall, and do it exactly the way I was. Quickly flicking my dick against her clit. She grabs on to the edge of the stone bench this time, her knees pulling up automatically.

“Like this?” I ask, never taking my eyes off her.

And then she’s out of control. Her moans turn into gasps, turn into screams. I cup my hand over her mouth automatically, momentarily startled as she writhes, and kicks, and yes—squirts.

I don’t think anything has ever turned me on so much in my entire life.

I take her hands, pulling her up to standing. She wobbles, like she’s not under control yet. So I reach under her thighs, lift her up, press her against the wall, and pound her hard until there’s no way I’m stopping. I pound her until there is nothing on my mind but coming inside her. She squeezes my hips with her thighs, so tight. So focused. My hands come up to her face, glistening from the steam, and I kiss her, and fuck her until she comes again and there is only one thing left to do.

Finish.

“Fuck… yes…” That was perfect.

She collapses against my chest, spent and tired. I walk backwards until I find the bench, and then sit down with her in my lap. Her face is buried in my neck. We are sweaty, and hot, and breathing in the steam like the air we are sucking is lifesaving.

I rest my head back against the wall, close my eyes, and let go. Maybe for the first time in my life I just let it all go. The past. The jobs. The future. It’s gone. Wiped away in the aftermath of lust.

After a few minutes of stillness, she eases backward, gets up, turns the steam off, and then starts the shower. She makes the water cool, then grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.

We wash each other. Hair, body, soul.

And then we dry each other off and I lead her out to the bedroom. Collapsing onto the soft comforter, not even bothering to get underneath it. I just grab her and never let go. Pull her into my chest, wrap my hands around her breasts, and… sleep.

I wake up to sun beaming down on my face, reaching for Cindy. Finding her gone. What did I expect? I swing my legs over the side of the bed, rub the stubble on my jaw with both hands, and then stand up and take a piss in the bathroom.

That was the best sex I’ve ever had and I know—I just fucking know—it’s only the beginning if I get to see her again after we talk about it.

I pull on some boxer briefs and walk towards the stairs, surprised when I cross the catwalk and see her—back to me—cooking at the stove in the open kitchen down below.

I don’t say anything. I don’t even know if I have words for what this is. What I’m doing. But I stop at the top of the stairs when I see the shoe. Left there last night as I brought her up here.

It’s fitting, right? Cinderella leaves a shoe on the stairs and then Prince Charming has to go looking for her with only that one shoe as his clue.

The other shoe is further down. And it’s a good sign, I think. That we are not that story. She didn’t disappear. I don’t have to go searching for her. We can spend the day together. No one to stop us. Start something new. No rules, or expectations, or baggage to drag us down.

Well, that’s a fairy tale too, I guess. Because I’ve got baggage, man. I’ve got a huge amount of baggage and there’s no fairy godmother coming to make it all better.

“What are you doing?” I ask, reaching the bottom of the steps.

“Cooking,” she chirps, flipping something over in a pan. This is the Cindy I know. Happy, cheerful, easygoing.

“Where’d you get food?” I say, coming up behind her and wrapping my arms around her body so I can squeeze her tits and kiss her neck. She’s wearing an apron, of all things. It’s yellow, like her hair. With cookies on it. And a tank top and shorts.

Sugar. Goddammit if she doesn’t smell like sugar. Even after staying in someone else’s house, taking a shower with their scented soaps and shampoos, and frying bacon in a pan.

“I borrowed your car and went to the store.”

“You… left?” I ask.

“I came back.” She says it like she might not’ve.

“Where’d you get these clothes?” She’s wearing my dress shirt and a pair of man’s shorts that must be Nolan’s. Which means she’s been snooping around the house while I was sleeping. “What time did you wake up?”

“What?” She feigns ignorance.

I feign with her. Are we talking about this yet? Who she is? Where she came from? How she knows all these things and why she’s been watching me?

If we talk about that, well, then we’ll have to talk about my mother. The Silver Pledge—whatever the fuck that is. Those envelopes, the note, the game. “Smells good,” I say. I can play along. I don’t even mind playing along.

“What time do you have to be in the office today?”

How’d she know I have to be in the office today?

Forget it. We’re not talking about it.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Eleven thirty.”

“Shit,” I say, threading my fingers through my hair. “I have a client today.”

“I know. Mr. Walker’s son went missing two weeks ago. It’s out of character and no leads so far. The police aren’t interested, so he came to you.”

We really should start talking about this. But instead of starting that conversation, I say, “Do you want to help me find him? I could use a good assistant.”

She looks over her shoulder, gives me a sidelong smirk. “You don’t even have to ask. I’m already on it. I pulled up his phone records and even though there doesn’t seem to be a pattern, there is. A number he calls every Tuesday evening. He’s called it without fail for over a year, but he only calls once a week, so it’s not an easy pattern to see when you look at all the hundreds of other calls and texts he sends. He’s a chatty guy. But I found it. So we can start there if you want.”

I pull her hair aside, giving myself better access to her neck. And I kiss her again. She sighs, leans against me just slightly. Just enough to let me know we don’t really need to talk about it. Denial is our friend today.

She squirms out of my embrace and grabs two plates sitting on the counter. She scoops up some scrambled eggs from another pan, then the bacon, loading up each plate as the toast pops up. “Butter that for me, will you?”

The butter is sitting out on the counter already, soft. So I grab the toast and butter it up, dropping the slices on the plates just as she whisks them away to the dining table in front of the big picture window that overlooks the racetrack.

“I made mimosas, too. You like mimosas, right?” She smiles at me.

I hate champagne. But I smile back and say, “Almost as much as I like margaritas and mint juleps.”

“I hope you’re hungry,” she says, smiling into her glass as she takes a drink.

“I’m gonna fuck you on my desk this afternoon.”

She almost spits out her mimosa.

“And then at my house tonight.”

“OK.”

“And we’re never talking about it.”

She swallows hard and nods. “OK.” It’s softer than the last OK, filled with relief and maybe even some regret. But then she forces another smile, lifts her glass and says, “To new beginnings.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

I do believe I will come to love this drink. And all the girly things this sweet-smelling Cinderella has brought into my life. If only for the fact that they symbolize something.

Not a beginning. But an end.

Fuck those silver envelopes. Fuck that rape charge. Fuck everything but what happens from this day forward.

It’s over.

I
am
Prince Charming in this story, and I decree the bullshit to be over.

Chapter Seventeen - Cindy

Everything is smooth sailing for almost a week. We find that jerk of a son for Mr. Walker. He was on a drug binge. We looked up that one number later that day and traced it to a phone booth—who knew they still have those things?—outside the Derryman’s Pub in Santa Monica. Some high-end dealer uses that thing as an office. So we followed him and… well, all sorts of boring drama unfolded. But the point is, we cracked that case in three days.

Since then, Mr. Walker has referred us to many of his “private” friends, as he likes to call them. Just little things. One guy thought his wife was cheating. One woman thought her husband was cheating. And it occurs to me now that the very nature of Paxton Vance’s business has begun to change.

It’s like… It’s like he’s not a fixer anymore. He really is my fictional detective.

We never do talk about it. Even though it feels—to me, anyway—that there’s this big question mark hanging over us, we don’t talk about any of it. Not his mother, not the day at the races, not my past, not how conveniently I left my life in Malibu behind and moved in with him. Not any of it.

The phone rings and I pick it up. “Mr. Vance’s office. How can I help you?”

“What?”

Oh, shit. I do not need more than one word to tell me who is on the other end of this phone.

My brother, Oliver.

I clear my throat. “Mr. Vance’s office,” I repeat, using a fake high voice. “How can I help you?”

“Since when does he have a fucking secretary?”

“Assistant,” I say, still using my high voice.

“Is he there or not?”

Hmmm. I never knew my brother was such a dick. “No, I’m sorry, sir. He’s out of the office for the… week.”

I smile and wave at Pax through the closed glass door to his office, then shake my head, stick out my tongue like this is nothing but a stupid sales call, and he laughs, looking back down at his paperwork.

“The fucking
week
? When exactly will he be back? I tried his cell, but he’s not picking up. Why isn’t he picking up?”

He’s not picking up because he left his cell at home today by accident. Jesus Christ, what if Oliver comes here? No. No. He’s all the way over in Colorado. This is no big deal. “He’s… in the Exuma Cays, Mr…”

“Shrike,” Oliver says, thoroughly annoyed with me now. It’s not my fault Pax is off gallivanting. Well, if he
was
off gallivanting, it wouldn’t be my fault. And Oliver doesn’t know he’s not. So…
dick
.

“Mr. Shrike, Mr. Vance is gone for the whole week and won’t be back until next Monday. He’s on a break. No tech out there.”

“Since when? I know damn well he’s got internet and TV on that fucking island.”

Shit.
Think, Cindy.
“He’s on that other island.” Yeah. That
other
island. He’s got two, he told me that.

“Since when does he have two—never mind. Let him know I called if he calls in. And tell him to hit me back, pronto.”

The phone goes dead and I just stare at it for a second.

“Who was that?” Pax asks from his open door.

“Um…” Shit. How much did he hear? “I have no idea. Some rude salesman asking about copy machines.”

“Copy machines?”

I have to control my eye roll at myself. Copy machines?
Who the fuck sells copy machines anymore, Cinderella?
People just use printers in an office this size.

Pax narrows his eyes at me. Suspicion, I realize.

“He was handsome in a rugged sort of way.”

The narrow eyes widen. A smile.

“A real man’s man with his rolled-up sleeves and loose tie.”

“Is this how you see me?” Paxton asks.

“Smart enough to get into Ivy League schools. Wise enough to get by without them.”

“Shit,” he whispers under his breath.

“And the first time I walked into his office, desperate for help—”

“Oh, I get it. This is some nineteen-forties detective noir?”

“—all I could think about was how long it would take him to bend me over his desk—”