Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (17 page)

The whole idea made me itchy.

He knew I wasn’t especially tight with my family, but I spared him the gory details of it all. Instead, he asked about my courses, studio time, and sessions with my little friends. He said it was strange that I called so many people friends. I didn’t share that concern.

Tonight, he was pumped about a new renovation he was starting on Monday, and when he mentioned it was Eddie Turlan’s new house, I slapped both hands over my mouth to keep from screaming.

It was a pee-your-pants-at-a-swanky-club kind of moment for me.

“I could play all The Vials’ songs by the time I was ten,” I said. “Have you ever heard punk rock violin?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “But I’m not supposed to say anything about it. Pretend you didn’t hear that. They have an extensive non-disclosure agreement.”

“Because they don’t want people like me creeping on their new house,” I said.

“That, and they’re hoping to bundle the restoration with a special anniversary release of an old acoustic performance in Paris. They figure they can get some architecture and design magazine coverage, and cross-promote.”

“The Vials, acoustic in Paris?” I repeated. “I must have it. Do you know I’d listen to a recording of a garbage disposal if it was acoustic in Paris?”

“I do now,” Sam laughed.

An endless string of runway-ready women passed by our table, each one gifting Sam with their standard-issue Fuck Me hair-flipping then glaring at me as if I was the garden gnome he was forced to tote around for the evening.

He was accustomed to this. He enjoyed it, too.

And I hated pretty much everything about that.

“How many hearts have you broken this week?” I asked.

Sam sent me a bitter expression. “I don’t break hearts. I don’t go anywhere near hearts.”

I knew that was his take on reality, and I knew he liked an appropriate amount of distance between himself and the world. I existed in a strange little pocket of his life, and I was only there because I kept bullying my way in.

“Hearts broken, cherries popped. Same thing,” I said.

“Not doing any of that either.”

“Maybe not intentionally.” I wiggled my empty glass at him.

I knew I was poking the beehive, and Sam did not like it. But I needed to know whether he was still trolling the club scene for hook-ups, even if it hurt to hear the truth. Even if it meant I wasn’t going to get what I wanted.

He picked it up and signaled to the bartender for another. “No one gets their heart broken over a hook-up,” he said.

“So you’ve never been with the same chick twice?”

He shrugged in that tight, impatient manner he acquired when the conversation veered a little too far beyond his comfort zone. “When would I even have time? I’m scouring the city with you and the rest of the band geeks every goddamn night.”

“In other words, you can’t remember.” He rolled his eyes and pivoted toward the bar, again motioning for my refill. “And we prefer to be called orch dorks, thank you.”

With his attention directed away, I was free to gaze at him. He was in his element here, of that I was certain. This was his territory. He wasn’t standing back, waiting for me to give him some backstory on the band or venue, pointing out the best corner for sound and service, or introducing him to friends. He looked like a king gazing out over his court.

“You should give out wristbands or hand stamps so the women who’ve serviced you can find each other in a crowd. They’d probably form a support group,” I said. “At least a hashtag.”

He turned back, slowly dragging his eyes from the bar to me. He didn’t seem altogether pleased with my comments. “A
hashtag?
”

I was uncomfortable here, and it was showing in my words. I felt out of place, as if I’d stumbled into the cool kids’ club and they were waiting for me to leave so they could get back to their regularly scheduled minion crushing.

“There’s enough of them. A couple hundred, right? You can’t be into four digits without getting seriously chafed. Do you have a balm for that?”

Sam stared at me, cool and still while I struggled to restrain all of my fidgeting. “Why are you asking?”

“I know you. I know what you like.” I gestured toward the artificially busty brunette who was lingering near our table. My boobs at least had the decency to be somewhat uneven, and they’d never know
that
level of perky. “Maybe you’d rather be with someone else.”

He glanced at the brunette, offered an incendiary smile then a quick head shake, an obvious “you are flawless but not tonight” command, and bent toward me, his arm braced on the edge of the table. “Do I need to remind you that your tits are incredible? Or that you’re absolutely fucking gorgeous?”

His hair looked darker under the club lights, but fine threads of auburn still shone through. It was brilliantly styled but I wanted my fingers in there. I wanted the imperfect Sam, the one who didn’t offer fake, overly animated smiles for every minor celebrity who stopped by the table for a bro-hug. The one who didn’t shave on the weekends, and wore ancient sweatshirts and jeans with thick, retro glasses to watch movies at my apartment.

“That isn’t a definitive statement.”

“It’s quite definitive,” he said. “And I don’t think you know everything, Sunshine.”

“Then maybe you should teach me something.”

His eyes widened and lingered on my lips. “Maybe you should tell me what you’d like to learn.”

I opened my mouth but the words stuck together in a choked groan. I wanted to know what his tattoos meant and what his tongue would do to me. I wanted to taste him, all of him, and I wanted to memorize the way he looked when he pushed inside me and when he orgasmed. I wanted to feel his weight on me, and I wanted to see his lips form the dirtiest words imaginable.

I wanted it
all.

But I wanted a lot more than one night with him, and that wasn’t part of his protocol.

“I’m getting shots,” I announced, yelling despite the narrow distance between us.

“No,” he said, cringing. “I don’t want to wake up on the floor again.”

“That hasn’t happened in a long time.” I brought my hands to either side of his face. “But I’ll take better care of you tonight.”

Sam grabbed my elbows and held me in place. “Is that a promise?”

He brought his lips to mine, and I expected a quick, innocent kiss, but the moment we met, it changed.

A quiet growl sounded from his chest and his arms locked around my waist, and I couldn’t resist the slide of his mouth over mine.

There was something subtle and dangerous about Sam, like a jaguar sizing up its prey. He was polished and refined, but beneath it lived a fierce, chaotic current. The primal gentleman. For the first time, I realized he could absolutely destroy me if I let him.

When we broke apart, I exhaled a breathy laugh, and Sam said, “Yeah, I’m going to get those shots now.”

Some tequila, some dancing, and a lot of overly auto-tuned techno music later, I was ready to leave the posh side of Boston nightlife. I gave it a try; it just wasn’t my scene, and I wasn’t convinced it was Sam’s scene either. He liked being there, being seen with the right people, but this wasn’t him.

Eventually we hopped a cab downtown only to discover the act I wanted to see was sold out. Rather than wandering around Massachusetts Avenue to find another show in the area, Sam insisted we head to the next on my list of top choices.

The cab swerved to avoid some pedestrians spilling onto the street near Boylston, and the force sent me sliding across the seat and careening into Sam.

“You just keep crashing into my life, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Trying to get rid of me?” I asked, my hands braced on his chest.

“I don’t think I should,” he murmured.

“Then don’t,” I said.

We arrived at the absurdly small venue in Porter Square just as the headlining act went on, and we found a spot near the front. I twirled away from Sam at one point, and started dancing with a group of rockabilly chicks. Now
these
were my people.

He smiled and nodded, and I saw him retreat to the bar. I assumed he was going to flirt with the bartender, but he never took his eyes off me. I liked him watching. I knew it was creepy to say that, but I sensed him staring at me and it was glorious.

The band kicked off a slow tune, and the blonde to my left pulled me close to sway with the song. It was a perfect, mellow moment until I spotted Sam on the other side of the venue. His eyes were locked on me, and I’d never felt such a hot, intense gaze. His suit coat was gone and shirtsleeves rolled up, and right then, I wanted his hands on my body.

I wanted it enough to get a little silly.

I went up on my tiptoes and kissed the blonde with the Veronica Lake hair. It felt crazy and exhilarating and so, so smooth, and the adrenaline coursing through my veins drowned out the band. Her tongue rolled against mine, and her hand moved up to glide over my breast and down to my ass. She sucked on my bottom lip, and it was an overwhelming, slightly mischievous experience.

“You’re pretty,” she whispered, and squeezed my shoulders with a tight hug. “Do you want to meet my boyfriend? I think he’d like you.”

I didn’t know how to react to that, and there was a laugh forming in my throat, but a hand closed around my arm, and Sam was tearing me away from her. I crashed into the hard wall of his chest, my fingers digging into his biceps to keep me steady as the crowd around us rocked with the music.

“What was that?” he asked, his lips brushing over my ear.

“You have to ask?” I said. His arms were wrapped around me, pressing me flush against his body, and though it was exactly what I wanted, I wanted more.

“I have an idea,” he chuckled. He ran his hand through my hair, then tucked it over my ears. “But I want to hear you say it.”

“You were right. I wanted to kiss a girl,” I said. “The opportunity presented itself.”

“Did you like it?” I traced the placket on his shirt and nodded. “Would you like to do it again?”

It was too loud to follow this conversation in the middle of a live show, and I was a heartbeat away from shoving my hands down his pants. I dragged him down a dark hallway, but he didn’t let me take control for long. He spun me around and pushed me against the wall, his body layered over mine.

“Is that what
you
want?” I asked.

He laughed, a rueful smile on his face, and followed the line of my collarbones with his finger. Sam dipped his head to my chest and kissed the path he had drawn, then moved up, over my throat and chin. When he finally reached my mouth, I pulled him closer.

“That wasn’t the question, Tiel. You said you enjoyed it. Maybe you want to find that chick and ask her to lick your pussy on a bed of rose petals. That would just leave double penetration and some public indecency.”

“You’d love that,” I said. I dug my fingers through his hair, destroying the precise styling. I stretched up on my toes and teased my lips over his. “You could watch and—”

He surged against me, flattening me, and claimed my mouth. “Watch? I don’t get to participate?”

“Such a pervy boy,” I groaned.

“And you love it,” he said, his lips on my neck. His hands skimmed up and down my sides, his fingertips brushing my breasts slightly yet just enough to leave my nipples tight and wanting. “Don’t you?”

I grabbed his hands and pulled them away from my body. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“How many questions can you answer with another question?” Frowning, he placed my hands on his belt and fisted my dress at my hips, edging it up as he wedged his thigh between my legs. “Don’t ever apologize for what you want.”

Sam’s hand slid beneath my dress to cup my ass, and he squeezed, tucking me against him until my panties were pressed to his trousers. He lifted his head and sent me the darkest, most sensual smile I’d ever seen.

“Oh would you stop with the smolders?” I said. “I’ve already bought it. You don’t need to keep selling.”

He laughed and rolled his pelvis against me, and I felt the thick hardness of him through our clothes.

Oh, holy fucktarts.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Can we be the friends who kiss and have dance parties and watch
Pulp Fiction
in bed?” I asked. “And . . . maybe more?”

“
Friends
do all that?”

I shrugged, hoping he’d embrace my definition. There weren’t enough words in the English language to properly encapsulate the types of friends a person could have, and there wasn’t a word to describe Sam and me.

Believe me: I
wanted
a word. A name, some structure, clear boundaries.

Sam smiled and pulled me against him. “What about
Reservoir Dogs?
”

We stared at each other, no more than a few inches between us, and this moment was fluttering like a hummingbird, fast and frantic. We weren’t hanging out because we survived an elevator hostage crisis and felt some strange kinship. We weren’t drunk-flirting. Whatever this was, it was evolving. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

I pushed away from the wall, clutched Sam’s hand between both of mine, and marched toward the back room. I’d been to this venue enough to know it would be empty at this hour. It was dark and adequately private, and this was what he liked. It wasn’t as posh as Verdigris, but it would get the job done. I didn’t need to think; I knew exactly what I intended to do.

Sam was saying something as we entered the room, but I covered his mouth with my hand.

“Shh,” I said.

I dropped to my knees and fumbled with his belt, but his hands came around my wrists, stopping me. “No, Tiel.
No.
” Waves of discomfort rolled off his body, and if the tight bunch of his shoulders was any indication, he was slowly dying from mortification. He gasped, “I have to get out of here.”

He released my hands and bolted from the room.

I gulped down my embarrassment and blinked away the tears in my eyes. Easing back until I was crouched against the wall, I swallowed the pathetic whimper that threatened. “Okay,” I announced to the room. “So, that was awful.”