Only Trick (9 page)

“So do you still want me to
fuck off
?” I ask, climbing onto the barstool.

He hands me a fork and knife. “I do if you don’t stop mutilating my groceries.” There’s zero humor to his voice, but I’m learning that’s just Trick. His emotions are subtle and hard to read, like blurred ink.

I spread butter and strawberry jelly on my toast. “The funny thing is … I’m not usually a vengeful person. At least I never thought so until I met you.” I shrug and pile the eggs onto my toast. “I guess you bring out the evil in me. Congratulations, I’ve been considered a doormat for years, so this is progress for me.”

Trick glances over at me then takes a bite of his butter and jellied toast
with eggs piled on top
. He may have militant control over his emotions, but I don’t. My grin steals my face. For years my father gave me a disapproving scowl at the breakfast table for my jelly, toast, and egg concoction. But now, I’ve found my breakfast soul mate.

“What?” he mumbles over a mouthful, squinting at me.

“OMG! It’s official; we’re BFFs.”

He finishes chewing then takes a swig of his juice. “No way…” he shakes his head “…if you ever use OMG and BFF in the same sentence again we’re O.V.E.R! Got it?”

My grin has taken up permanent residence on my face. I talk in code all day at work, so I’m not really the ditzy acronym girl; I was just playing with him. However, his growly reaction was so freaking hot, I know I’ll end up poking the bear again and again.

Shoving in a big bite, I tap his foot with mine. “We’re breakfast soul mates and you know it,” I mumble while wiping the corners of my mouth with my fingers. “What are the chances that we both like jellied toast with scrambled eggs on top? Seriously, like one in a gazillion.”

He slides over the jar he grabbed from the spice cabinet. “First, I like jellied toast with over easy eggs.” He glares at me. “Second, I add cayenne pepper to my eggs. And I’m pretty sure the whole thing is far from an original idea.”

Grasping the jar of cayenne like a drawn sword, I accept his challenge. The spicier the better, another OMG-we’re-so-meant-to-be-BFFs moment. However, I keep that to myself,
for now
. The idea of us being O.V.E.R terrifies me because this has to be as good as it gets—super squirrel sans shirt, sexy tats, and eating eggs on jellied toast.
Nirvana.

Trick observes me with a curious look, eyes dilated, lips firm to resist the twitch-smirk. I sprinkle on enough cayenne to permanently burn off my taste buds, then take a bite. Chewing slowly, I grin while savoring the sweet and fiery collision along my tongue and down my throat.

“What are you thinking?” My nerves release the hostage words that have been shackled in my throat since we met. Every look feels like an undecipherable riddle; I’m tired of guessing.

He looks down at his plate then takes another bite before looking at me again. “I’m trying to figure you out.”

I almost choke on my laugh. “
Me?
You can’t be serious. I’m the epitome of an open book. I’ve told you just about everything about me. What more could you possibly want to know?”

Trick slides his plate away and rests his folded arms on the counter, closer to me. His eyes flicker over my face and hair, then down my body before meeting mine again. “I want to know why you’re here with me?”

Gulp!

He might as well ask me the meaning of life. It’s a simple question with an infinitely impossible answer, but I look for it anyway.

His eyes don’t hold the answer, his lips are a gateway to something he finds amusing in me, and so I look at the brilliant rainbow of ink along his arms, chest, and back. The stars, small flowers, feathers, symbols, and sanskrit—they could mean nothing; they could mean everything.

I’m attracted to him, but not delusional. He will never look at me the way I look at him … yet, I’m here. So I shrug realizing the answer is me, not him. “I like
me
with you.”

He stares at my lips; he does that a lot. He’s probably thinking I could use a Botox injection.
Fat chance!
“Who are
you
with me?” Turning to face me, he pulls my chair closer to his so my legs go between his.

Sucking in a breath, I grab my toast and take another bite to hide my nerves. He has short, dark chest hair that trails downward, disappearing beneath his jeans. On the left side of his abs there are black sanskrit symbols etched to a bold perfection. I love looking at him.

“I’m out of control.”

He raises a brow as I grin.

“Nobody’s life is in my hands, and I’m not the Senator’s daughter. You’ve seen me without makeup and nearly wetting myself on the back of your bike, yet you still suggested we be friends.”

A soft chuckle escapes him as he rests his hands on my knees. The next part I
want
to be one hundred percent true, but it’s not—yet. “I don’t have to think about sleeping with you or who you’re sleeping with when it’s not me.”

His hands grip tighter on my knees. My breath catches. I hold it, control it, then release it with ease as he releases me.

Grabbing my juice, I suck it down the way he sucks all control out of me. The clink of my glass hitting the counter breaks the eerie, suffocating silence that hovers like a cloud in this large open space. “Tell me about your family.”

“Grady and Tamsen are my only family.” He pushes my chair back and hops off his stool.

“Tamsen?”

“Grady’s sister.” Trick rinses off our plates.

“What about your parents?” I climb down and hand him the skillet.

“What about them?”

“Jesus, Trick! This is such deadweight conversation. It’s exhausting dragging information out of you.”

He shuts the door to the dishwasher and leans against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, head down. “I think they died.”

I shake my head. “What does that mean?”

He looks up. “You work at a hospital but you don’t know what it means to die?”

“No, you idiot! I don’t understand what it means to not know if your parents are dead or alive.”

“Well, lucky you.” He walks away, grabs a shirt, and slips on his boots before heading toward the elevator. “Come.”

“Where are we going?”

He slides open the gate and steps into the elevator, turning toward me. “I’ll walk you out.”

“You’re kicking me out?” I try to hide the shock in my voice, but I’m sure he can see it in my posture that deflates an inch or two.

“I’m
walking
you out.”

I look around the room searching for … something. My pride? Some dignity?

Nothing.

Scuffing my boots across the floor, I sulk to the elevator. Trick shuts the gate.

“You don’t have to walk me to my car,” I say in a weak voice as he opens the outer door.

He walks out as if he didn’t hear me, leaving me to catch up.

When we reach the street he stops. I point to my car on the other side, and he continues toward it. After I unlock it, he opens the driver’s door. His mask is back on, not a single twitch, just … stone. I start to get in then stop. Standing straight, I hug him. If it’s even possible, his body stiffens more. His arms stay glued to his sides.

“I’m sorry about your parents … wherever they are.” Releasing him, I slide into my seat and shut the door. Without looking at him, I pull away from the curb, only risking a glance in my rearview mirror when he’s already out of sight. Trick thinks his parents are dead, and maybe they are. Lack of closure can be torture. I wonder if he’s given up on any other possibility just to get that closure.

*

I should attend
yoga classes or something to clear my mind. Psychologically it’s probably not in my best interest to submerge myself in a mentally and sometimes emotionally draining job, then engage in the mind fuck that is Trick in my free time.

He radiates an element of mystery and danger. Any attempt to figure him out would be the equivalent of diving head first into the dark abyss. Yet, I’m drawn to him in more than just a physical sense, and I’m not sure it’s something I can control. But most disturbing is the realization that I don’t want to control it.

Pulling up in front of my nana’s place, I look at the time. She’s an early riser which means she’s usually in bed by eight. It’s ten ’til, so hopefully I’ll catch her before she sets the alarm and shuts off the lights.

“Yes?” she answers shortly after I press the intercom button.

“It’s me, Nana.”

The door unlocks.

“Well isn’t this a lovely surprise.” She opens her arms, sparkling blue eyes that mirror mine crinkle in the corners.

“Hope I didn’t wake you.” I hug her and feel the warmth of home in her arms—the only arms that have ever felt like what I imagine a mother’s love should feel like.

“I don’t think that’s possible yet. Mary invited me for coffee earlier and I should have skipped the second cup. I think I’ll be up for a while yet. So come, sit.” A plush, cream bathrobe engulfs her petite frame. The rosy glow of her cheeks and shiny nose indicate she’s washed her face, but her ginger and white Peter Pan hair still looks salon perfect. “You have the night off?”

“Yes.” I sit in the wing-back chair next to her. “I work in the morning.”

“Have you been summoned for the dinner party your father is having this weekend?”

Drawing my knees into my chest, I laugh. “Of course. He’s claimed all my weekends until November.”

“You could say no. You don’t owe him anything.”

I shrug. “I know, but I hate conflict.”
Usually.
“It’s easier to just make an appearance, let him introduce me to some of the most boring people in the world, then sneak out after he …” Casting my eyes downward, I sigh.

“After he sneaks off to the nearest private room to screw some bimbo?”

“Nana!” My jaw drops.

She smirks knowingly. Nothing gets by her. “Big dicks with too much money and power.”

“He’s still my father. I know in his own
twisted
way he loves me.”

She nods once with pursed lips. “So I know you didn’t stop by to talk about your father.”

Raising my brows, I pop my lips. “Nope.”

“Steven propose?”

“God, no! We’re not there yet.”

“Yet?” She perks up.

“Ever. He’s not the one.”

“Oh really? Does that mean someone else has thrown their hat into the ring?”

I bite my lips together.

“Spill, dear. Who is he?”

“He’s a makeup artist Gemmie recommended. But he has not, nor ever will be ‘throwing his hat into the ring.’”

“Married?” She grins as if the thought of me being someone’s mistress pleases her. It’s possible all my living relatives are a bit twisted.

I shake my head and smirk. “No, Nana, he’s not married. He’s … gay.”

She throws her head back and slaps her hand against her chest in a fit of laughter. “Oh my goodness!”

“Why is his sexual preference so hysterical?”

“Oh dear…” she wipes the corners of her eyes “…it’s just you have the worst luck in love. When did you find out?”

I reach over and grab a tissue from the sofa table and hand it to her, rolling my eyes. Then I proceed to tell her everything, not leaving out one single detail—including my magnetic attraction to him that shouldn’t be sexual but is.

“Well, dear, you’ve hit the jackpot.”

“What? How have you come to that conclusion from everything I’ve told you?”

“A guy friend who’s gay? I hear they’re every girl’s dream. Except, from the sounds of things, Trick needs to gay up a little more and stop confusing unsuspecting women.”

“Gay up? Who are you?”

She snaps her wrist at me. “I read the tabloids you know.”

“Yeah? Well then you should know that gay doesn’t have a look.”

“That’s the problem. You used to be able to tell by the ear piercing—right for gay left for straight. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, these days everything gets pierced and so it becomes terribly confusing.”

Nana provides nonstop entertainment, and every time I come by to see her I chastise myself for not doing it more often.

“We’re friends, period. And maybe you’re right. If he would ‘gay up’ a little more I might feel the jackpot effect.”

“Yes, shopping, hair, makeup, and chick flicks without competing hormones or competing for the same men.”

“Or wishing he weren’t gay,” I whisper to myself.

She tilts her head to the side, giving me a soft, sympathetic smile. “Or that too, dear.”