Reborn (12 page)

It was a warm room, deeply masculine, but comfortable for all that. So far she liked his body, his house, and his dog—his personality was still in question; he was clearly literate, though, so that was something.

Lille tugged on her shirt, pulling her hair out of the collar in the back, and then sat on the couch as she ruched up her leggings and slipped her feet in before standing to wrestle them the rest of the way on. She couldn’t find her socks, so she slipped on her boots without them and left them untied.

She picked up her bag by the front door where she’d dropped it on the way into the house and dug out her sunglasses and her phone to check the time: seven fifteen. No one had called—she hadn’t expected anyone to—but there was a text message.

Meet me at the Box today at 10 am. It’s Carl.

Lille mentally shrugged; she’d planned to go to the Box, anyway.

Okay,
she texted back. She didn’t know who was working the morning shift, or whether Mary and John had gone back to Mary’s place or stayed at the Box, but she figured someone would be around.

She pulled out the business card with the Vegas address and tapped it against her lips. She was tempted to call the number; she even got as far as entering it into her phone when her phone chimed, indicating that she had another text.

You there? You okay? I’m here if you need anything.

It was from Paul. It was the middle of the night in San Francisco.

I’m fine,
Lille replied, hoping he didn’t keep texting her. She hadn’t exactly explained herself when she’d broken it off; she’d just told him that she didn’t want to be married.

Thinking about Paul reminded her that she was sitting in the living room of the first man she’d fucked since she’d broken off her engagement, and while she’d had an excellent time, she didn’t want the awkward morning-after conversation. She tucked the card back in her purse to take care of later.

She unlocked the door, slid her sunglasses onto her nose, and said a silent farewell to the man who’d served her well. She locked the bottom lock as she closed the door and took a deep breath of sea-scented air. It was a beautiful day; she was relaxed and pleasantly sore. Now all she needed was Starbucks and a breakfast sandwich, but Mary had her car.

She didn’t know where the Starbucks was, but there was excellent coffee next door at Mary’s house. She walked along the road down to the corner and turned right, passing by a fence covered in bougainvillea that waved cheerfully in the breeze. Her hair whipped around and she wished she had her scarf.

The keys Mary had given her were in her bag and she dug inside it with one hand as she walked, pulling out a key chain with a Swiss Army knife and a small canister of Mace. One key dangled from it. Her car key was on a much more attractive, but less practical, Tiffany key chain, and it was currently in Mary’s possession.

A few minutes later, she was approaching the dim jungle that served as the wildcat den near Mary’s front door. As expected, the cats came out to greet her, rubbing against her boots as she made her way to the front door. She ignored them, aware that cats took hints about as well as men, but she didn’t want to kick the annoying creatures.

Sea-corroded, the lock fought back as she tried to turn the key. The cats wound themselves tighter around her legs and she felt a moment of panic—something about the hot, still air, the brush of the cats against her legs, and the door not opening had her heart beating faster.

But then it opened, and she hurried inside, shutting the door behind her and leaning back against it. No dogs greeted her, so she assumed that Mary had stayed at John’s apartment over the Box.

A few deep breaths later, she pushed her sunglasses up on her head, straightened slowly, and wished she’d taken her doctor up on that prescription for Valium. Instead, she was going to drink copious amounts of coffee and get seriously busy with her plans for the Box because fuck the panic attacks. Panic attacks were for wimps, which she knew wasn’t true, but she would rather fight than give in to something that she considered a weakness.

It didn’t happen often, but occasionally the night she’d left Vegas and the night she’d been raped in San Francisco came together in her mind. Her therapist had told her that her fears weren’t real, that it was unlikely that her father, who’d been in jail for so long, would seek out a daughter he’d never met, but that fear had a way of becoming a part of you.

Lille ordered herself to stop thinking about it and headed down the long, narrow hall to the living room. Dropping her red bag on the couch, she bent and took out her iPad, along with its charger. She kicked off her boots and walked barefoot into the kitchen, which was bright with sunshine coming in through the large bay window that overlooked the garden . . . and Max’s house. She stood for a moment, checking for any movement, before she turned away, setting her iPad on the island in the center of the kitchen and plugging in the charger.

She set her phone and keys next to it and walked over to the sink. The coffee mugs from the previous morning were rinsed and set on a drying rack on the counter to the right. She pulled the cup she’d used the previous morning and searched for a coffeemaker.

Instead, she found a pretty silver French press, a coffee grinder, and an electric kettle, so she figured they did it old-school here in Casa de Deupree; Lille felt that she’d never worked so hard for a few cups of coffee in her life.

She was enjoying her second cup, sitting at a stool at the center island, and eating toast with peanut butter when the sound of dogs barking and the jingle of keys drew her attention away from her iPad. She’d been researching other online adult stores and making lists of the tasks that needed to be done. She wanted to throw a party, a huge one, maybe at Max’s pub on Halloween, and use it as the launch of the new and improved Fetish Box website and a web series, assuming that everything came together in time. She’d come up with a few tentative names for the show—if all the employees were on board, of course: “Inside the Box,” “The Fetish Boxers,” “The Touchables.”

Preceded by a few happy barks from Bambi, the two dogs came rushing from the living room into the kitchen, tails wagging with delight at finding one of their people in the house.

Lille had never owned a dog, but she was starting to understand why people liked them—they were honestly happy to see you, they didn’t lie, and they didn’t look at your chest while they slobbered all over you.

John and Mary followed shortly after the dogs, John carrying a white bag of what smelled like pastries.

“Tell me you didn’t bring something stuffed with cream cheese?” Lille narrowed her eyes at Mary, who gave her wide eyes.

“Would I do that?”

“Yes, you bitch.”

Mary laughed and walked past Lille to the cupboards. John stopped in front of the island and gave Lille a knowing look.

He’s hot,
Lille thought for no reason, liking the slight graying at his temples and the air of gravity the scars lent him.
I’m not attracted to him,
she realized suddenly; she saw him as a brother, or a good friend—someone who knew her really, really well, which totally freaked her out.

“What is it, darling?” Lille lifted her chin at him, green eyes flashing.

John looked amused and took the plate that Mary handed him with equanimity.

Mary answered for him: “So how was Max?”

Lille settled back on the barstool. Sex gossip. That was fine. “Oh, that. Hot and good. As expected.”

“Hmm . . .”

“What?” Lille hated when Mary made that little noise of nonagreement.
What the hell? It was just a quick fuck. These people work at a porn shop, for fuck’s sake . . . and now I sound like Max,
she realized, disgruntled.

John arranged the pastries on the plate, laughing silently.

“I think you should go out with him,” Mary suggested.

“Go out with him?” Lille was mystified. “Why would I do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” John asked, but he seemed more curious than judgmental—a nice quality in a man, but still, how could he possibly think she would date Max?

“Max isn’t a man you date . . . as in have a relationship. You two are his friends, right? I knew that after spending two seconds with him.”

“I don’t know,” Mary said in her quiet, stubborn way. “He seems to think the same thing about you.”

“And he’s right.”

“I think you’re both underestimating yourselves.”

“That’s the last thing either of us would ever do.”

Mary conceded that with a nod. “Neither one of you is lacking in ego; I’ll give you that.”

“I think you’re both terrified of the idea of trusting anyone,” John suggested, and Lille felt a small, shimmering quake in the region of her chest. She swallowed and tossed her hair.

“So your day job is a therapist?” Lille snarled with syrupy-sweet insincerity; she was being a bitch and she knew it, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

“No.” John shrugged. “But I’ve been to one a time or two.”

Lille looked at his scar and felt shame curl in an ugly green spiral through her stomach. Yeah, she believed that.

“Well,” she murmured, “whether you’re right or not, we hardly bring out the best in each other. It would be unwise.”

“And you always do what’s wise,” Mary said solemnly.

Lille gave a world-weary sniff and sighed dramatically. “Of course not, darling. That’s why I’m fucking him.”

With that, she grinned wickedly, snapped the cover of her iPad closed, and stood. “I’m taking a shower and meeting Carl over at the Box. See you two for dinner?”

John frowned, but Lille didn’t wait for a response. She sailed from the room, missing his expression.

Mary noticed it, though, and paused in the act of putting one of the pastries on her plate. “What is it?”

John scratched at his scarred cheek. “I thought Carl would be down for the count till noon. His drunk tweets lasted till five a.m.”

“Maybe he was still drunk when he texted her?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged it off. “I know that I’m exhausted . . . and in less than half an hour we’ll have the house to ourselves. I think I need a nap.”

Mary licked cream cheese off her thumb and met his eyes. He didn’t look that tired.

“That’s funny. I think I need one, too.”

His eyes crinkled. “Best news I’ve had all day.”

Max knew
the moment when Lille left, but
he pretended to stay asleep. He wanted her to leave; he felt as if someone had laid him open, removed all his organs, and put them back all a-jumble. That had been the most fantastic fucking sex of his life, and he was pissed off that it had to be with such a woman, a woman who made him feel so vulnerable while she remained distant.

When he heard the click of the front door closing, he sat up and tossed aside the cover, swinging his legs onto the floor and putting his head in his hands.

He had a fucking headache from the tequila, or else the blonde was poisonous, which wouldn’t surprise him much.

“I’m a feckin’ eejit,” he concluded out loud, and looked around for Bambi to concur, forgetting that he’d sent her home with Mary.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He sounded like a bitch, pissing and moaning ’cause he’d had the best shag of his life with a gel he couldn’t stand.

He stood, stretching, and headed into the shower.

He’d fucked plenty of women he didn’t know, but never one whom he actually couldn’t stand. She was bossy, arrogant, distant—not qualities he admired, he mused as he turned the knob of his shower to extra-hot.

Moments later, as he stood with the jets blasting rhythmically on the back of his neck and shoulders, he caught himself thinking about what it had been like to slide into her tight, wet sheath, and he wished she had stayed long enough to hop in the shower with him, long enough for him to fuck her to the rhythm of those jets, pounding that sweet pussy until she was begging to come, begging to worship him.

He forced himself to stop thinking about her. She wasn’t like Mandy, or even Mary. He knew her type—she was always going to look out for her own interests first.

Except that there was still something about her that was unlike any woman he’d ever met. . . . She certainly wasn’t weak-willed, and she was an excellent bartender.

Max was aware that being an excellent bartender didn’t make her any more trustworthy, but it proved that she’d worked for something, that she hadn’t just relied on some man to take care of her. And she easily could have, beautiful as she was.

He didn’t know what it meant; he certainly didn’t think he should let down his guard, but he was willing to admit that she maybe wasn’t—quite—the entitled bitch he’d thought her to be.

Fifteen minutes
later, he stepped out of the
shower feeling at least marginally human. He dried his hair briefly with a towel, then hung it around his neck. Back in his room, he pulled on a disreputable pair of board shorts before heading down the hall to his living room.

He didn’t see any signs of Lille; she’d erased all traces of her presence, which surprised him a little. When she was around, she was so vibrantly alive, so present, so much, that he expected some kind of impact on the environment—like a tsunami.

He strolled past the TV and the bookshelves of his living room to the open archway that led to the kitchen and a breakfast nook set against French doors that overlooked the backyard. He set the Mr. Coffee to brew, though it was piss-poor in comparison to the coffee at Mary’s house, and put a piece of bread in the toaster. While the coffee sputtered and gurgled and the toast browned, he flipped through the mail on his breakfast table. Bills mostly, though there was a thick packet of letters from Mary’s attorney, Albert Cross.

He opened the packet and read the first page. It was just as he thought: the paperwork for the transfer of ownership from Mandy to Mary Deupree. He unconsciously rubbed his chest, thinking about Mandy, Mary’s mother. She’d saved his life, saved his uncle’s life, at least for a time. The old man had quit smoking for Mandy, quit drinking, had started exercising and eating better. Thinking about cigarettes made him itch for one himself, so he picked up a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter from the counter.