Something's Come Up (6 page)

Thanks to Pace’s tall frame and discerning tastes, I still wore my nude platform heels. He remained motionless and naked on the floor, his astounding arms folded behind his head. His eyes never left my face.

“The neck tattoo is pretty bold.” I rerouted the subject, nodding to the left side of his neck, his most blatantly visible ink.

“A collared shirt keeps secrets. Certainly you remember...” He sat up and grabbed my upper thigh, placing a soft kiss on it, then sucking it in an apparent attempt to remind me of the hickey he’d given me once on a Sunday night. Asshole. Right before Monday morning classes. I pulled away and bent down to reach for the rest of my discarded clothes. He pulled me down so that I was straddling him. I felt him stiffen beneath me and every muscle below my navel tensed deliciously.

I sucked in a loud breath as he leaned forward and bit my nipple. “Feels like someone’s ready to play again.”

“Always,” he mumbled into my cleavage.

Butterflies awakened in the pit of me when he said that word. Disturbed, I promptly doused them with ether. Pace was a champion strategist. Do not misinterpret that statement; I find intelligence incredibly sexy, but Pace was literally a chess club champ in high school (don’t think I didn’t make fun of that shit), and he used his Machiavellian brain for some pretty tiresome shit way back when. I hadn’t come to see him for a trip down memory lane, I came to have him make me come. After all, a girl has needs.

“Can we at least move to the couch?” I asked when it was clear he wasn’t backing down from another go.

“Are you uncomfortable, Princess?” He was eye to eye with me; I tried my best not to flinch away from his bullshit taunt or his electric gaze.

I thought for a fleeting moment that I might have made a tactical error visiting him. No. Pace knew me, I reminded myself. He got it. He knew what I was capable of and—more importantly—what I wasn’t, and he accepted it. Well...most of the time.

Clearing my throat and needing to regain my footing, I tilted my chin toward the window. “How strong are those windows?”

He leaned forward, wickedness playing in his smile. “Suicide glass.”

My heart raced at the term. It begged to be toyed with. “You feeling dangerous tonight?”

“I’m with you, aren’t I?” He stood, putting me eye to eye with his best attribute. He caught me staring and chuckled. “Get up. You’re lucky it’s July, that glass can get cold enough for your nipples to cut through it.”

 

N
ovember had been one crazy ass month. I was still recovering from the trials and tribulations of mid-terms, which had required me to do all sorts of unpleasant stuff, like writing papers and studying terms for techniques I just perform instinctively. All of that was highly irritating and made me kind of pissy. More importantly, I’d had so many parties to go to that I had to use my calendar to keep track of them. I still had to show up at school and pretend to absorb information I’d learned when these other idiots still had hairless privates. Dad demanded I come home for Thanksgiving, so I grudgingly made the trip back to Chicago even though I knew I’d get snowed in and miss P Diddy’s rave on Saturday. And I’d even waxed for it.

Dad and I ate Thanksgiving dinner in The Signature Room in Hancock Building, a tradition of ours since long before Mom’s sternum got crushed by a drunk driver and my brother Cedric hobbled off to Rome. I hadn’t seen Dad since school started in August. After his disapproving inspection of my new nose ring, I got the full court press about school and interning at
The Sound Wave
after graduation. I implied that interning at a magazine that I’d been shooting covers for since I was thirteen years old was ridiculous. He proceeded to drink too much whisky, so I was forced to drive him home. I always loved driving his Mercedes. Unlike Dad, I drove it the way it was meant to be driven—fast and motherfucking furious.

After indulging Dad’s drunken ramblings (he insisted on singing an Irish lullaby for me that his grandma used to love), I poured him into bed and hopped online to check my email. I was homework free and had paid the right people to write my papers. The assigned school projects were laughable, but my agent had scheduled a cover shoot the following week with some up-and-coming British chanteuse named Amy Winehouse, and I’d heard that girl knew how to party. I suspected we’d hit it off.

When I saw a new email from [email protected], I had to read the address three times to believe it. I hadn’t seen Pace since our one-nighter (one night and part of the following morning, if you want to get technical) almost six weeks earlier. About a week after our hookup at my place, I’d received an envelope containing a bill from an overpriced tailor for a “button repair.” The return address was on the other side of Central Park. I’d smiled at that; he lived just across the green space from me and it was almost...sweet, knowing he was so close and so far away.

I wrote out a check for the full amount and stuffed it into an envelope coated in my perfume. I included his receipt, on which I scrawled “paid in full” in whore red lipstick. As a bonus, I included a bottle of Steel Dragon, a “natural” male performance enhancement drug I stumbled across at a skanky liquor store in Greenwich Village.

He never replied, so I assumed he didn’t have the stones to hang with a bitch like me after all. Now over a month later, here was an email from the man himself. Hmm…

The subject line of his email said “Something’s Come Up.” Of that, I had no doubt.

I was suddenly so wet I felt like I needed to change my panties. Twirling my hair anxiously, I leaned close to the screen and double clicked.

Red,

Been thinking about that dirty mouth of yours. I have something you can do to keep it occupied. ;)

I want to take you out. Or in. You get the idea. If you’re up for it, meet me at The Rack on Friday night at 6.

Pace-It’s my name. Remember to use it.

P.S. I threw those pills away.

I noticed he included his phone number under his signature. I took a moment to punch it into my phone. Then I looked at the time stamp. He’d sent the email the night before. Six would be cutting it close if my plane left O’Hare on time, which never happens. My fingers engaged before my brain did, plunking the keyboard a million miles a minute.

Cary,

Make it 8 and I’m game. I won’t bother wearing panties. Not that I’m complaining, but how’d you get my email address?

Steph

P.S. Bring condoms.

I
wandered into The Rack at 8:15 and with the exception of the staff, the place was deserted. The scent of burnt ends, tangy sauce, and honey butter caused me to salivate. Glancing around once more, I shrugged and sauntered to the cash register. Bubba leaned carelessly on the counter, eyeing me with a wry smile.

“Expecting someone, Shorty?” He smirked, his glittering gold tooth sparkling like a beacon of culinary excellence. He was a chill dude and we’d been trading barbs for three and a half years. He popped the top of a bottle of my favorite beer, handing it to me.

“Yep. But looks like he bailed.”

“You’re one cold heartbreaker. Real talk, girl.”

“You know me. Sad and lonely,” I said sardonically, sipping the beer as he plated up my usual order.

“So this missing thug of yours—he tall, black, and cocky as hell?”

“Why yes,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to see if Pace was standing behind me. He wasn’t. We were alone.

“He was here. Waited for a half hour...asked if I’d seen a redheaded smartass. He left about five minutes ago. He seemed pretty annoyed.”

I shrugged and took my plate of ribs. “I’m late.”

He handed me a second bottle of beer, and, balancing both bottles and my heaping plate, I went into the empty dining room and took a seat close to the heating vent. I’ve always been cold-blooded, and New York City in late November made me wish I’d gone to college in Miami. Then I’d have skin cancer, but at least I’d be snug as a bug. I took off my coat and dug into the ribs. Pace came back in the door just as I was sucking the sauce off the first bone.

“Well, now. That’s a sight for sore eyes.”

His seductive voice literally caressed me. I’m embarrassed to admit I shivered when I heard him. He was heading in my direction, all lean, virile muscle. He didn’t sound pissed, but those astonishing eyes of his simmered with something...promise of punishment, maybe? I felt my lower muscles pulsating like a tightly wound guitar string.

“I thought you left,” I replied. “I did say eight, right?”

“It was 8:15.” His poker face was flawless.

“Traffic.” I shrugged. “Hungry?”

“Not anymore. I just forgot my scarf.” His cool tone left a breeze in his wake as he walked past me and scooped up a sheath of cream wool off the back of a nearby chair. Then he strutted back in the direction of the door.

What the hell?

“Hey!” I called, tossing down my rib and hurriedly wiping my hands off with a pile of napkins. “Settle down, Carrington. I was fifteen minutes late!”

He paused. After what seemed like eternity, he looked over his shoulder at me. His eyes scanned me clinically and he reached out and flipped the nearest chair around backwards. He straddled it and my eyes drifted to his muscular thighs. Memories of his perfect naked flesh were overwhelming, and I knew I was blushing as I felt heat rising in my cheeks. He intertwined his own fingers and cocked his head to the side.

“I don’t think you are sorry. But I think you will be.”

I didn’t want him to go, but I didn’t want
him
to know that. I lifted my chin defiantly. “That sounds delightful. Can I finish my dinner?”

“You can do whatever you like.” He stood and wrapped his scarf around his neck. “I have other...
things
I can do with my free time.”

I sighed and sipped my second beer. “Sit down, Pace. I think we need to have a conversation.”

His eyes shot to mine and I was sure he’d walk away. To my surprise, he slowly took the chair a second time.

“If you tell me eight, you be here no later than seven fifty-five. Do we understand one another? The only games I wish to play are in the sheets, Red.” Just like that, he was in dom mode.

I felt a smile curling my lips. How darling.

“Let me explain something to
you
,” I began, but he hooked his foot in my chair leg and dragged me frighteningly close to him in one swift movement.

“Watch your mouth, naughty girl,” he murmured in my ear, his breath teasing my neck as I fumbled to finish my sentence. His hand stroked the length of my hair as if I were a favored pet. “Did you like what we did together last time?”

“Y-yes.” My voice sounded horse, but I rallied my moxie. “But I’m not a doormat who’ll drop on all fours and act as an end table for your glass of Courvoisier. I
am not
that girl. I’m also
not
the girl who’s going to curl up after sex and ask what you’re thinking about. If you’re looking for
that
girl, take that sweet ass on out the door. If you’re looking for the girl who’d fuck you in that restroom right over there, maybe we have something to discuss.”

His mahogany cheeks reddened a bit as his eyes widened with surprise. A deep sense of satisfaction washed over me. Before he could respond, Bubba came into the otherwise empty dining room with a tray of freshly filled salt and pepper shakers. He moseyed to the jukebox, glanced at us and made a selection. The volume was cranked for a large crowd, and the familiar chords of ‘Let’s Get It On” blared out of the speakers. Pace and I exchanged looks and gaped, open-mouthed, at Bubba. We all laughed in unison.

“Need a to-go box?” Bubba asked.

“Yes. She does,” Pace replied without missing a beat.