Unchained (54 page)

The ends of two fingers turned deep red and then blue as she wound the purse strap tighter and tighter. Flinging her body back until she was sprawled on the sofa, Remy turned her face up to the ceiling and groaned. “
Argh
.”

The truth was she wasn’t much of a dater. Never had been. Oh, she ran around with a couple of girls and a group of guys and had done some mild hooking up when she was younger, but all that changed once she was behind the controls of an Apache helo where lives depended on her abilities.

She glanced impatiently at the digital time display on the satellite box under the TV. He should be here soon. What was the protocol? Should she go downstairs and wait for him? Meet him in the drive? The thought wasn’t appealing. The second she stepped outside her air-conditioned apartment, she’d start shvitzing.

A shocking laugh erupted from her throat. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she got it together before a bad case of nervous giggles trashed what was left of her composure.
Shvitzing
was such an odd expression for someone like her mom to use, but that hadn’t stopped it from being one of her favorite comments.

To avoid being blasted by heat, she’d have to wait for him to knock. And then what? Did she invite him in for a quick drink? Was that how these things went?

The sudden urge to hit the bathroom sent her scurrying down the hallway. It wouldn’t do for her to worry her bladder would explode. Things were weird enough without that.

By the time she finally heard the sound of a truck parking out back, she was ready to throw in the towel, pull a fuck it, and tell Finn O’Brien to piss off.

None of that happened, though. A minute later, his heavy footsteps thundered up the steps, and he knocked three times. “Remy.”

She picked up the stupid purse and started for the door.

He knocked again. Also three times, then said, “Remy.”

A raging battle fired up inside her right then and there. One side falling over from laughter at how perfectly the guy mimicked Sheldon’s OCD knock from
The Big Bang Theory
, while the other side bitched and growled about how much she disliked the arrogant prick and hated him for putting her through this.

He won the battle when she didn’t yank the door open fast enough.

Knock, knock, knock.
“Remy.”

Her eyes narrowed. Oh, great. Already, he has the upper hand.

When she opened the door and saw him, her mind went on the fritz. Who the hell was this hot slice of eye candy perfection and what had he done with Beantown?

Uh, where did he get that suit? And was it spray painted on him or something because mother-of-god! Dudes with his muscled wingspan did not buy off the rack, so more than likely the thing was custom tailored.

He looked like … well, he looked like Mr. September in a twelve-month calendar of drool-worthy fuck sticks.

Busy admiring the unexpected change in his appearance, she missed his expression when the door swung open. When she finally looked at his face, she saw him giving her a thorough once-over as his lips quirked in a half-smile.

“Is this what passes for girl clothes out here?”

What a dick.

“Is that what passes for manners in your world?”

Remy jerked when he jerked. She was just being a bitch and hadn’t intended to land a verbal right hook. But from the way he reacted, she knew despite his cocky swagger and don’t-give-a-fuck attitude, calling him out for bad manners hit a nerve.

“You’re right. My apologies.” His voice was direct. Firm. Apologetic.

She blinked and started seeing him in a different light.

“I sometimes forget how big a dick I can be. Got a wicked mad case of Boston snarkenfreude.”

“Snarken-what?”

His answering grin was classic Beantown. “Snarkenfreude. Look it up.
Urban Dictionary
. Snide comment mixed with an egotistical delight in making fun of people.”

“Can’t you just be a run-of-the-mill dick without all the pretentious terms?”

Laughing, he offered a surprisingly sexy eye waggle. “Nah. Being a cocky bastard is in my family tree.”

The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She couldn’t respond. Couldn’t move. Why the hell was this the guy who messed with her head? Was God clowning her or what?

“And for the record, Ms. Bisset,” he drawled softly. “You look wonderful. I’m jealous of those pants.” He chuckled with a glance down.

Huh?
“What’s wrong with them?”

Finn checked her out again, leaned on the doorjamb and twirled a single finger. “Full circle, madam.”

Without thinking, she did a complete turn, and it wasn’t until she faced him and saw Finn rolling his eyes that she realized how stupid she was.

“Oh my god, Remy. You’re making this too easy.”

“How the hell do you do that?” she yelped.

He shrugged. It was the first time she found the self-deprecating reaction sort of charming. “I ask. You’d be surprised how effective it can be.”

Surprised? Yeah, she was surprised. Surprised she kept falling for it. Doing what she was told was a trait Remy left behind once she took the uniform off. Or so she’d thought.

Finn O’Brien, however, made her react in ways she wasn’t comfortable with.

“Shut up. Let’s go,” she snapped. Stepping onto the covered porch outside her second-floor apartment, she pulled the door shut and marched past him on her way to the stairs.

“Why, yes, ma’am,” she heard him quip behind her back.

Stomping down the steps, she marched up to the passenger side of a truck she’d never seen before. Where the hell had this come from?

He beat her to the handle of the door and smirked at her when she sighed heavily. Opening it with formal panache, he all but bowed and swept his hand out for her to take. “May I help you in?”

Sputtering because she really didn’t know what else to do, she smacked his hand away in favor of the passenger grab handle and hoisted herself into the truck’s cab.

He shut the door and quickly rounded to the driver’s side and climbed in.

“Ready?” he asked. She noticed he checked to make sure she had belted in. Without waiting for an answer, he started the engine and off they went. Before they cleared the compound and got on the main access road, she asked the obvious.

“Is this an acquisition?”

“What? The truck?” He shrugged and looked away. “Needed my own wheels. End of story.”

Did needing his own transport have anything to do with this business deal he referred to?

“What are you up to, Beantown?”

“Why do I have to be up to anything?” he growled. “You have an undeservedly low opinion of me.”

“No,” she swiftly disagreed. “The low opinion is totally deserved, and you know it.”

“I have an idea. How ‘bout you agree to grade me on a curve?”

“What’s in it for me?”

She didn’t expect a pause. Finn knew how to banter and do it with an edge. Any hesitation meant he wasn’t answering with standard replies.

“You cut me some slack, Remy, and I’ll try harder not to hurt your feelings.”

Pfft.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I won’t,” he countered smoothly. “And don’t you pretend. Not with me. I saw the way you reacted to me calling you a tomboy. Didn’t mean it the way it sounded. And you’re plenty of woman, Remy.”

It was apparent he wanted to say something else but held back. Shifting uncomfortably, she stared down at her outfit. The nicest things she had in her closet were a black button-down shirt and gray skinny pants. Bland. Like her. With her long curls of jet-black hair hanging from a simple part, she looked like any nondescript female locked in a nine-to-five office job.

Picking at the front of the blouse, she wondered for the hundredth time if her bra was visible through the fabric. The worry made her twitchy. Without a lot of reason to wear black in the desert heat, her underwear wardrobe consisted of sweat-wicking sports bras, serviceable plain cotton, and a mish-mosh of hastily bought things that would give her lingerie-loving mother a coronary.

And every last one was white. Even her only so-called nice bra—the one she had on—was bright, virginal white.

Deciding to change the subject from her feelings and the color of her bras to something she’d find useful, Remy asked for some straightforward, plain talk.

“Explain this business dinner, please. Who will be there and what part do I play?”

“You’re cast in the part of Remington Bisset,” he countered with indignation. “I’m not interested in play-acting.” His hands gripped the wheel firmly, and she could sense the slow burn running through him. “We’ll be joining my, uh, partner, Barry, and his girlfriend, Shelly.”

She found it highly interesting that he stammered over describing this guy as a partner. For all his exaggerated bravado, Finn wasn’t entirely sure of himself at the moment.

“Have you ever been to Paolina’s? It’s an Italian place on the outskirts of the city. Supposed to have killer handmade gnocchis. Pete made the reservation. Says it’s his favorite restaurant.”

“Pete?”

“Uh, yeah. Pete. You may know him as Whiskey Pete.”

“Whiskey Pete’s? The saloon where Justice hangs out? Are you serious?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am. Dead serious.”

“So you and your partner, Barry, have something going on with this Pete guy?”

He didn’t answer so much as he swayed in his seat as if his whole body replied with a yes.

Dinner at an Italian restaurant suddenly sounded like an interesting way to spend an evening.

“A
ND THEN, TEN
seconds later, a tremendous bang comes from the kitchen. Tell you what, boys! Me hauling my sixty-seven-year-old ass from behind the bar and running like a crooked stick figure to see what happened was funnier than shit!”

“Cesar loaded the microwave with a dozen eggs, figuring he could cook ‘em that way. Man, that smell.
Ugh
,” Barry joked with a sour expression.

“The guy’s dangerous,” Finn complained. “Can we use him? What do you think, Barry?”

“Ya know what he does really well? The guy has serious knife skills. He can slice the bar fruit and handle the entire cutting and chopping for the kitchen. Besides, he has a family to support. He knows he’s a shit cook. I think it’s just a matter of discovering how he fits in.”

Finn liked Barry, and this was why. He didn’t approach stuff from a negative viewpoint. Sure, Cesar was a nightmare, but maybe he just wasn’t being utilized properly.

Pete slapped Barry on the back so hard the guy nearly face planted in his dessert. “You’re gonna be all right. I can tell already. Taught Barry everything I know. He can handle the front end with an eye-patch on and one hand. And Finn! Fucking a! What you can do in a kitchen will change everything. Take my old whiskey-soaked honky-tonk and shine ‘er up real bright-like.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, old man!”

Finn looked across the table to Pete’s date for the evening. Debbie Booth was her name, but everyone knew her as Busty Winds. She ran a diner on the edge of Bendover where his sister, Meghan, was building a family center. Every time the subject came up, he had to remember not to sneer.

“Just sign the damn papers, would you? Let the young folk figure it out. Retiring is just a new beginning—not a tired end.”

Pete slung his arm across the back of his date’s chair and ran his fingers over her bare shoulder. The way they looked at each other was evidence that these two were doing it.

“Got a bucket list for my retirement,” he told her and everyone else. “Eat more white meat for one.” He snickered with perverted glee.

“Suppose you think that’s clever, hmm?”

Finn liked Debbie. She had a wicked sense of humor.

“Ladies,” she drawled with a Mae West fluff of her bouffant hairdo. “What do y’all think of being referred to that way?”

Shelly chuckled and held up her drink for emphasis. “Well, you know what they say.”

Barry shook his head. “Please don’t,” he groaned.

She patted him on the thigh and ignored his request. “Pussy. The other white meat.”

The whole table groaned, slapped hands over eyes, and shook heads. Even Remy.

That was pretty much how the whole dinner went. A bunch of clever smartasses shared a meal, trying to outdo each other with tall tales and irreverent humor.