Unraveled, page 4
Not once since I turned eighteen, have I asked for a dime. I worked three jobs to keep from needing his assistance. When I left home, he still had four kids to feed and get through school.
“That’s good, son. I’m so proud of you.”
“Don’t get carried away.” My voice drips with sarcasm. I shove the pickup into park, and stare at the picnic table. Gertrude and her crew waddle around the white structure as a couple of women jog past them. “You know why I left.”
My dad’s pride is a little misplaced. The last several months have sucked. First, I found out my girlfriend, Tabitha Young, used me to humiliate another woman, Chloe Sparks. And when I say humiliation, I mean humiliation. The bitch was pretending to be me and setting up wagers to use Chloe sexually.
When Tabitha’s plot was discovered by one of my co-workers, Rich, he was livid with me for initiating the bet. A bet I knew nothing about. I dumped Tabitha, but it was too late. My reputation was ruined.
“Son, don’t beat yourself up over her shenanigans.”
“Too late,” I mutter. “It was my decision to date her. I should have realized how conniving she was. How manipulative women are.” I yank the keys out of the ignition and shove them in my jean’s pocket.
“Son, not all women are – “
“Dad, let it go.” The women I’ve met are not worth the trouble. My mom was the first in a long line of disappointments. She skipped out when I was twelve leaving behind five kids.
I was the oldest and took on the household responsibilities of getting my four younger siblings ready for school, fed, and homework completed, while my dad worked twelve hours a day at the Ford plant.
Then, between my mom and Tabitha’s betrayal, there was Sadie Milton. I dated her in high school. I caught her on her first day of college, sucking my best friend’s dick. They were both tossed from my life.
“Fine,” he sighs. “I love you, son.”
“I love you, too. Tell everyone I said, ‘Hey.’”
“Will do. Be safe.”
After the phone snaps off, I gaze out the window. Three birds swoop and soar over the park as a bright white cloud creeps across the sky. Everything’s slow here. Even the clouds move at a snail’s pace. “Never going to get used to this shit.”
I yank the door open, slam it behind me, and jog to the front door of the café. I need a shot of coffee to make it through my shift, and I’ve heard this is the closest thing to a designer coffee I’m going to find in this town.
Twenty-four hours of staring at three other dudes as they play cards, talk shit, and snore is going to take a caffeine boost.
The door of the café is bright yellow, and the shutters are painted a pristine white. In front of the picture windows are enormous flower boxes stuffed with purple, blue, and red flowers. It’s like a Skittles factory exploded in it.
Sadly, when I was supposed to be sleeping last night, I was dreaming about Layla – the woman who’s the poster child for too good to be true. She’s like cotton candy. She looks delicious, but she’s bad for your health. Somebody needs to tell my Johnson she’s poison.
As I pull open the door, a loud chime rings over my head.
“Welco – “ Layla’s voice trails off, and her huge smile drops.
Fuck. Of course, she works here. I stop mid-step and force myself not to bolt. I’m not a pussy. I can handle spending ten minutes with her and not gag over her perfect – everything.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and licks her pink painted lips. My cock jumps at the movement. Yeah. Gagging over her is not the problem.
“I need a dark roast. To go.” I stride across the wooden floor as it pops under my feet. Lord, it’s like stepping into the 1960s here. Quaint with a capital “Q.”
“Coming right up.” She spins on her heel and rushes to the coffee maker.
Several seconds later, she returns to the counter and deposits the to-go cup in front of me. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy it.” Her face is full of innocence. Remember – too good to be true.
“Thank you.”
“Where’re you staying?” She leans down and rests her elbows on the counter.
My eyes dart to her cleavage and then back to her eyes. Is she hitting on me? She doesn’t move to press her breasts together or bite her lower lip. Nope.
Did I want her to? What’s wrong with me? “My cousin, Roman, owns a house on Kennett avenue.”
“So, you’re related to Roman Clarke?” Her eyes light up, and she straightens to a standing position.
“Yes.”
“He’s the greatest guy. He’s around Grady’s age, and when I was learning to ride a bicycle, he helped me conquer cycling without training wheels. And he was always so sweet when George Butler would come around.” She frowns.
“George Butler?” I cross my arms and lean my hip against the barstool in front of the register. Why am I jumping down this rabbit hole?
Her jaw tightens, and she rolls her eyes. “George was a town bully. He tried to trip all the kids in school when they walked down the hall. He was a real jerk.” She shrugs. “Anyway, one day, George was chasing me down the street on his bicycle, and Roman noticed. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know what George would have done.”
My gut churns at her description of George. He sounds like all the other assholes I’ve known. “How old were you?”
“I was ten or eleven. He was probably sixteen.”
Sixteen? What the fuck? “What kind of guy picks on little kids?” That’s my brother’s age. If I ever hear of Hunter doing something like that, I’ll kick his fucking ass. Of course, he would never force himself on a woman. He was raised better.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he was misunderstood.”
“Misunderstood?” Every muscle in my body tightens in anger. “Don’t tell me you’re hellbent on fixing him. Along with everything else.”
She slaps her hands on her hips. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I’m not looking to find him and pour all my love into him. I meant there’re usually reasons people act out. He probably had a bad childhood.”
“I’m not going to disagree with you, but I’ll issue you a free piece of advice. You can’t fix people unless they want to be fixed. You should stay away from him.”
What in the hell’s wrong with me? It isn’t shit to me who she hangs with. I don’t even like her. She’s the type that’s too busy getting into everyone’s business. I don’t need any of that in my life. Prying. Talk shit to death. No, thank you.
Her eyes narrow into slits. “No shit, Sherlock.” Then, she leans forward. “But…if I wanted to fix him, I would. And I bet I could convince him to change his ways. Men are simple. Press your tits together, pucker your lips like you’re sucking on a lemon, and lead them around by their dick.” She assumes the pose in question and stares me down.
I’m not being led around by my cock. Screw that. “Have a good day.” I snatch the to-go container off the counter and stomp through the café.
Don’t let her get to you. I lighten my tread.
Chapter Nine
Layla
The warm breeze blows a strand of hair in front of the camera, and I drag it back to its rightful position behind my ear. Why didn’t I put it up?
That’s a simple answer. The setting sun was perfect for getting some quick photos of the downtown buildings before dark. There wasn’t time for anything else but getting the right shot.
As I let go of the camera, it falls to the end of the strap and bounces against my upper stomach. The traffic in the street meanders past as several people wave and call out.
I return Carol Lawrence’s greeting. Two cars behind her is Grace Masters with her two girls. Each of the girls hangs out the window with their arms sticking out. Crap. That would have been a great photo.
I pivot away from the street and study the fire station. The main doors are shuttered, which is a sign that no fires have occurred today. The sidewalk is new and devoid of weeds. I love the vibe of the building, and my clients are always clamoring for photos of firemen. Why do women find firemen so sexy?
Liam steps out of the side door wearing jeans and a t-shirt. His biceps ripple under the tight armbands. Yeah, that’s why. “Hey, Liam? Can I take a quick photo?”
“Sure.” He shrugs and grins. Liam isn’t the least bit shy about his looks. “You want me to take off my shirt?”
“Of course.” I waggle my eyebrows. “You know how Mrs. Thomas loves her some firemen eye candy.”
“Does she need a cover for one of her books?” He tugs his shirt over his abs, up to his chest, and over his head. The tattoos that line his chest and shoulder are droolworthy. Except, I’ve known him my entire life, and he does nothing for me.
“She wanted some images of the fire station for some teasers, but I know she’ll eat up some pics of you.” I raise the camera to my eye and take a test shot. The lighting’s perfect, and Liam’s sexy, come-hither gaze is on point.
For several seconds, I shoot in silence. Then, I lower the lens.
When I see Kameron walking from the parking lot toward us, I squeak. Why am I surprised to see him? He works here for goodness sake.
“Hey, man.” Liam waves and works his t-shirt up his arms. “You should see some of Layla’s work. She’s a whizz with a camera.”
“I see.” His jaw works as he glances between us.
“Hey, I’ve got a great idea. You should let Layla photograph you. Her client would love your brooding attitude. Her client writes romance novels. She’d love you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kameron stops in mid-step and cocks his chin out.
“You know…” Liam shrugs. “You’ve got this dark, wounded hero thing going on. Women dig that stuff.”
“Whatever.”
Asshole. “Thanks. Liam, I appreciate your help.”
“No problem, Cupcake.”
“Stop it,” I growl. God, I hate that nickname. Girls don’t get guys with the nickname of Cupcake. It either makes people think of short and stubby or sweet and innocent. In my case, it was a combination of both – another reason why I’m a twenty-three-year-old virgin.
“Ah, Layla.” His face falls. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“It’s fine.” I wave him off and raise the camera again. Liam heads to the parking lot. I’m not in the mood to deal with Mr. Brooding and Pensive.
I step toward the street corner to get a better angle of the doors of the fire station. At this vantagepoint, I can get the large Station 13 sign and the flag in one shot.
My foot catches on the sidewalk, causing me to stumble into the street. I shriek, and my camera flies up in the air. At the last second, the strap catches on the back of my neck, and gravity jerks it back down, smacking me in the chest. Fuck.
“Layla!” Kameron’s sharp tone jerks my attention to him as I hop on my non-sore foot.
“What?”
“Watch out.” He runs toward me and yanks me into his arms. The second I smash into his hard chest, a horn honks and a pickup truck rockets past.
My heart thuds in my ears until I can’t hear anything but it and my ragged breathing. Holy fuck. That was close.
My fingers clutch at the fabric of his t-shirt, and his heart thuds furiously against the back of my fingers. “Thank you.”
“For the love of Christ, Layla, can you watch what you’re doing for once? You’re driving me fucking crazy.” His hands skate down my arms, and my nipples pucker. Shit. I curve my shoulders inward to keep from advertising my reaction. He’s clinically evaluating me, and I’m thinking about climbing him like a tree and purring.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I don’t usually act this ditzy.” It’s only when you’re around. I bite my lips shut to keep those words from spilling into the world. I unclasp my hands from his shirt, and he bends down. His fingers work over my ankle checking for damage.
When he presses on the inside of my ankle, I wince.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“We should go inside and wrap it.”
My eyes dart to the building. That’s a long way to hop. Before I can say anything, he scoops me up in his arms. “I’ll take you inside. We’ll get it wrapped and find you some medicine to take. If it swells up, you’re going to need something to keep the pain down.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, sniff his aftershave, and moan inwardly. God, he smells good.
“Are you okay? I’m not hurting you, am I?”
Fuck. I didn’t moan inwardly. “Yes, I’m okay. You aren’t hurting anything.”
His five o’clock shadow makes his face even sexier. I stiffen, and my face floods with heat.
“Okay, I’ll try not to hurt you on the way inside.” One of his arms cradles my back, and the other supports my legs.
When we reach the door, I scoot higher up his chest and hold on tighter so he can use his hand to twist the knob. My chest is practically in his face, and his eyes dart downward. Then, he jerks his head back up.
As we cross the threshold, I nearly swoon. No one’s ever carried me anywhere romantically. I’ve always envied those storybook princess books where the girl gets swept off her feet and carried over the threshold. It feels amazing, like I expected.
Chapter Ten
Kameron
Little Ms. Cupcake is driving me up the wall. She ignores her safety. She’s reckless and surrounded by chaos. And even worse. She feels fantastic in my arms. It’s time to fix that part of the problem.
When I arrive at the kitchenette, I drop her carefully into a chair and search for the first aid kit. The quicker I fix her up, the faster she’s gone.
I open the drawer where we keep our in-house supply of first aid gear and drag out an ace wrap, tape, and a bottle of ibuprofen. That should be everything. Shouldn’t it. Do I need anything else?
I twist at the waist and look at her. She’s pulled out the adjacent seat, propped her foot on the cushion, and her hair cascades over her shoulder, obscuring my view of her face.
Why does that piss me off? I growl and shake my head. Stop. You don’t have the time or the energy to mess around with a woman. This trip is about licking your wounds and steering clear of entanglements.
When I’m satisfied I have all the supplies I need, I slip the drawer shut and return to the table. She tucks the lock of hair behind her ear and glances up at me.
Her green eyes are half-shuttered by her lashes, and her plump lips are moist like she’s recently licked them. Blood rushes through my veins and settles in my cock. That’s what I get for wishing I could see her face. Karma’s a bitch.
“Thank you so much for saving me.” Her eyes fall to the floor, and her tongue slips out from between her lips. She licks her bottom lip and then bites down on it.
Fuck my life. “Just doing my job,” I bite out with more force than I intended. Remember your training. Fix her up and send her on her way.
“Oh.” Her eyes pop open, and her gaze darts to the wall. “Well, thank you for doing your job.”
I squat in front of her, unlace the strings of her tennis shoe, and slip it off – unicorn socks. A brief smile touches my lips. I’ve never met anyone like Layla. Don’t most girls give up the character socks by their teenage years? I slip the fabric off her foot and whistle. Her ankle is red and swollen.
“Is it bad?” She contorts her body until she can see around me.
The curve of her cheek and her perfume’s scent are hell on my libido and nearly dissuade me from my mission. “It’s going to be black and blue.” I rub the most swollen part and twist her foot in different directions. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but if the pain gets worse, or you can’t put weight on it in a couple of days, you’ll need to get X-rays.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
As I straighten her foot to point her toes to the ceiling, she tenses. I stop and let her foot fall back to its resting position. “I’ll wrap it for you.”
I grab the bandage and lace it around her foot and ankle. When everything’s secure, but not too tight, I cut two strips of tape and secure the end to keep it from unraveling. “You should be good.”
“Thanks.” She presses her hands on the cushion of the chair she’s resting on and shifts her weight to sit taller. “I appreciate it. Whether it’s your job or not.”
I stand and place my hands on my hips. “Do you need some medicine?”
She nods slowly. “Yeah, I think so. It’s going to be a bitch to get back into my vehicle.”
“I’ll get you a glass of water.” Do we have any crutches? I think back to all the nooks and crannies trying to remember if I’ve seen any.
I’d gladly carry her to her vehicle, but if I do, I’ll end up taking her home and starting something I can’t afford to finish. She’s not the kind of girl you take home for a one-night stand, and I’m only here for a few months.
As I wait for the tap water to get cold, I snatch a plastic cup out of the cabinet. “I hope you don’t mind plastic. We aren’t big on Fine China at the station.”
“Water tastes the same in plastic or glass. It’s still water.”
Obviously, Layla and Tabitha didn’t go to the same school of thought. Tabitha would have instantly shot her nose in the air over anything that wasn’t fancy. Funny, considering, she worked as a waitress at a Cheesecake Factory.
“Here you go.” I set the glass in front of her and stand back as she grasps the bottle of pills and twists open the childproof top. She shakes the bottle until two round brown tablets fall into her hand.
After she swallows them down, I shove my hands into my pockets. Now, what? I should let her rest for a couple of minutes and then make sure she gets to her car okay. What do we talk about?
“You should go.” She nods her head toward the doorway. “I’ll be fine. I’ll wait about ten minutes for the medicine to kick in and then slip out.”
My eyes narrow, and the muscles in my shoulders tense. Is she being polite, or does she want me gone? Hell, why do I care? Ten seconds ago, I wanted to get away from her.
