South Beach Bodyguards: Three Book Collection, page 26
“Because it’s close to the strip club.” He shoved his door open.
I didn’t believe him for one second. Maybe there was a strip club around. That wouldn’t necessarily surprise me. But his voice was too flat, too annoyed for that statement to be the truth. He wanted to distract me. Offend me. Get me to drop the subject. That meant there was a story there, one I wanted to hear. I would let it go for now. He opened my door and I smiled up at him. “You are quite the gentleman.”
That made him frown again. “Just get out of the car.”
I did, but when he reached into the back and grabbed my bag I said, “See? Gentleman.”
His nostrils flared. “Stop it, Olivia.”
“Stop what? Thanking you?” He was definitely rattled. I loved it. It was about time the tables were turned.
“You’re making fun of me.”
That made me laugh as I followed him up the walk, taking my bag from him. “I am not. I’m complimenting you. Expressing gratitude.”
“I can think of a better way you can express your gratitude.”
His tone made my breath catch. I looked at him under my eyelashes. “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Wester didn’t answer, but jogged up the exterior stair and stopped at the third door. 2C. The number was crooked. I reached out and straightened it. It fell crooked again.
He opened the door and gestured for me to step inside. “You know exactly what I mean.”
The door yawned open and illuminated a dark small room. All I could see in the dim light was a hulking TV. He had his blinds closed. “Your timing is incredibly creepy,” I said. “I feel like I’m stepping into the devil’s lair.”
“Nah. He would have better furniture.” Wester reached around me and flicked on the overhead light.
He was right. Nothing sexy in there. It was old royal blue carpet, one rickety wood chair next to a round oak table, the TV on a cardboard box, and that was it. “You ever hear of having things on the walls? You know, like art or mirrors?” The walls were completely bare and a dirty oatmeal color.
“You want me to hang a mirror so I can reflect the ugly of this apartment back? No thanks.”
He had a point. Wester shut the door and said, “Let me get some scissors so you can cut me out of the jacket. I want to be able to move my arm again and I don’t want you to have to stay here longer than necessary.”
His voice was gruff. I realized that he was genuinely embarrassed for me to see his apartment. “I’m not in any hurry,” I said. “I was supposed to be staying with Eva until the end of the week. I’ve suddenly got an extra five days on my hands.” Which did bother me. I had barely seen my sister in recent months. She almost never left the compound. Narnia had swallowed her.
“I’m sorry you have to leave paradise.” Wester went into his kitchen and rifled through a drawer. He pulled out bent scissors.
“Aside from the freedom from classes and access to a pool, it’s not really my scene. I don’t like the constant coming and going of random people. Plus I’m always afraid I’m going to break something. The robes are a bonus though, or at least they were before I was kidnapped in one.”
“I’m fond of the robes too.” He gave me a smirk. “Or at least on you. And off you.”
I really should put a stop to the flirting that seemed to ebb and flow between us, but I didn’t. Not even close. “It’s my turn to undress you.” I took the scissors and held them up. “Do you trust me?”
“I don’t have a choice. I can’t get this off myself.” He looked stoic but uncomfortable. “Just do it really fast.”
“I thought the instructions are usually ‘be gentle.’” Eyeing his jacket with all that dried blood, I inserted the tip of the scissors down at the cuff. It didn’t cut easily. I felt like I was jerking his hand around too much as I hacked through the fabric. I bit my lip, afraid I was causing him pain. “Oh, geez, this is hard. Does it hurt?”
“I’m not as much of a pussy as you seem to think I am.”
I glanced up at his face. He didn’t look like he was in pain. He was watching me, the corner of his mouth turned up. I was standing close to him and I could see the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow on his chin inches away from me. “I don’t think you’re a pussy.” Saying the “p” word out loud made me just a twinge uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to shy away from the subject. “You risked your life to save me. You got shot because of me. So no, not a pussy.”
“They say you are what you eat though.” His voice was low and amused.
Even as my cheeks went pink, I rolled my eyes. “You’re being gross,” I murmured. “And I have scissors.”
He chuckled softly. “Cut my jacket, Olivia, before I kiss you.”
I couldn’t really remember why that would be such a bad thing. Other than the fact that I knew nothing about him and he didn’t seem interested in sharing. We were from two different worlds. He knew drug dealers and carried a concealed weapon. I was a self-described nerd who was born blond by accident. That didn’t mean I didn’t want him to kiss me anyway. I was having a very languid reaction to him. He smelled very manly. Earthy. I could kiss him just once.
“You want me, don’t you?” he asked.
The arrogant confidence snapped me out of my sensual haze. I jerked back slightly, ripped his sleeve the rest of the way up to his armpit and fought the urge to gag. “Oh my God.” Bile crawled up my throat at the sight of all that blood. Even dried to a dull rust color, it was everywhere on the white sleeve of his dress shirt. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“It’s just a flesh wound.”
That made me smile. I knew a Monty Python reference when I heard one. “You forgot the British accent.”
“You forgot I’m not a nerd.”
I cut off his sleeve. “Not a pussy. Not a nerd. What are you? Clearly not a comedian.”
“I’m a man who wants you to kiss him.”
He was smooth. I’d give him that. It was tempting. But then I peeled his sleeve back and well and truly gagged. The cotton was stuck to a weeping semi-coagulated wound. My vision blurred and I gripped his uninjured arm. “Holy shit, I’m going to pass out.”
For a second, it was dicey as hell, but Wester took my cheeks in both his hands and murmured, “Olivia. Look at me.”
I did. And he held me there, with his intense stare, and I felt dizziness recede.
So after I caught my breath, I kissed him.
eight
My mother used to tell me that I was a homing device for trouble. That I drew it to me magnetically. Every bad kid wanted to be my friend. Every crazy idea sprang to me like I’d invented being stupid. Every girl in high school determined to use a guy to make her boyfriend jealous found me. I’d lived my life differently since Rachel’s death. No hare-brained plans, no reckless partying, no worrying about birth control after the fact. Zero attachments, almost no possessions, lots of workouts to run off my frustrations. But no trouble.
Plus, never allowing any sort of tenderness to seep into my heart.
Until now. Until Olivia.
Three times now I’d been in her presence and all three times she had drawn feelings out of me I didn’t want to exist. I wanted to deny it, but when she got woozy from seeing my bullet wound, all I could think was that she was the cutest, sweetest thing ever and I wanted to help her.
What the actual fuck?
If this wasn’t borrowing trouble, I didn’t know what was.
Because after a brief pause, where I stared down at her and wondered what was happening to me, and why I desperately craved a shot of whiskey to calm my nerves, she went up on tiptoes and kissed me.
I hadn’t thought she would. I kept asking, because I’m a dick like that. I was teasing, poking, being a prick. Making myself more comfortable by making her uncomfortable. But she knew my trick and she turned it right around on me because she rose to the challenge and pressed her lips onto mine. A soft kiss, delicate and questing, and she dug her fingernails into my left bicep.
She pulled back far too quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was so squeamish, but I’ve never seen a gunshot wound before.”
“My other one was worse,” I assured her. “This is nothing.”
“Your idea of nothing and my idea of nothing don’t mesh.” She glanced down at my arm again.
It didn’t even hurt that much anymore. Throbbing, but not off the charts. “I don’t have any rubbing alcohol. I’ll just pour some whiskey on it.” I had a bottle above the fridge. “Let me get this shirt off.”
“I’ll help you.”
Even better then. I could stand there and let her strip me, no problem. She had the cutest little button nose, and when she concentrated, she scrunched it up. Right now she looked like she was afraid of what she might find when she took off my jacket. “There is no blood anywhere else, I promise.”
“I know.” She glanced up at me under long, dark lashes that were at odds with her blond hair. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
Olivia didn’t have a deep tan like most women I knew. Her time was spent in the classroom and she had soft, fair skin, and full raspberry lips. Her big brown eyes expressed more than I think she knew and now I could tell what she was remembering. The night before.
I’d never been one to give much thought to the oddity of having sex with a total stranger. Of peeling off layers down to bare skin, bodies joining in random, sticky passion. I didn’t look at those women afterward and think it was strange or feel uneasy. Yet I did with Olivia. Something intimate had happened between us, fueled by the circumstances and now I didn’t know what to do with it. I looked at her and it felt like I should know her, because I knew her body, knew how to read her expressions, but I didn’t actually know her. At all.
“What are you worried about?”
Her fingers stroked over my chest, beneath my shirt, a soft, feathery touch. She wasn’t looking at me, but at my skin. She traced my tattoo. “This. I’m worried about this.”
“My tattoo?” I knew that wasn’t what she meant but I wanted her to say it.
She shook her head. “I’m worried about seeing you without a shirt on. I don’t want to go there again. I can’t go there.”
That was disappointing, but not surprising. “I’m not asking you to.”
Her palms spread out over my skin. Even a simple touch like that from her was arousing to me. She was just so damn sexy and she didn’t even know it.
“Don’t you want me?” she asked.
That was fucking ironic. “Of course I do. But I would never ask you for something you can’t give.” I was an asshole, but not that big of one. Besides, if I pushed her and she gave in and we had amazing sex, which we would, she would want more.
I had nothing more to give.
She peeled my shirt down over my shoulders and took first my uninjured arm, and then the jacked up one, out of the sleeves. She bundled up the ruined shirt up and stepped back. “The rest of you looks intact.”
Her gaze dropped to my cock. I wasn’t even sure she knew she did that. But I was sporting a semi-erection. All I needed was a little encouragement and I would have her up against my kitchen counter, taking her sweet wet pussy. When she glanced up at me she must have seen my desire because her eyes widened and she licked her lips.
“Where is that whiskey?” she asked, her voice husky, confused.
She was warring with herself just as much as I was.
I turned and reached for the bottle over the fridge. I didn’t trust myself to speak or to look at her. I wanted to touch her with every fiber of my being. I wanted to show her that the night before wasn’t an anomaly, that we had some serious goddamned chemistry and we should explore that. But we shouldn’t and we couldn’t, so I pulled down my Jack Daniels, took a huge swallow and handed her the bottle, tossing the cap on the counter. “Just pour it on my arm.”
“This is a little barbaric.” She looked nervous but she took the bottle from me and sucked in a deep breath. Then she just poured it over my wound.
A little warning would have been nice. Fuck. I closed my eyes for a second as the fiery burn splashed all over me, seeping into the messy wound and sending my whole arm plunging into agony. I gritted my teeth and let the wave crest and recede. “What the fuck happened to ‘on the count of three?’” I asked.
“Oh, was I supposed to do that? Sorry.” She bit her lip. “Let me get a washcloth and clean up this blood.”
“In the bathroom.” I leaned against the counter and let her go fetch the towel. I needed a minute to pick my balls back up off the floor and recover. I took another sip of the whiskey. She could drive us to her house.
Olivia came back and I wasn’t so down and out I couldn’t appreciate the way she moved in a pair of jeans. She had slim hips and that firm little ass filled her jeans perfectly. Her T-shirt wasn’t as tight as I would have preferred, but she had big tits so they were clearly outlined. It was an inexpensive, simple and casual look that made her seem less rich and privileged than she had lounging in a five hundred dollar robe.
She was fussing with a handful of crap. “Your supplies are seriously lacking. I only found one gauze bandage but no medical tape.”
“I have duct tape.”
Olivia raised her eyebrows. “You want me to duct tape a bandage to your arm?”
I shrugged. “Why not?” It didn’t seem that big of a deal to me.
“Let me just clean it up and then we’ll go to the store. My treat as thanks for saving my life.”
I wasn’t going to say it… but then I did. “I could think of better–
She threw her hand up and glared at me. “No. Stop. Don’t be a creep. I’m over it, Wester. Seriously. Your douchebag charm isn’t going to work on me.”
That made me grin. “You like my douchebag charm and you know it.” She did. She found me frustrating, but she was attracted to me just as much as I was to her.
“I like you when you’re being normal, not acting like a hired escort.”
I snorted. “No one has ever accused me of that before. I don’t think I’d make much money if I were.” But even as I said it, I knew there was some element of truth to that. I had made myself an armor of douchebag pick up lines that I hid behind.
Olivia snorted. “I don’t know the going rate or what women are looking for.”
“What are you looking for?”
She crossed her arms. “You’re doing it again.”
I was. Damn it. It was habit. I defaulted to flirt every time. I took another sip, letting the whiskey make it’s way down my throat. “So what do we do about it?”
Her eyes shuttered. “We’re going to go to the store and get bandages. Then drive to my apartment. Then I’m never going to see you again.”
I hadn’t expected her to just say it out loud. I was disappointed, no doubt. The counter was digging in to my back, but I refused to give up my casual stance. I kept my ankles crossed and watched her. She had a damp towel in her hand but made no move to use it on my arm. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
But her lip trembled.
“What if I see you at Ricardo’s? Are you going to pretend that we’ve never met? That I’ve never tasted you with my tongue?” I was pushing it, I knew it. But I wanted an acknowledgment by her that she was affected by me. It was selfish and rude, but I wanted it. I wanted her. And if I couldn’t have her, I at least wanted to know that she felt the same way.
Olivia didn’t back down. She didn’t roll over the way I wanted her to. “I’ll never see you at Ricardo’s because you know you’ve been fired. Plus, I’m never going back there. But even if by some chance I bumped in to you, yes, I pretend that we’ve never met. That you’ve never been inside me, on camera, in a locked room.” Her chin came up. “Because it was nothing. It meant nothing.”
That pissed me off. “Oh, yeah? Then why did you come if it was nothing?” Maybe I was tired of being nothing. That was the world I’d set up for myself because I was couldn’t stomach the idea of losing anyone else like Rachel, but I was craving more. A connection. I had felt that with her and I had been willing to get the hell over my fear. It made me angry that she wouldn’t admit that there had been something stirring between us.
“Fuck you,” she whispered. “Stop trying to humiliate me.”
That shamed me. “Olivia.” I pushed off the counter. “That’s not what I’m trying to do. I’m sorry.” I strode toward her. “I just don’t want to let you go. Do you get that?”
She looked away, exasperated. “You can fuck anyone, Wester. Anyone.” She looked back, those dark eyes piercing me. “Go to South Beach and show off your gunshot wound. You’ll have women falling all over you in their cheetah heels.”
There was truth to what she said. That was my world. College was hers. I was the guy from the wrong side of the tracks, the Miami equivalent of the townie, and I was proud of that. My mother had worked hard for what she had and now I did the same thing. My father had disappeared when I was a baby and I had almost committed myself to a life of crime before going straight. I partied, I fucked, and I cared about no one. Nothing. Just myself and my mother. So no matter what I felt for Olivia, we weren’t a good fit.
Yet that didn’t stop me from saying, “I don’t want them. I want you.”
Her nostrils flared. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you can’t always get what you want?”
I shook my head and reached for her, resting my hands on her shoulders. “No. My mother always told me I could have anything I wanted.”
“She was wrong.” Olivia glanced at my arm. “You’re still bleeding.”
“I don’t care.” I bent down and kissed her earlobe, teasing my tongue into the opening.
She shivered. “Give me one reason, Wester. One reason why I should stay.”
With anyone else, I would have taken her hand and put it on my cock and said, “This.” With anyone else, it would have worked.
