Except...sometimes, when I looked into his eyes, he didn’t seem as ruthless as everyone made out. I was still scared of him, but less than when he’d first grabbed my arm, up on the roof. I was having trouble imagining him actually hurting me. But I was having no trouble imagining him doing other things to me.
I flushed and hoped that Kayley didn’t notice. Whenever I was around him, my mind slipped into fantasy mode. Each touch of his hands was enough to send me into a downward spiral that always ended with him on top of me...or me on top of him...or him behind me. I was finding that I was permanently, shamefully wet when he was close. No man had ever done that to me.
What was maddening was that sometimes, just occasionally, I’d feel his eyes on me, a lick of heat traveling up and down my body, or he’d narrow his eyes in that certain way, when we were arguing, like he wanted to take me over his knee. I’d get just the tiniest hint that maybe he wanted me too. Then it was gone again, too quickly for me to be sure I hadn’t just imagined it. If he hadn’t been interested in me, it would have been easy: I could have written off my fantasies as just that, fantasies, and pushed them down inside. But the little hints of interest were just enough to keep them bubbling up to the surface, every damn time.
Hence the wavering. Could I really become a criminal, like Sean? And could I even function, working side-by-side with him for six long months? What if something...happened?What if the hints were real and he made a pass at me? Hell, what did I mean,make a pass?Sean wasn’t the sort of guy who’dmake a pass,he’d just throw me down on the ground and—
I pressed my thighs together.
Nothing was going to happen. I wasn’t going to get involved with him. I wasn’t going to bring someone like that into Kayley’s life: no way. I’d take cold showers three times a day if I had to. Sean and I would be just business and, at the end of six months, we’d go our separate ways.
I pulled Kayley close and kissed the top of her head. For her, I’d make it work.
After the hospital, I headed straight for Sean’s apartment and knocked on his door. A moment later, he opened it...and froze.
“What?” I asked. I looked down at myself. I wasn’t wearing anything out of the ordinary, let alone sexy, just a green scoop-neck top and blue jeans.
He glanced away for a second, then back at me. “Nothing. Come in.”
He wasn’t topless, this time, although the black tank top didn’t cover much. It almost made him look bigger, drawing attention to his tight waist and the way he seemed to flare out in an X from that point, up to the broad, muscled chest and shoulders and down to his hips.
“You want coffee?” he asked, and walked through to the kitchen area.
I trailed behind him, a little thrown. I’d never thought about him doing somethingnormal,like eating breakfast or drinking coffee. I guess until that moment, I’d only seen him as a criminal, smashing stuff up or picking up women in bars and pounding them into the mattress so loud I could hear it through my floor. I knew now he played guitar. What else did he do? Did he have friends? Family?
He leaned against a wall. I hopped up onto the counter and perched there, then took the mug of coffee he poured for me. “You—” He caught himself and started again. “We...are going to need a grow house. Somewhere we can give over entirely to growing.”
I nodded and sipped, looking surreptitiously around. I suddenly wanted to know more about him. There were no family photos that I could see...actually, there were no photos at all.
“It’s got to be in a neighborhood where people won’t ask too many questions,” Sean told me, “but close enough that it’s not a pain in the arse to drive to, because we’re going to be there a lot. And we need to be on the right turf.”
“Turf?” I asked disbelievingly. “Like,West Side Story,‘you’re on our turf,’ turf?”
He nodded.
“It’s really like that? I mean, I know about gangs and stuff, but….”
“If we grow in someone else’s area, our place will be trashed. Or burned. Or reported to the cops.At best.”
“Atbest?What’s ‘at worst?’”
He looked away, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. “It won’t happen. I know a neighborhood that’s quiet, now. We can grow there.”
My stomach churned. From the concern in his eyes, he was worried specifically aboutme. God, what the hell am I getting into?And then I thought about how I’d been going to try to do all this on my own, without six-foot-something of criminal muscle on my side. I winced.
He drained his coffee. “You ready to go house hunting?” he asked.
God, we’re really doing this.It wasn’t just taking the step of finding a grow house; it was the fact I was heading out with him, trusting him to take me who-knows-where for who-knows how long. Until now, I’d only ever seen him for a few minutes at a time. This was like our first proper date.
He led me downstairs and around the side of our building to an alley. His car was a glossy black 1960’s era Ford Mustang and it loomed with almost as much evil, muscular charm as Sean himself.
“You park ithere?”I asked, looking around. The thing must have been worth a fortune. Without answering, he opened the door. “You don’t evenlock it?!”I couldn’t imagine my car lasting an hour if I parked it in a dark alley, and my car is a piece of junk. “Why doesn’t it get stolen?”
He just looked at me and then I got it.
It didn’t get stolen because everyone knew who it belonged to.
I climbed in. The inside was just as impressive as the outside: old, but every bit of chrome was shining. “I thought you’d drive something European,” I mumbled. When he turned to look at me, I said, “You’re Irish, right? I mean, originally. You sound Irish.”
