Page 43 of Nailed

It was the most honest expression I’d ever seen on his face, the way he was warring with himself. Brock the foreman was able to compartmentalize work and pleasure. Brock the foreman knew how to hold his own desires at bay, was unyielding in his self-denial.

But the man who stood in front of me now wasn’t Brock the foreman.

This was a stranger I was meeting properly for the first time, one I’d only gotten a glimpse of when his guard was down. I stood on my toes and kissed him, so gently and chaste as though he were made of porcelain.

The air stilled and time paused on a turn.

The next time our lips met, we met each other at an almost perfect midpoint. His kiss was so different from the other two. It didn’t have Rafe’s almost desperate hunger, or Callum’s thoughtfulness.

There was something deeper, still shored up behind a wall of uncertainty. But when he started to kiss me back, the force of it nearly sent me reeling. He was breaking, slowly but surely, absolutely dissolving in that kiss.

I felt the ghost of a hand on the small of my neck, felt him turn his head to the side. It felt like free falling into the unknown, anticipation building with each passing second, an excitement shaded by the abstract fear of hitting the ground.

And just as I tried to deepen the kiss, to fully let go, he pulled back. I gasped, breathing heavy. His pupils were blown wide, his lips swollen a light pink.

“I think it’s best I just do the work you’re paying me to do. Leave it at that, and anything else you have going on is your own business. Not mine,” he said with finality.

Then he walked away, heading straight back into the light of the main hall. I was left reeling, trying to process what had just happened. I felt exposed, furious, confused…but above all, hollow.

Cored out, like he’d taken something from me that I wasn’t going to get back.

“Fuck you, Brock,” I spat, knowing that no one except the modern sculptures lounging around the gallery could hear me. “Fuck you seven ways to Sunday and back.”

16

Lauren

“I’m telling you, you haven’t seen the real Chicago until you’ve completed this little tour,” Clara rubbed her hands together like some mad scientist, a look of genuine glee on her face.

Her enthusiasm for taking me out on this day trip of hers was infectious. She’d insisted I bring my camera along to take some snapshots she thought I’d be interested in. With how hard she was trying to distract me from the stress of the pending petition that had just been filed against me, I couldn’t have said no.

And it really was nice to take a break away from everything. We were waiting in a bigger huddle of passengers, patiently watching for the Brown Line L train to make its appearance. Clara had informed me that we were to give the currently boarded passengers the right of way first, and given my less than friendly welcome to the city, I was determined to follow every official and unofficial rule I could.

“I may not have a photographer’s eye, but I know beautiful landscapes when I see them,” she said, looping her arm through mine. I was still getting used to her shows of platonic affection. It was one thing to be sexually intimate with the guys. That was a sense of certainty there, even with someone like Brock. But there was a level of vulnerability in non-sexual intimacy too, and that could be just as scary.

After years of being on my own, it was still a little shocking and a bit uncomfortable. But I couldn’t deny the comfort it brought me to spend time with Clara this way, or how I appreciated her help in all of this mess.

“You have your own eye for beauty,” I pointed out. “You’d have to. You were able to sell me on the firehouse, after all.”

“Oh, I think the place practically offered itself to you on a platter. I just helped with the sales pitch a bit, that’s all,” she said jovially. “Speaking of which, what’s happening with the renovation job right now? I know the guys can’t do any heavy-lifting until the paperwork is officially approved.”

“They’re still doing smaller jobs, things that won’t violate the permit situation but will also help speed along the project once things get underway,” I said. “They’re there right now.”

“Oh, so you managed to drag yourself away from your three paramours for an afternoon with little old me,” she fluttered her eyelashes at me. “I’m deeply moved, truly. I don’t think you could’ve paid me to leave that apartment.”

“Clara,” I laughed. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, please,” she said.

A low, rhythmic vibration hummed through the metal platform under our feet, announcing the train’s approach, then a tinny screech as it banked the corner. Dual headlights cut through the track shadows of the “L” as a massive car nosed its way into the station, bringing with it the smell of hot electricity.

We waited until the passengers all bundled out, then finally stepped onto the train. Inside, the car was a cramped mix of plastic and metal, with high-back blue seats filed in rows beside stainless steel poles.

I took a few photos, already enchanted by the quaint nature of the train.

Clara and I found our seats and only then did she pick up the conversation where we’d left off.

“That kiss you shared with the blonde one at my birthday party says otherwise,” she said, nudging my arm.