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"Uh, lying?"
"Idol. I bet it's on and you lied."
Wolfe shifted painfully and threw the remote across the couch to the farthest side. "You're right. Here. You can have it tonight." Please just sit down under the covers. Quickly. Please.
She cocked her hip and looked suspicious. The hemline crept up an inch. Her skin looked smooth, soft, and pale. He wondered what his hand would look like against her. Dark against light. She'd probably cushion his hardness, just like that night on the dock. No, don't think about that. Not now.
"Take it!" he barked. "Here, get comfy." He lifted the blanket and urged her underneath. Finally, she rolled her eyes, took a seat, and snuggled. The breath left his body in a relieved rush, but his dick remained hard enough to cut stone.
"You're acting weird, but I'm not gonna fight you." She happily clicked on to the end of the singing show, where contestants belted out on the stage for the judges' and audience's approval. Wolfe focused on some nerdy guy and tried to imagine him naked. His erection slowly softened. He'd reached a new low. Next he'd be imagining nuns. Yuck.
"I miss Simon on the show," she chattered, moving a leg so it thrust out of the blanket. "He was rude but honest. Oh, it's the end anyway." She tapped the buttons, crossed her feet, and propped them up on the table. A long line of naked skin peeked out, running all the way up to the hip where the gown twisted.
His second head sprung back to life.
Shit.
"Hey, how about HGTV? House Hunters is on. They show three houses and the person has to pick one. I like to make a game out of it. My stats are impressive. Wanna check it out?"
He grunted. His gaze got stuck on the delicious curve of her hip. Where was her panty line? How come he couldn't see it. Unless . . .
His eyes popped out of his head at the thought and he dove across the couch, yanking the covers up and over her.
"Hey! What's your problem?"
Her hair flopped over one eye and those pink lips pursed. He remembered how she tasted. Sweet and clean, with just a hint of sin he ached to dive deeper into. Nuns. Nuns in bikinis. Yeah. Gross.
"Your--your nightgown was tangled." His voice sounded mangled. "Didn't want you to think I was sneaking a peek."
Perfect. That sounded like a friend.
"Oh, sorry." She wriggled again, adjusting her position. "Didn't mean to scare you. Hey, you know what I was thinking about doing?"
"What?"
"Getting a tattoo."
Heat punched him. Innocent, good-girl Gen with a tattoo. It might kill him. "They hurt."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm a surgeon, I can take it. I thought it would be kinda sexy, right? Maybe a rose with a thorn and drop of blood. Your ink is gorgeous, and it gives you that bad-boy aura. Helps with women, right?"
He never wanted so badly to watch a couple hunt for a house in Austin, Texas. "Sometimes. I don't think you need one. You may regret it later if it's on an impulse."
"I wouldn't get it in a place people could see. Maybe my lower back?"
No. He'd never be able to look at her again without imagining peeling down her jeans to reveal the secret right above the sweet swell of her ass. No. Way.
"Ah, people call them tramp stamps, Gen." He wished he were in Alaska right now, buried in a snowbank.
She wrinkled her nose. "So? Or maybe here?"
No. She wouldn't. She wouldn't.
She did.
She threw the covers off her, hiked up her nightgown, and revealed the naked curve of her left hip. "What do you think? You could see it in a bikini but it would be more for me. Right?"
Okay, she was wearing panties. The delicate line at her waist showed through the cotton. Definitely white to match. So innocent. What would it be like to order her to strip off her panties and be bare and ready for him underneath? He'd play with her, torture her with a bit of orgasm denial, then finally let her fly. Her nails would bite into his shoulders and her pussy would clench around his dick and his tongue would dive deep into her mouth--
He jumped up from the couch like his ass was on fire. "I'm gonna take a shower. Watch whatever you want."
Her eyes widened in surprise but he didn't wait for her answer. Wolfe bolted for the bathroom, cranked the water to Arctic freeze, and went back to the nuns.
He needed to get his shit together.
VINCENT SOLDANO PUSHED THE lump of cash deeper into the hole of his mattress. Soon. A bit more and he'd take his chances.
He didn't have much time left.
Carefully folding the stained sheet over, he lay back down and turned his iPod on high. Spaces between the highs were getting shorter. His mom used to occasionally make dinner, do some shopping, and once in a while be sober. Those moments were better than anything he could imagine. Brown eyes soft, sometimes she'd stroke his hair, call him her baby boy, and put her arms around him. Even though he knew he wasn't a baby anymore and didn't need his mommy like some kind of pussy, his heart still kinda ached. For a little while, his mind was quiet, and his body relaxed. He'd pretend she was clean, and they'd be together as a team against the world.
But that never happened.
Instead, he watched her staring sightlessly at the wall. She rarely bathed. Her hair hung limply and greasy around her face, and her clothes, if she was wearing any, were mostly stained and hanging off her bony body. The welfare checks used to buy a few groceries to keep them afloat. Now he didn't see a dime. The men got them first, and used the money for more drugs.
He was worried she was going to die. If he left, she probably would. At least he made sure she ate, and he'd clean up her bruises and bloody lips when the men went away.
But he had no choice. She couldn't protect him any longer, and many of her drug pushers stared at him like a commodity, a sick lust glittering in bloodshot eyes. He wasn't going to let that happen. Mostly he slept in the woods if the house was full, but winter was nearing again and he needed a plan.
He was so fucking tired.
How many times had he been ready to call a cop or social worker? Just press 911 and he'd be out of the hellhole. But his gut said he'd be trading one nightmare for another, and then his mother would go to jail and die from not getting the drugs. He was tr
apped, so he needed to run.
"You in there, boy? Open up! Your mama needs you."
He closed his eyes and tried to bury himself in the music, but the door began to shake so hard he knew the lock would break. Vincent grabbed the makeshift knife and slipped it into his back pocket. Just in case.
Then opened the door.
It was the man he feared the most. He worked his mother the hardest, liking to slap her around for a sick appetizer before he gave her the drugs. He liked to watch, too. He was short but strong, with huge biceps and tattoos covering both arms like sleeves. A bulldog face with lots of facial hair, dark eyes, and thinning hair. Scars crisscrossed his right cheek.
Vincent scowled at him. He knew showing fear was the worst. Bulldog liked it, and tried to get him to cry or beg when he threatened him, but Vincent hadn't broken yet and never intended to. "What do you want?"
A quick backhand whipped across his jaw. Stars exploded in his head, but he fought through the pain and kept glaring. "Your mama needs something and you better give it to her."
She stood behind him, wringing her fingers, a desperate tentative smile on her lips. His stomach twisted hot and acidy and he casually glanced at the front door. He might have to run. She was far gone and wouldn't be much help.
"I need money," she said. Her voice was thin and wheezy. Her left eye was still swollen from yesterday's events. "Bad, baby, real bad. You gotta get some for me."
He remained calm even though his heart pounded like crazy. "Got no money. You used the last of it for smokes and beer."
Bulldog sneered. "I think you're lyin', boy. Been noticing a few bills missing here and there, and I think you're stealin' from me."
Vincent shrugged. "Think what you want, I never touch your stuff."
Bulldog peered into his face for a long time, trying to probe for the truth. Then he smiled real slow. "Guess you won't mind if I look for it, then, huh?"
Vincent blocked his door. "Not my room. You keep your shitty hands off my stuff."
The blow caught him in the head this time and bashed him against the wall. He heard his mother cry out, but Bulldog was already tearing through his room, which he liked to keep neat and tidy. Tears pricked the backs of his lids from the ache in his temple and the way Bulldog trashed his precious stuff, little knickknacks collected, a book or two, his iPod, a photo of him and his mom when she wasn't high.
