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“I thought I was Detective Dickwad.”
“That’s only when you’re being bossy,” she looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Which is most of the time actually.”
“Come on, you can sleep in here and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“But what if I get lonely?”
“You’ll be fine,” I assure her. She reaches down to pull her heels off and drops her tiny purse on the floor, spilling the contents out. I quickly pick up the few items which seem to consist of several different types of makeup, her phone, a credit card and ID, and some kind of postcard you’d get from a museum gift shop with a painting full of flowers on the front.
“What’s this?” I ask. She’s now chucked her shoes into a pile in the corner of the bedroom which makes me wince a little. I’ll pick them up later.
“Oh, that’s my present from Archer.” Her face lights up and I don’t particularly like that another man seems to have made her this happy.
“He gave you a postcard?” It seems like a strange gift, especially for a man that owns more hotels than I have socks.
She stands up and faces me. Even though Bianca is tall the top of her head comes up to only my nose when she’s not wearing shoes. “Nope,” she says before tapping my nose and saying “boop” which draws out an unexpected laugh from me. “He got me the actual painting. He’s having it shipped here.”
“Is this small artist or something?”
“Soo Kent? Nah, she’s kinda a big deal,” she laughs. Jesus, he got her a painting from a known artist? I don’t even want to know how much that cost. Nothing I get her could even come close, probably even if I emptied my savings.
“And you’re still telling me that Archer Clarke isn’t your boyfriend?” I ask slowly starting to get worked up over the fact that he was invited to her party, while I didn’t even know it was her birthday.
“Of course not, silly.” She stands up and starts fiddling with her dress so I move over to my dresser, digging through stacks of my shirts trying to find something she can wear to sleep in. “I don’t do boyfriends.”
Well, this is interesting, she doesn’t do boyfriends? I mean, I guess that explains why she doesn’t have one right now. Bianca is the type of girl you would want to lock down, it never really made sense to me that she was single. “What do you meanyou don’t do boyfriends?”
I grab a shirt with the LAPD Cadet logo on it and hold it behind me without turning around, trying to be a gentleman like my father taught me.
“Uh, Carson. Can you help?” Her voice is muffled and when I turn around, I see Bianca has worked her dress up and it’s stuck over her head. I try to keep my eyes focused on the dress, I really do, but I’m a guy after all. I can’t help letting my eyes sweep over her body. I’ve never claimed to be a saint.
She’s wearing tiny panties that are nothing more than a scrap of fabric and a strapless bra that seems to be defying gravity by holding up her full breasts. Even though her barely clad body is on full display my eyes hone into an area on her lower abdomen and thigh that looks like it’s covered in scars. I hadn’t noticed them the other night. Is that why she wanted to keep the lights off?
I rush over to her and take over struggling with her dress. I can’t seem to get it over her shoulders so instead I pull it back down and see that there’s a zipper she neglected. “Here, this will be much easier.” I pull the zipper down slowly like I’m unwrapping a present and keep telling myself that she’s drunk, we can’t sleep together tonight, it wouldn’t be right. “Okay, you’re set,” I let her know once the zipper is all the way down.
She doesn’t hesitate to let it pool at her feet and step out of it. I quickly hand her the shirt but not before she’s chucked off her bra and thrown it into the same corner as her shoes.
“Get dressed, Bianca,” I grind out. If she keeps walking around like that I might just forget all of my good intentions.
She lets out a huff and instead of pulling on the shirt, lays across the bed, spread out for me like a feast. Trying to focus on anything except her tits that now have tight puckered nipples practically begging to be in my mouth, I run my finger over the edge of the scarring. “What’s this, baby?” I ask in a low voice. I don’t want to scare her off if she’s self-conscious about it. Though the thought of Bianca being self-conscious about anything almost seems laughable to me.
She lifts her head from the pillow to look where my hand is, like she can’t feel it on her body. “Oh that. It’s from the car accident.”
“When were you in a car accident?”
“When I was seventeen,” she says in a sleepy voice that’s slightly slurred. I run my hands over the scared skin. It covers a fairly large swatch of her torso and upper thighs and even though it was dark last night, I’m surprised I didn’t notice.
“What happened?” I ask softly.
Her head is back on the pillow and her eyes flutter closed but she still lifts her hand and mimes batting away my question dismissively.
“I was coming home from a football game and got hit by a drunk driver. Not a big deal.” Jesus Christ, it doesn’t look like it wasn’t a big deal.
“How did you get the actual scar?”
She sighs and rolls over pulling the blanket over her nearly naked body. “The car hit me from the side and a bunch of metal tore and kind of stabbed through me, it’s fine.” Metalstabbed through her? How is she pretending like this wasn’t a big deal. I’ve seen accidents that sound much less violent end in fatalities.
“And you were okay?”
