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“Anyway,” she says, making an effort to be breezy. “Let me put these in some water.”
When I return upstairs, I see I’ve got a few missed calls from Lexi. “Do you want to come out tonight?” she asks. “I know partying isn’t your thing, but there’s a gallery opening downtown. There’s free champagne upon entry. I’ll take both, and you can be a good student and appreciate the artwork.”
I’m almost tempted to say no, but what else am I going to do? Hang around here, thinking about Fletcher? Or wonder just how the heck his son found my address?
“Sure,” I reply, “and who knows? Maybe I’ll go a little nuts.”
When I get out, I don’t go nuts. I have a sensible—some would say boring—time studying the artwork and making jokes with Lexi. When she moves on to a club, I get a cab home, and the whole time, I’m staring out the window, pathetically praying I see Fletcher.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Fletcher
I wake with a pounding headache. After heading to the motel last night and getting nothing, I returned home, hoping to sleep. Then came the usual nightmares, the evil stuff, the never-let-me-rest shit. It’s tolerable when I’ve got Loki sleeping at my side, his small body curled into me. This morning, I miss him so much. He’d usually sense my mood, whine, and lick at my face or hands.
Standing, I head into the shower, deciding to go to the martial arts gym for the first time in months. I’ve been hitting the regular gym and lifting weights to maintain my size, but that’s it. Otherwise, my life has been simple: managing my gyms, spending time with my son, and trying not to think about anything.
After a shower, I walk to James’ room and knock on the door.
“Yeah?” he says, voice heavy with sleep. It’s just past eight a.m.
“I’m going to the gym. Want to join?”
“It’s early, Dad.”
“It’s not that early.”
He groans. “Later.”
I sigh, wondering if I should kick the door down and drag him out of bed. It’s the no-nonsense attitude my dad would’ve taken with me, but it’s not as though eight a.m. isthatlate. Plus, he’s twenty, a man now. If I push too hard, we might not have a relationship at all. Or maybe that’s another excuse.
Charles and the other PIs are chasing up the motel lead and using their networks to monitor for any sign of Zack, the dog thief. I’m waiting for the call, knuckles tingling as though preparing me for violence.
On the way to the gym, a warped sense of pride touches me. Last night was the first time I didn’t pleasure myself thinking about Samantha. It was only because I was so torn up about my dog and the lack of leads. Even now, as I drive, I can’t stop my thoughts from straying to her curvy young body, the light in her eyes, as if she’s ready to start a new adventure—yeah, with an old man.
After parking, I step from the car, stop, and do a double take. I must be so tired that I’ve started to hallucinate. I’m sure I can see Samantha sitting on a foldout chair on the green opposite the gym, an easel in front of her. Rubbing my eyes, I lean over my car’s roof. She’s still there.
She’s wearing a baggy sweater and loose-fitting jeans like she’s trying to hide her figure, but there’s nothing she can wear to hide it from me. My manhood starts to tingle as my feet carry me toward her. Her hair is tied up messily, giving her an artistic, sexy look.
She’s so involved in her work that she doesn’t notice me until I’m almost right on top of her. Well, close to her. Noton topin the way I’d like. She gasps, jerking her paintbrush, causing paint to splatter over my shirt.
“Oh my God.” She leaps to her feet, drops the brush, and rushes over to me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect…”
She’s got her hand on my shirt, rubbing at the paint with her bare hand. It pushes through the fabric, her hand and palm burning against my skin. It’s the first time we’ve touched. I’m almost howling. It’s like our bodies are talking to each other.
She seems to realize what she’s doing, laughs cutely, and steps back. “Uh, sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I growl, almost adding,You never have to apologize to me. My chest is burning from her touch. My manhood is getting hard, my base throbbing as I imagine her warm palm wrapped around it. “What are you working on?”
She bites her lip and looks at the ground. Strands of her brown hair have come loose. She looks so cozy and small in the baggy sweater. A flush creeps down her neck. She must feel awkward talking to the father of the man who gave her such a bad date.
“A school project. College project.”
I wonder if she’s correcting herself because she doesn’t want to seem too young. That gets my mind racing into steamy possibilities. Is there a reason she doesn’t want me to see her as too young? Is she interested?
“Can I take a look?” I ask.
She swallows, nods, then kneels. For a crazy moment, I think she’s going to bring those gorgeously nervous lips to my manhood, start kissing, stroking…
