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CHAPTER SIX
*Lace*
Ten in the morning comes way too early after not getting out of the club until half past four, passing out with Reece, and still having to drive to the guys’ condo rental and wash all the lust off me after my long shift.
Being able to take a real shower and sleep in a real bed made it all possible, though. Four hours of rest feels more like six since most nights sleeping on the makeshift bed in my wagon strips at least two hours of adequate rest due to all my tossing and turning. I am used to it by now and quite like my living arrangements, but soon, I’m gonna take my home on the road. Be a wanderer. Just me and my trusty wagon.
What comes even earlier is my next shift. Thanks to Bike Week, my hours have changed from the late schedule to now having to come in before lunch. The longer I lie here, arms and legs sprawled across the over-sized mattress, warm sunshine beaming down on my face, the less time I have to get ready. At the behest of Coty, I wiggle against the cool fabric once more to make sure the bed smells plenty like me for his arrival. Then, with a groan, I pitch the covers off my naked body and swing my legs over the edge, stealing a covetous glance at the sparkly gulf through the large crystal-clear casement windows.
An unexpected knock echoes through the condo, encouraging me to my feet. I pop my head inside the en suite bathroom, pull down one of the hanging robes, push my arms through the sleeves, and wrap the thick terry cloth belt around me on the way to the front door. While crisscrossing and tying off the strip of fabric, I stand on tiptoes and peer through the peephole.
Seeing only a parcel delivery guy, I pad backward a couple steps, unlock the door, and swing it open with a sleepy smile. “Morning, sir.” Little goosebumps rise on my legs from the rush of chilly air left behind after the storm.
The man, not much older than me by the looks of him, gives me a couple gawking blinks before speaking. “I have a package here.” I bite my tongue from saying I bet you do and tilt my head to the side, waiting for him to finish. “Never can tell with these condo rentals if it’ll get to the right person. Umm” — he glances down at the label and back up again — “Lacinda Kensington?”
“In the flesh.” Holding my arms out, I accept the delivery.
He gives me a nonchalant head-to-toe scan while transferring the box to my possession. “You don’t look much like a Lacinda.”
“Does anyone?” I chuckle.
His eyes move up toward the balcony covering, deep in thought, before sinking back down to me again. “No, I suppose not.”
“How about Lacey or Lace? Are those more suitable?”
The focus he’d been trying awfully hard to keep above my collarbone drifts down toward the tattoos on my legs. “Yeah… definitely.”
“Good. Lace is the one that makes me money.”
Recognition flashes in his eyes. I see a lot of men, but only a few tend to stick in my memory. Guess my name imprinted well enough in his. Paperboy gets a bit awkward, swallowing hard. “Yep, okay. Duty calls,” he stammers.
I press my lips together, stifling a chuckle at his expense, and concur with a sigh. “Sure does.”
“Have a good day, ma’am.” He pinches the rim of his work-issued ball cap and tips his head.
Package propped on my hip, I flash him one last smile and wave goodbye while nudging the door closed with my toes.
I practically run to the living room while clawing at the package, unable to stand waiting even ten more seconds to get from one side of the condo to the next. Sitting on top of the loose, crumpled paper shoved carelessly inside the box is a small gift note timestamped less than twenty-four hours ago, indicating overnight shipping:
If you’re not wearing this when I find you, my little siren, there will be hell to pay. - Coyote
With an ear-to-ear grin, I toss fistfuls of the packaging behind me, creating arcs of brown paper confetti, until I reach the bottom.
I didn’t think my stupid grin could get any stupider, but the sexy-as-sin piece folded neatly inside nearly makes my face hurt. I hold the studded, hollowed-out, leather and lace leggings up high and blow a low, drawn-out whistle.
At first glance, I can’t imagine being able to actually get my ass into them. No way can I wear them while dancing, either. Taking them off will likely be even harder than getting them on, and I just don’t see how I could manage doing that without rolling all over the stage like a horse in labor.
I can wear them between dances while I’m mingling with customers. Coty will just have to suck it up.
My lips curve into a sly smile. Watching him struggle to take them off of me promises to be fun — because he undoubtedly will take them off. Or insist I do. Probably the latter.
I tilt my head to the side and study them from the laces that make up the front, down to the thin, black lace that makes up the sides and inner leg panels. The rest is leather starting at the hips, curving down toward the inner thighs, and looping around the calves.
The only thing I don’t like about them is that the floral lace on the outer top portion will definitely clash with the decorative thigh welts of my stocking tattoos. I push the material inside out and study the stitching. When I’m confident my tampering won’t screw up the overall sturdiness — thanks to the rivets holding everything in place — I toss them onto the table in search of some makeshift supplies.
Scissors in hand, I carefully cut away the topmost section of lace so my permanent body lace shows through. I don’t bother to touch the inside from the knee down, though, since the only thing that would show through that portion is my tattoo’s inner seam.
Because this is clearly a hand wash or dry-clean item and time is of the essence, I decide there’s no harm in wearing them fresh out of the box with a g-string beneath.
If Kal and the club left North Georgia around the time I was finishing my shift this morning, they should arrive sometime after lunch today, depending on how many stops they make. It’s usually not like them to show up before the sun goes down, but since they’re coming in early, that might change things. With Coty, I better not take any chances by guessing incorrectly, so I make sure the leggings are the first item to go in my bag. Everything else I need is in the wagon or my locker at work.
Time dwindling, cut short by my tailoring efforts, I dig through the cabinets for a grab-n-go breakfast item but come up empty handed. Baylor, designated details guy, must not have had enough time to instruct one of their local contacts to stock the place yet.
No big deal, though; after hitting up the bank, I can just swing through the gas station down the street and pick up a quick protein bar.
