Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) Page 4

  I was a messy painter.

  But I was a messy painter who’d built a career.

  And one who worked in a bar.

  Grinning as I navigated through the rush hour traffic, part because May would hate that, and there was nothing I loved more at this point in my life than pissing off my ex-wife (Petty? Yes. Absolutely. But after the hell that she-devil of a woman had put me through, I was embracing the petty. It sure as fuck was better than going to jail for murder). Aside from making May angry, I was working at Bobby’s because Kace had asked, because I was new in town, needed a fresh start, and it wasn’t like my personal life was hopping. I had nothing to do most evenings except binge documentaries and fantasy shows on Netflix. And drink.

  I’d done a lot of drinking over the last six months since the divorce was final.

  Of course, it would have been a hell of a lot easier if I could paint at night.

  But I was a morning person. Always had been, always would be. I worked best under natural light when the sun was rising, and I painted in a flurry until the clock struck about three, that big ball of gas having crossed the midpoint of the sky and begun its downward descent.

  Then I showered, and for the last few months, I’d gone to Bobby’s to help with the dinner rush, leaving to head home and crash, to sleep until the sun rose and I began painting all over again.

  I was one of the lucky ones with a nest egg, with galleries that actually wanted my work, with money in my checking account.

  I had less than May did.

  But the prenup we’d signed had meant that I’d kept the rights to my work . . . along with turning down any alimony.

  I hadn’t needed it.

  My life was small and simple and fine.

  I didn’t need what May did.

  And if there was ever a perfect description for my relationship with my ex, it was that.

  What I wanted and what my ex wanted had been on two different planes of existence.

  Sighing, I parked and got out of my car, making my way up to my apartment and into the kitchen, where I fueled up quickly on a bagel and another cup of coffee—caffeine was part of my process. When I was nearing jittery, I placed my mug in the sink, changed into my paint-stained clothes, and slipped into the second bedroom.

  Most people would have a guest room.

  With just my brother, who lived a busy life and didn’t visit often, my friends nearby with their own nicer places, I had no need for a guest room.

  I did, however, have need of a painting studio, and one with bright, natural light. This bedroom, with its eastern-facing window, was a big part of the reason I’d signed the eighteen-month lease. That and being on the top floor and in the corner of the complex.

  Quiet.

  No loud neighbors clomping overhead.

  Today I glanced out my window as I slanted open the blinds, focused on the final selling point. The park in the distance.

  Which . . . now that I thought about it, made me sound like the worst type of person, creeping on people in the park. But my art wasn’t like that. I started with an image that inspired me. Sometimes a tree changing colors. Sometimes, like this morning, a trio of dogs in mismatched sizes frolicking along the path. Sometimes a kid hanging upside down on the monkey bars, pigtails sailing in the wind.

  And I tried to capture the spirit of that moment.

  The mix of courage, exhilaration, and fear as she let go of the green metal to dangle by her knees.

  The joy in the prancing pooches’ steps, their noses pointed into the wind, their tails on full propellor mode.

  The bleakness that sometimes accompanied a season changing—trees going bare, their limbs naked and frail—but hope coiled in the background, winding tight and preparing to spring forth in the form of green buds and leaves unfurling.

  My mind clear except for those dogs, I pulled out a fresh canvas, slapped paint onto my palette, grabbed a brush, and began.

  No sketching beforehand.

  Those pencil lines stymied me, faint markings that boxed me in instead of allowing me the freedom I needed to create.

  I needed paint on the canvas, I needed to not overthink, and I needed the sun shining in through my window as I worked.

  And while normally, the image I’d spotted would stay in my mind, fueling that creativity for however many hours I stayed in my almost trancelike state, painting furiously, today the vision morphed, twisted, transformed.

  Into brown hair and eyes.

  Into a plump mouth and exposed shoulders that called out to be kissed.

  Into a lush ass and thighs wrapped around my waist and a tongue in my mouth.

  Minutes turned into hours, and the next time I was aware of anything, the light had dimmed. I’d blown by my usual afternoon stop time and had drifted into evening.

  My feet were sore. My shoulders ached. My hands were cramping.

  But I looked at my canvas, and I saw . . . Dominque.

  Oh, I was so fucked.

  Chapter Eight

  Dominque, a month later

  I was going to kill Hayden.

  Seriously murder him.

  Or at least hack into his records and leak his personal information on the Dark Web so that anyone with dubious morals could access it.

  Except, there was a reason I’d hired the fucker, and that was because he was good. So it would probably be a pain in the ass to get through his encryptions and firewalls, and I really tried to avoid doing things that were a pain in the ass.

  At least when I wasn’t paid to do them.

  But the fucker . . . he’d promised that Archer wouldn’t be here.

  But the fucker (Archer this time) was here.

  And I’d given up information—that I had an interest in avoiding the bearded, hazel-eyed mass of yumminess—to Hayden with absolutely no return on that investment. Hayden’s interest was spiked, and now Archer was setting a glass that appeared to contain a Sex on the Beach in front of me, his rumbling voice rolling across my skin like a thunderstorm.

  My nipples went hard, my pussy went damp, and I squirmed on the stool like I’d broken my tailbone when all I’d really done was broken my most important rule when it came to sleeping with this man.

  I knew better.

  My rule was in place because I knew that nothing good came from sleeping with men who I actually liked, who liked me, who wanted more than just mutual orgasms.

  I needed to keep my distance. Stay safe.

  But I hadn’t, had I?

  Because soon he’d want things I couldn’t give, and then he wouldn’t be shining his sexy smile in my direction now, would he?

  Of course, I thought, my heart leaping in my chest like a Labrador puppy, I’d also gone and broken another rule. One just as important. Because I’d started to like the fucker back. Because I couldn’t deny that a bubble of something swelled inside me—a tennis ball for that wriggling puppy to chase—when he rested his elbows on the bar and asked, “Hungry, sweetheart?”

  I pushed the glass away, even though I had saliva building up, my taste buds prickling at the memory of the mix of tart and sweet on my tongue, my body ready for the glorious buzz of vodka to hit my veins.

  I’d actually bought the supplies to make this drink, but my home concoctions didn’t taste nearly as good as when this man had made it.

  I wanted to grab the glass, to feel its damp cold seep into my fingertips, to trace patterns in the condensation, to grip the thin straw and bring it up to my lips, sucking deeply.

  I wanted to suck something else deep.

  But . . . rules.

  And I’d broken enough of them already to know that I couldn’t break the most important of them.

  Having another night with Archer.

  Instead of acknowledging him, I turned to Hayden and continued our conversation. The project was nearly complete, and the bar with its background music and din of people joking and laughing, drinking and talking, was an easy place to haggle out those final few details.

/>   Hayden was sent on his way with plans to let himself into a few high-powered servers and report his findings.

  It would likely take him all night, but if they were clean, then I could report to KTS that the person they had us investigating wasn’t connected to their criminal ring.

  We’d have a couple of days off and then move onto the next project.

  Which, if I was remembering correctly, would be trying to uncover information to prove whether a powerful CEO was cheating on his wife (soon-to-be ex-wife) so she had materials for the divorce proceedings.

  Look, not all of my life could be noble or glamorous.

  The majority of it involved me squinting at a screen, seeing shit I couldn’t unsee, and then really hating my job.

  The minority, the piece that kept me going, aside from the fact that I’d fought tooth and nail for it, had clawed myself into financial independence and forced my way into a seat at the table was that sometimes I did real good.

  Sometimes we helped in ways that didn’t involve divorce decrees or clearing people who weren’t particularly squeaky clean but who hadn’t committed bad enough crimes to be the big fish we were after. Sometimes we found kids who were missing and were able to reunite families. Sometimes I found money that was stolen and was able to shift some things around and have it magically make its way back into the proper accounts. Sometimes I caught evidence on cameras or in emails and was able to pass it onto police forces to solve outstanding cases.

  Those were the reasons that kept me moving forward.

  Despite all the things I couldn’t unsee.

  Tonight, however, Hayden clapped me on the shoulder, pushed off his stool, and moved to the other end of the bar, to his gorgeous Anabelle, and left me with a drink full of rapidly melting ice.

  “Here.”

  I blinked, tearing my gaze away from the sunset in my glass and allowing it to rise, to meet Archer’s.

  “Here,” he said again, sliding a basket across the bar in front of me.

  It wasn’t fancy or anything particularly special, a sampler of fried bar foods—chicken strips, mozzarella sticks, wings, a bit of celery and carrots to pretend to be healthy, and a trifecta of dipping sauces.

  “No,” I said, shoving it away, even as my stomach rumbled.

  He steadied it, his slow grin burning through me. “Sounds like your stomach thinks differently.”

  He tapped the wood, straightened, and moved a few feet away, pulling glasses out of a dishwasher and stacking the blue plastic racks behind him.

  It was his biceps.

  Later, I’d blame his biceps.

  They strained against the cotton of his shirt, veins crossing the bulging muscles, making my mouth water. I’d tasted his skin, could remember the notes of spice, how it had become tinged with salt when he’d thrust with the drive of a man who wasn’t going to stop until he’d brought me over the edge.

  Until I’d been . . . satisfied.

  I shivered . . . and caught his eyes in the mirror.

  Fire and need and the temptation to break all my rules just so I could have this man be mine. For only a few minutes. For more. For—

  Fucking hell, I picked up one of the mozzarella sticks and bit into it.

  Salt and goo—

  Which was really not helping me with the whole not fucking Archer thing. Barf. Especially when I was trying to avoid looking at him. Failing avoiding looking at him. Because the man had . . . paint . . . on the back of his arm. A smear of bright blue along his triceps.

  He turned, caught me looking, and though I dropped the fried bit of mozzarella like it was a stick of dynamite, the fucker saw it anyway.

  His eyes sparkled with humor, his mouth turning up.

  I wanted to punch him. I wanted to kiss him.

  So, back to the whole fucking hell thing.

  But also, fuck the fucking hell, fuck me worrying about that man and his gorgeous body, his wonderful cock. I had a basket of fried deliciousness in front of me, and I was going to clog my arteries.

  A.K.A. I was going to eat it.

  Without regret and without paying the least bit of attention to the person my body was paying the most attention to.

  See? That made total sense.

  Also, this just in, it made absolutely no sense.

  I picked up another mozzarella stick anyway.

  Chapter Nine

  Archer

  I felt the moment that Dominque left.

  As though all the nerves in my body had been singularly attuned to her, and now that she was gone, they were signaling to me, telling me to go after her.

  But I had work to do.

  I began racking glasses. Next, I’d need to check for what alcohol was low, and I was pretty sure there was a keg that was about to run out, and—

  A hand on my arm.

  “Go after her.”

  I glanced down, saw that Anabelle had come up next to me.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  She nudged me back. “Don’t play stupid. Go after her.”

  “Go after who?”

  A sigh. “Archer, so help me God, I will squirt lime juice in your eye. That woman wants you.”

  “She’s given me firm Do Not Proceed signs.”

  “So, she’s going to make you work for it,” Anabelle said. “The best things in life are worth working for. Plus, she’s spent the majority of the evening eye-fucking you, so it’s not like she’s immune.”

  “Still, that doesn’t mean I should—”

  “It’s dark out. She’s walking to her car in the dark.”

  My hands convulsed on the rack of glasses, remembering the last time she’d gone off, how that little fuck boy had cornered her. What if someone else did the same? What if—

  “Go,” Anabelle said. “You’re off anyway.”

  I’d been late after my painting had run long. Again. I’d been so wrapped up in Dominque, in painting her in different shapes and formats and colors (also yes, I was aware that this was bordering on obsessive, but I hadn’t painted this efficiently in years), that I’d come late to my shift. Again.

  Good thing I was just doing Kace a favor.

  Because I’d seriously be fired if I wasn’t.

  Still, I’d always stayed after, working off the time I’d missed, even if it was just scrubbing dishes in the kitchen or cleaning up the storeroom.

  Today, though, with the thought of Dominque walking into trouble, or trouble finding her, I untied my apron, dropped it on the counter behind the bar, and I left, pushing through the crowd as I searched for any sign of the curvy brunette.

  There wasn’t a glimpse of her in the hall or in the front room, nor in the area immediately in front of Bobby’s.

  I glanced around, still looking, then turned in the direction she’d parked before, some instinct driving me to at least try to see where she was, to make sure she was good, and maybe just to get one more glimpse of her before she turned into smoke again. Because I had the feeling that she wouldn’t be coming back to the bar.

  I stepped off the curb, prepared to cross the street. I’d go one more block and—

  “Watch out!”

  A body slammed into mine.

  A car flew by, close enough that I felt the heat of its engine sear my face.

  We hit the concrete hard, the air whooshing out of me, pain radiating through my arms, my ass, my head. My teeth clinked together, spots flashing on the edges of my vision.

  “Are you okay?” Dominque asked, her hands on my chest, her legs straddling my torso.

  I sat up, one hand around her waist, blinking as my brain struggled to process the last few moments. “I’m fine,” I said, gently pushing her off me, standing, and helping her to her feet. I cupped her cheek. “Are you?”

  Her lips parted, a breath shuddering out. Then her expression went fierce, and she smacked my chest. “What’s wrong with you?” she exclaimed. “You could have been killed!” Another smack. “You were nearly run over and—” Her eyes widene
d. “You’re bleeding!”

  “Niki,” I murmured.

  Soft fingers encircled my wrists, and she turned my hands over, studying them. “You’re bleeding, Arch.”

  “I’m fine—”

  She slipped her arm around my waist, started tugging me down the sidewalk.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, stumbling slightly. My vision was a little hazy, and my head throbbed like a motherfucker.

  “Taking you back to your place.”

  I smiled.

  “Not like that,” she snapped, hauling me to a stop at the corner, pausing to deliberately look both ways.

  We crossed the street, and I opened and closed my mouth a few times, shrugged my shoulders, rolling my neck. The haze began to clear, the ache fading away. I’d had my cage rattled courtesy of Dominque’s tackle, but I hadn’t been run over by a car, so that was something.

  I walked alongside her to my apartment, appreciating the sensation of her pressed to my side but not daring to do anything about it lest she leave my ass on the curb.

  “Keys,” she ordered.

  I pulled them out of my pocket, handed them to her. She unlocked the door, held it for me, and then she gripped my hands.

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  I nodded toward my bedroom.

  She hauled me forward, through my bedroom and into the bathroom, shoving me to sit on the edge of the tub. “Stay,” she ordered.

  I stayed as she began rummaging through my cupboards and drawers.

  “Feel free to snoop.”

  A narrow-eyed gaze in my direction.

  I shut my mouth.

  She opened the cabinet beneath the sink, pulled out the first aid kit I kept there, along with a washrag. Then she spent the next ten minutes doing something I never would have expected—fussing. So much fussing over my hands, over the back of my head, over my elbows, my palms. She wet the rag, cleaned out the abrasions, checked my head for lumps.