Only Trick Page 6

  Chapter Six

  My distractingly sexy new friend drags me through every aisle, and all the lip-licking glances go unnoticed by him—but not by me. “Women sure do like you.”

  Trick inspects each apple before adding them to the cart. “Impossible. They don’t even know me.”

  Proving my point, I glare at a lady eye fucking him while her kids cling to the side of her cart like a troop of monkeys. “Let me rephrase, they like your body.”

  He pushes the cart toward the checkout, glancing over at me. “Do you like my body?”

  I swallow hard, grabbing and thumbing through a magazine as we wait in line. “It’s … fine. I guess. I haven’t paid it much attention.”

  “No?”

  I suck in my lips and shake my head. Ten minutes later we leave with six paper bags of groceries. He carries two in each hand, and I carry the other two.

  “If you don’t feed me when we get back, I’m going to feel used. You really should consider trading in your motorcycle for something more practical.”

  The look he gives me misses my jugular by a few millimeters. Warning received. It was a joke, well … sort of.

  “If you’re hungry you can drink one of the four bottles of fresh pressed juice you stuck in my cart.” He gives me a quick sideways glance.

  “They were on sale.”

  He chuckles.

  “What? Is something wrong with saving a buck?”

  He stops, turns, and bends down so we’re at eye level. “You didn’t pay for them.”

  My face morphs into a slight grimace. “I’ll pay you back.”

  He shakes his head, continuing on, once again leaving me scurrying to catch up. “I don’t want your money.”

  “I know…” I give him a playful nudge “…that’s why I’m letting you be my friend.”

  “Lucky me.” He sets down two bags to open the door.

  “Uh … yeah. I’m quite the catch.”

  He glances back with a questioning brow.

  “I don’t mean in a romantic way …”

  His stare intensifies.

  “Not that I’m not romantic, just not with you because you’re—”

  The one brow raise turns into two. “I’m?”

  I sigh. “Ugh! Just … let’s go.” I kick the heel of his boot.

  The signature twitch-smirk filled with a million unsaid words makes an appearance. In such a short amount of time, I’ve developed a love-hate relationship with it.

  We set the groceries on the counter. “I’m going to shower. Feel free to put things away and start dinner.” Trick walks toward the glass-walled bathroom. Wring out my panties and mop up my drool. He shrugs off his shirt revealing a smoking body marked with various tattoos. “You’re staring—paying attention.”

  “I-I’m … not,” I croak. My skin heats to a nice crimson.

  “You are,” he calls back without looking before disappearing around the wall.

  “Smug bastard,” I mumble to myself.

  “I heard that.”

  “Whatever and … don’t flatter yourself.” I start to take the groceries out of the bags, putting things wherever I damn well please. Serves him right for being so bossy. “You’re not my type,” I yell over the sound of the shower water.

  “Really? So what’s your type? Straight-laced?”

  No, just straight in general!

  “Funny,” I yell back.

  “So fat clowns?”

  I bang the bag of blue corn chips against the counter for the fat clown comment. “Sensitive.”

  “So pussies?” he yells.

  Oops, I just hate it when the gallon jug of milk accidentally gets set on the vulnerable little carton of eggs. I smile in evil revenge as yolk oozes onto the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

  “Intelligent.”

  “Stuffy.” He shuts the water off as I stomp on the package of linguini.

  “Sexy.” I grind the word through my teeth, determined to not let him get the best of me.

  Too late … holy spontaneous orgasm!

  Trick walks out with a gray towel wrapped around his waist, drops of water clinging to his messy hair and rivulets racing down his etched form. “You’re staring again.”

  I clear my throat. “I’m not—what the hell?” My voice screeches to a decibel that even I don’t recognize as he drops his towel—revealing his ass. I whip around and squeeze my eyes shut, but his naked body is branded into my brain. I do the only thing I can at this point; I commit it to my deathbed highlight reel.

  “Told ya you were staring.”

  I lean against the counter gripping the edge with my back to him, eyes still squeezed shut.

  “Are you standing on my pasta?”

  Opening my eyes, I glance down. “It fell.”

  He bends down, thankfully in jeans but still no shirt, and tugs the package of broken linguine out from under my brown-heeled boot. “It fell under your boot?” He stands, tossing the package on the counter while giving me a menacing frown.

  I shrug. “Something like that.”

  “I like breakfast for dinner. How about toast and eggs?” He opens the refrigerator door.

  “Works for me.” I dig my teeth into my bottom lip.

  Trick grunts as he moves the milk off the crushed carton of eggs. Yolk drips on the floor as he brings it to the counter.

  I smile in spite of the grinding sound of his teeth and flare of his nostrils. “I’ll cook the eggs.” I take the carton from him as a sort of peace offering. “You good with scrambled?”

  Another grunt, actually it might be a growl. “For your information I like them over easy, but your disturbing ‘friendship’ skills would indicate that scrambled is my only option at this point.”

  “You were being mean.”

  He hands me a skillet after I open every cabinet door except the one with the pots and pans. “I was joking, as in a sense of humor, which I believe was number one on your list of desirable traits.”

  I spray the pan and pour approximately four eggs into the skillet while choking back my initial response. What he didn’t hear was a man who is straight is my number one desirable trait. “Yeah, you’re a one-man comedy show. I think I’ve seen your teeth um … twice. You’re … icy.”

  “Icy?” Trick cocks his head while dropping two slices of bread in the toaster. “How so?”

  I season the eggs and stir them. “You have a … how shall I say it? It’s a … fuck-off vibe thing going.”

  He gives me the stink eye. “Well, you sure didn’t get the message.”

  “Doesn’t mean you weren’t sending it.” I spoon the eggs onto the plates.

  Trick sets two pieces of toast on each plate and slides them to the opposite edge by the barstools. Then he gets out butter, jelly, orange juice, and a jar from the spice cabinet.

  “So do you still want me to fuck off?” I ask, climbing onto the barstool.

  He hands me a fork and knife. “I do if you don’t stop mutilating my groceries.” There’s zero humor to his voice, but I’m learning that’s just Trick. His emotions are subtle and hard to read, like blurred ink.

  I spread butter and strawberry jelly on my toast. “The funny thing is … I’m not usually a vengeful person. At least I never thought so until I met you.” I shrug and pile the eggs onto my toast. “I guess you bring out the evil in me. Congratulations, I’ve been considered a doormat for years, so this is progress for me.”

  Trick glances over at me then takes a bite of his butter and jellied toast with eggs piled on top. He may have militant control over his emotions, but I don’t. My grin steals my face. For years my father gave me a disapproving scowl at the breakfast table for my jelly, toast, and egg concoction. But now, I’ve found my breakfast soul mate.

  “What?” he mumbles over a mouthful, squinting at me.

  “OMG! It’s official; we’re BFFs.”

  He finishes chewing then takes a swig of his juice. “No way…” he shakes his head “…if you ever use O
MG and BFF in the same sentence again we’re O.V.E.R! Got it?”

  My grin has taken up permanent residence on my face. I talk in code all day at work, so I’m not really the ditzy acronym girl; I was just playing with him. However, his growly reaction was so freaking hot, I know I’ll end up poking the bear again and again.

  Shoving in a big bite, I tap his foot with mine. “We’re breakfast soul mates and you know it,” I mumble while wiping the corners of my mouth with my fingers. “What are the chances that we both like jellied toast with scrambled eggs on top? Seriously, like one in a gazillion.”

  He slides over the jar he grabbed from the spice cabinet. “First, I like jellied toast with over easy eggs.” He glares at me. “Second, I add cayenne pepper to my eggs. And I’m pretty sure the whole thing is far from an original idea.”

  Grasping the jar of cayenne like a drawn sword, I accept his challenge. The spicier the better, another OMG-we’re-so-meant-to-be-BFFs moment. However, I keep that to myself, for now. The idea of us being O.V.E.R terrifies me because this has to be as good as it gets—super squirrel sans shirt, sexy tats, and eating eggs on jellied toast. Nirvana.

  Trick observes me with a curious look, eyes dilated, lips firm to resist the twitch-smirk. I sprinkle on enough cayenne to permanently burn off my taste buds, then take a bite. Chewing slowly, I grin while savoring the sweet and fiery collision along my tongue and down my throat.

  “What are you thinking?” My nerves release the hostage words that have been shackled in my throat since we met. Every look feels like an undecipherable riddle; I’m tired of guessing.

  He looks down at his plate then takes another bite before looking at me again. “I’m trying to figure you out.”

  I almost choke on my laugh. “Me? You can’t be serious. I’m the epitome of an open book. I’ve told you just about everything about me. What more could you possibly want to know?”

  Trick slides his plate away and rests his folded arms on the counter, closer to me. His eyes flicker over my face and hair, then down my body before meeting mine again. “I want to know why you’re here with me?”

  Gulp!

  He might as well ask me the meaning of life. It’s a simple question with an infinitely impossible answer, but I look for it anyway.

  His eyes don’t hold the answer, his lips are a gateway to something he finds amusing in me, and so I look at the brilliant rainbow of ink along his arms, chest, and back. The stars, small flowers, feathers, symbols, and sanskrit—they could mean nothing; they could mean everything.

  I’m attracted to him, but not delusional. He will never look at me the way I look at him … yet, I’m here. So I shrug realizing the answer is me, not him. “I like me with you.”

  He stares at my lips; he does that a lot. He’s probably thinking I could use a Botox injection. Fat chance! “Who are you with me?” Turning to face me, he pulls my chair closer to his so my legs go between his.

  Sucking in a breath, I grab my toast and take another bite to hide my nerves. He has short, dark chest hair that trails downward, disappearing beneath his jeans. On the left side of his abs there are black sanskrit symbols etched to a bold perfection. I love looking at him.

  “I’m out of control.”

  He raises a brow as I grin.

  “Nobody’s life is in my hands, and I’m not the Senator’s daughter. You’ve seen me without makeup and nearly wetting myself on the back of your bike, yet you still suggested we be friends.”

  A soft chuckle escapes him as he rests his hands on my knees. The next part I want to be one hundred percent true, but it’s not—yet. “I don’t have to think about sleeping with you or who you’re sleeping with when it’s not me.”

  His hands grip tighter on my knees. My breath catches. I hold it, control it, then release it with ease as he releases me.

  Grabbing my juice, I suck it down the way he sucks all control out of me. The clink of my glass hitting the counter breaks the eerie, suffocating silence that hovers like a cloud in this large open space. “Tell me about your family.”

  “Grady and Tamsen are my only family.” He pushes my chair back and hops off his stool.

  “Tamsen?”

  “Grady’s sister.” Trick rinses off our plates.

  “What about your parents?” I climb down and hand him the skillet.

  “What about them?”

  “Jesus, Trick! This is such deadweight conversation. It’s exhausting dragging information out of you.”

  He shuts the door to the dishwasher and leans against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, head down. “I think they died.”

  I shake my head. “What does that mean?”

  He looks up. “You work at a hospital but you don’t know what it means to die?”

  “No, you idiot! I don’t understand what it means to not know if your parents are dead or alive.”

  “Well, lucky you.” He walks away, grabs a shirt, and slips on his boots before heading toward the elevator. “Come.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He slides open the gate and steps into the elevator, turning toward me. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “You’re kicking me out?” I try to hide the shock in my voice, but I’m sure he can see it in my posture that deflates an inch or two.

  “I’m walking you out.”

  I look around the room searching for … something. My pride? Some dignity?

  Nothing.

  Scuffing my boots across the floor, I sulk to the elevator. Trick shuts the gate.

  “You don’t have to walk me to my car,” I say in a weak voice as he opens the outer door.

  He walks out as if he didn’t hear me, leaving me to catch up.

  When we reach the street he stops. I point to my car on the other side, and he continues toward it. After I unlock it, he opens the driver’s door. His mask is back on, not a single twitch, just … stone. I start to get in then stop. Standing straight, I hug him. If it’s even possible, his body stiffens more. His arms stay glued to his sides.

  “I’m sorry about your parents … wherever they are.” Releasing him, I slide into my seat and shut the door. Without looking at him, I pull away from the curb, only risking a glance in my rearview mirror when he’s already out of sight. Trick thinks his parents are dead, and maybe they are. Lack of closure can be torture. I wonder if he’s given up on any other possibility just to get that closure.

  *

  I should attend yoga classes or something to clear my mind. Psychologically it’s probably not in my best interest to submerge myself in a mentally and sometimes emotionally draining job, then engage in the mind fuck that is Trick in my free time.

  He radiates an element of mystery and danger. Any attempt to figure him out would be the equivalent of diving head first into the dark abyss. Yet, I’m drawn to him in more than just a physical sense, and I’m not sure it’s something I can control. But most disturbing is the realization that I don’t want to control it.

  Pulling up in front of my nana’s place, I look at the time. She’s an early riser which means she’s usually in bed by eight. It’s ten ’til, so hopefully I’ll catch her before she sets the alarm and shuts off the lights.

  “Yes?” she answers shortly after I press the intercom button.

  “It’s me, Nana.”

  The door unlocks.

  “Well isn’t this a lovely surprise.” She opens her arms, sparkling blue eyes that mirror mine crinkle in the corners.

  “Hope I didn’t wake you.” I hug her and feel the warmth of home in her arms—the only arms that have ever felt like what I imagine a mother’s love should feel like.

  “I don’t think that’s possible yet. Mary invited me for coffee earlier and I should have skipped the second cup. I think I’ll be up for a while yet. So come, sit.” A plush, cream bathrobe engulfs her petite frame. The rosy glow of her cheeks and shiny nose indicate she’s washed her face, but her ginger and white Peter Pan hair still looks salon perfect. “You h
ave the night off?”

  “Yes.” I sit in the wing-back chair next to her. “I work in the morning.”

  “Have you been summoned for the dinner party your father is having this weekend?”

  Drawing my knees into my chest, I laugh. “Of course. He’s claimed all my weekends until November.”

  “You could say no. You don’t owe him anything.”

  I shrug. “I know, but I hate conflict.” Usually. “It’s easier to just make an appearance, let him introduce me to some of the most boring people in the world, then sneak out after he …” Casting my eyes downward, I sigh.

  “After he sneaks off to the nearest private room to screw some bimbo?”

  “Nana!” My jaw drops.

  She smirks knowingly. Nothing gets by her. “Big dicks with too much money and power.”

  “He’s still my father. I know in his own twisted way he loves me.”

  She nods once with pursed lips. “So I know you didn’t stop by to talk about your father.”

  Raising my brows, I pop my lips. “Nope.”

  “Steven propose?”

  “God, no! We’re not there yet.”

  “Yet?” She perks up.

  “Ever. He’s not the one.”

  “Oh really? Does that mean someone else has thrown their hat into the ring?”

  I bite my lips together.

  “Spill, dear. Who is he?”

  “He’s a makeup artist Gemmie recommended. But he has not, nor ever will be ‘throwing his hat into the ring.’”

  “Married?” She grins as if the thought of me being someone’s mistress pleases her. It’s possible all my living relatives are a bit twisted.

  I shake my head and smirk. “No, Nana, he’s not married. He’s … gay.”

  She throws her head back and slaps her hand against her chest in a fit of laughter. “Oh my goodness!”

  “Why is his sexual preference so hysterical?”

  “Oh dear…” she wipes the corners of her eyes “…it’s just you have the worst luck in love. When did you find out?”

  I reach over and grab a tissue from the sofa table and hand it to her, rolling my eyes. Then I proceed to tell her everything, not leaving out one single detail—including my magnetic attraction to him that shouldn’t be sexual but is.