Only Trick Page 7

  “Well, dear, you’ve hit the jackpot.”

  “What? How have you come to that conclusion from everything I’ve told you?”

  “A guy friend who’s gay? I hear they’re every girl’s dream. Except, from the sounds of things, Trick needs to gay up a little more and stop confusing unsuspecting women.”

  “Gay up? Who are you?”

  She snaps her wrist at me. “I read the tabloids you know.”

  “Yeah? Well then you should know that gay doesn’t have a look.”

  “That’s the problem. You used to be able to tell by the ear piercing—right for gay left for straight. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, these days everything gets pierced and so it becomes terribly confusing.”

  Nana provides nonstop entertainment, and every time I come by to see her I chastise myself for not doing it more often.

  “We’re friends, period. And maybe you’re right. If he would ‘gay up’ a little more I might feel the jackpot effect.”

  “Yes, shopping, hair, makeup, and chick flicks without competing hormones or competing for the same men.”

  “Or wishing he weren’t gay,” I whisper to myself.

  She tilts her head to the side, giving me a soft, sympathetic smile. “Or that too, dear.”

  Chapter Seven

  Gemmie is one of my few guilty indulgences. Tonight isn’t a gala, and I could wrangle my hair into something presentable for my father’s dinner party, but I need an hour in her chair to decompress from the week.

  “I talked to Trick earlier. He said you weren’t on his schedule this afternoon. Did you forget to book him?”

  “It’s a dinner party. I think I can manage some mascara and lip gloss for the night. Besides, after you’re done working your magic all eyes will be on my hair, not my face.” I wink at her reflection in the mirror.

  “So … what were you doing with him the other night?”

  I’ve been waiting for this question.

  “We had dinner, just eggs and toast.”

  “You heard me say he’s—”

  “Gay. Yes, I know. We’re just friends.”

  “Hmm, that’s … surprising.”

  I sigh. “Why because I’m not worthy of having friends? Because—”

  “Down, girl! Holy hell, what’s your deal? I meant Trick. He’s very private and not the type to make friends with …”

  “With?”

  She pulls my curled hair back into the most elegant ponytail I have ever seen. “Women. They make up ninety percent of his clientele, but I’ve heard he tolerates them … just barely. However, I don’t think it has anything to do with him being gay. I think it’s something from his past. So him befriending you is pretty miraculous.”

  The newly formed knot in my stomach makes me nauseous. I know he doesn’t trust women, but I’ve felt like the exception—until now. Am I Trick’s charity case? He’s tolerating me? I feel like a complete idiot … again. How does this keep happening to me? Is the concept of me finding a genuine friend really that farfetched? Apparently.

  “What do you think?” Gemmie hands me a mirror to see the back.

  “I can’t believe you even have to ask.” I smirk. “It’s fabulous, as always.”

  She knows she doesn’t have to ask, but I don’t think she’ll ever get tired of clients gushing over her talent.

  My eyes cannot help but wander to Rogue Seduction as I leave Gemmie’s. The reflection on the window makes it hard to see, but it doesn’t look like the lights are on. Trick’s probably sticking needles into female voodoo dolls.

  *

  Rachel didn’t send me a dress this week. That’s code for either the dinner party is not receiving media attention that might be free publicity for her brand, or it means she’s in New York this weekend. That will make my father’s indiscretions easier to hide.

  I stare at my strapless, red chiffon dress with silver, open-toed heels that are laid out across my bed as my door intercom buzzes. I slip on my white satin robe and answer the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Hey.”

  I suck in a nervous breath and tighten the sash on my robe. “Trick?”

  “Yes.” His word frugality astonishes me.

  I buzz him in and hurry down the stairs just as he closes my front door. Faded jeans, black boots, fitted black T-shirt, and exposed tats on his lean, toned arms … he definitely needs to gay up.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” He shoves his hands in his pockets up to his leather wristbands.

  “Sorry, I’m getting ready to leave soon—”

  He walks up the stairs toward me. “I know.” He continues past me, looking left then right at the top of the stairs. Turning right, he proceeds down the hall to my bedroom and on through to my bathroom.

  Never in my life have I literally chased after a guy so much—only Trick.

  “What are you doing?”

  He fumbles through my vanity drawers and makeup bags. “Come.” He gestures with his head, without looking at me.

  “I’ve already done my makeup.”

  He shoves aside the clutter on the vanity top. “Hop up.”

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, I do as he commands.

  “The dress on the bed, is that what you’re wearing?”

  I nod as he pulls out some different brushes and eyeliner. He takes a step back and looks at me. I don’t like this part. My nerves fire with anxiety, and I can feel my skin begin to flush. Trick grips the collar of my robe and eases both sides down over my shoulders, leaving them bared along with some cleavage. My breath hitches.

  Lip-twitch. Ass!

  He steps forward nudging my legs apart with his, then steps between them so we’re so close I don’t know if the heat between us is his breath or mine.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Saliva pools in my mouth as the bristles of the brush tickle my skin, each stroke slow and seductive, sending a shivering wave of goose bumps erupting along my skin. Minty warm breath hovers so close to my lips I can almost taste it. I swallow hard again.

  “Cold?” That voice. It’s a grinding friction against my erect nipples barely covered by my robe.

  Another swallow. “A little.” I’m not. How can he not see that I’m burning up? His presence always brings a clash of sensations—a chilling sweat.

  His left hand rests on my leg, his thumb touching the bare skin on my inner thigh where my robe has fallen away.

  Oh my God! It’s taking superhuman power to keep my legs from wrapping around his waist. My hands clench my robe, keeping it from falling past my breasts. It’s his breath … the heat between us is his breath, because I cannot remember to breathe.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Huh?” I pant.

  Great! I’ve been reduced to one-syllable noises.

  “My parents were—”

  “Don’t.” I find my voice and open my eyes. His brows knit together. “I don’t want to be your charity case, or your therapy, or whatever this is between us. Gemmie told me that you basically despise women, so don’t torture yourself on my account. I’m sick of disingenuous relationships and—”

  He covers my lips with his finger and shakes his head like I’m wearing a straitjacket and speaking in tongues. “As I was saying…” he lifts the brush back to my eye, forcing me to close both of them “…my parents ended up homeless when I was five. I grew up on the streets. Then one day shortly after my fifteenth birthday, I returned from school and they were gone. Over the next several months I checked all the shelters and churches, but there was no sign of them. Nobody had seen them or knew anything about them. It was as if they just vanished.”

  He blots the corners of my eyes with the edge of a tissue. “Don’t. I don’t want your pity.”

  I open my teary eyes and he continues to dab away the moisture. “It’s not pity. It’s compassion and there is a difference. Okay?”

  His lips tighten into a frown. “You’re just … alright, Darby Carmichael.” A li
p twitch!

  Inside my emotions do flips, cartwheels, and fist pumps in the air.

  He lines my lips while his purse into frustration as I struggle to keep from grinning, actually beaming!

  “I have a vagina, you know?”

  Vibrant white teeth peek through his uncontrolled smirk. “I heard that rumor.”

  “Can you deal with it?”

  He glides the gloss over my lips. “I’ll deal with you, and you can deal with your vagina.”

  I laugh as he lifts me off the vanity counter. Reaching the edge of my bed, I stare at my dress then shrug my shoulders. He’s gay … so screw it! “Will you zip me up?” I ask, dropping my robe to the floor and slipping into my dress with my back to him. “Do you like my body?” I grin.

  He zips my dress with slow ease, just the tips of his fingers grazing my skin near the top of the zipper. “It’s … fine. I haven’t paid it much attention.” His voice breaks on the last word.

  “Touché.” Bending forward, I grab my heels and slip them on. “But it doesn’t do it for you, right?” I turn, but he’s not here. “Trick?”

  “Downstairs,” he calls.

  I make a cautious descent down the stairs in my heels. “You should come with me. Steven is working and I hate to go alone so—”

  “It’s not my thing.” Trick leans his side against the front door, hands in his pockets.

  Grabbing my clutch, I chuckle. “It’s not mine either. On a good night I get called into the hospital, but I’m not on call this weekend so I need another excuse to leave early.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Oh come on, we’ll eat and leave, an hour tops.” I close the space between us. He straightens, looking down at me and maybe even a little … nervous? My chest presses against his; I tilt my chin up and bat my eyelashes. “Pretty please.” Why I torture myself is beyond me, but I can’t stop. Maybe I’m a masochist. Being around Trick and knowing he doesn’t want me the way I want him is masturbation without the release.

  Trick takes a step back and clears his throat. “I’m not dressed for the occasion.”

  “There’s no dress code. It’s at my father’s house.”

  He rubs his fingers across the dark stubble on his chin. “You’re dressed pretty fancy for ‘no dress code.’”

  Slipping off my heels, I race upstairs and change into black skinny jeans, a red Maroon 5 T-shirt, and black boots. “See, no dress code,” I announce, bounding down the stairs.

  Trick looks me over with a smirk and a head shake. “I didn’t take you for the rebel type anymore.”

  I switch out my handbags again. “What can I say? You’re a bad influence. I might even dye my hair black again. Come.” I look back and grin as I lead him to the back door. “I’ll drive.”

  We pull out of the garage. “Where does your father live?”

  “Barrington Hills.”

  “Of course he does.” Trick stares out his window.

  Yes, my father lives on a large sprawling estate in Barrington Hills, but his wife owns it. I live in a single family dwelling in Lincoln Park that my nana bought me. She calls it, and my debt-free college education, a gift from my mother. I live two blocks from her townhome that she downsized to after I left for college. Trick thinks I’m rich … but I’m not.

  However, I could have been.

  “Was it Gemmie?”

  Trick glances sideways at me.

  “Did she mention my plans for the night? I don’t remember telling you, so how’d you know to show up and save me from looking like a peasant?”

  He grins and rubs his palms against his thighs, like it’s a nervous habit. “Yes, she texted me. Called it a 9-1-1 emergency.”

  “Oh jeez!”

  “I texted her back that you didn’t need my help.”

  I give him a quick glance with wrinkled confusion tugging at my brow. “But you came.”

  He shrugs. “I did, but she didn’t need to know that.”

  “So peasant girl did need your help?”

  “No. I just wanted to see you.”

  A grand display of fireworks ignite inside then quickly fizzle from the damp thoughts in my head. Is this what having a gay BFF is? All the compliments women dream of their lover saying, but not in a foreplay way. It’s spooning and cuddling after sex … without the sex. Shit! Is this what I want?

  *

  My new enigmatic friend keeps the conversation focused on me for the forty-five minute drive: my decision to take an ER job instead of joining the Peace Corps like I had originally planned, my love of medicine, my most challenging cases. He doesn’t ask me about my family and that thrills me. For forty-five minutes I’m Darby, physician assistant, compassionate humanitarian, recovered misfit—friend to Patrick Roth. Then we cross the black iron gates to the Hart-Carmichael Estate and I become Darby Carmichael, girl who can’t even imagine what it’s like to grow up homeless on the streets. Trick doesn’t say it, but I feel it and see it in his eyes.

  “Ms. Carmichael.” One of the parking attendants greets me with a warm smile.

  “Good evening.” I return the smile while a jolt of euphoria zips along my skin as he stares a second too long at my outfit. Darby – Rebel Child! It feels good to be back in my old shoes.

  If Trick’s in any sort of awe from his surroundings he’s not letting on. I imagine Grady, salon guru to the stars, has taken Trick to some pretty posh events. Tonight is just a political schmoozing dinner. Trick grabs my hand and leads me to the front door like he owns the place. His sexy confidence has my skin sizzling with heat and my nipples popping out to say hello! The crowd at the front door funnels into single file as every guest is marked off the list and taken through security.

  “I’m sorry, sir, you’re not on the list.” The gentleman with the iPad gives Trick a disapproving look without actually checking the list.

  Trick squeezes my hand and pulls me in front of him, my back against his chest. Then he takes a shotgun and blows my mind. Sliding his arms under mine and resting his hands on my belly, he pulls me closer and kisses my neck! There’s no longer a distinguishable difference between my red shirt and my skin.

  Mr. iPad nearly chokes on his own tongue with a who-the-hell-is-this-tattooed-guy-kissing-the-senator’s-daughter look. He clears his throat—of his tongue. “Ms. Carmichael, I’m sorry I didn’t see you.” A nervous smile pulls at his lips. “Please …” He gestures for us to go inside.

  I slip past security with ease, but they hold Trick back.

  “No need. He’s with me.”

  Trick frowns at the security guards; the security guards frown at me, but let him through. My heart jackhammers in my chest and my neck still feels the heat of his lips. Why did he do that? Now I know what those lips feel like. I know the way his thick stubble elicits a prickling chill of goose bumps along my skin. And now I can feel his lips everywhere and it wrecks me.

  “Darby Lucille!” I turn just as Trick grabs my hand again, reminding my nipples that they are out to stay for the evening.

  “Nana! What are you doing here?” Trick releases my hand, and I hug Nana dressed to the nines in a green lace embroidered dress—a Rachael Hart original.

  “I decided to come for moral support. But it looks like you brought your own.” She raises her brow at Trick. “You must be the infamous Trick.” She holds out her hand, but not for a handshake.

  To my surprise, Trick doesn’t hesitate. He takes her hand and presses those lips to the back of it. Lucky hand. “Trick this is my nana, Grace McDermot.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Nana blushes and winks at me. God! Could she be any more obvious?

  Trick’s ego has to be ready to burst: guys love him, girls love him, even elderly ladies go weak in their artificial knees in his presence.

  “Where’s Daddy Dearest?”

  Nana’s still batting her eyelashes at Trick. So that’s where I get it.

  “Nana!”

  She frowns and looks at m
e like I’m a four-year-old rudely interrupting the adults. Her gaze falls past my shoulder to the grand split staircase. I turn. My father walks down one side and some ‘bimbo’ walks down the other side. Yeah, like that isn’t obvious!

  “My lovely daughter looks like she’s dressed for a concert in the park. Why is this?” He grits between clenched teeth and a fake smile before kissing me on the cheek.

  “I didn’t want one of your rich donors to mistake me for one of the expensive call girls you’ve invited to the brothel.” I grit back.

  He grabs my wrist and squeezes it so tight tears sting my eyes. “Enough!” He grinds close to my ear. “What has gotten into you?”

  I feel Trick’s hand take mine, forcing my father to release me.

  “Trick, this is my father, Calvin Carmichael.”

  Trick forces an amicable nod, but my father just gives him a quick glare with a disgusted head shake before turning a cold shoulder to go greet his more important guests.

  “Well, shall we?” Nana grins, obviously amused by the power struggle that’s ensued this evening.

  We follow her out back to the large white tent sparkling with elegant illuminating chandeliers, round tables adorned with candles and fancy stemware, and an orchestra playing in the far corner. The socialites mingle in their cliquish groups. It’s my prom all over again.

  “Oh, there’s Cynthia Kane. I’ll catch up to you two later.” Nana grabs a flute of champagne from a server and sashays away.

  Trick grabs two flutes off the tray and hands me one. I eye his.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” He’s not even staring at me, so how does he know what look I’m giving him? “It’s for you when you’re finished with that one. Something tells me you’re going to need it.” Trick continues to survey the crowd and the rest of our surroundings.

  I drink on a rare occasion because I’m usually on call. He’s right. I might need it tonight. “I’m driving.”

  “Not anymore, so drink up.” He smirks at me while I tip the glass letting the bubbly effervescence tickle my tongue.

  We mingle with a handful of people that aren’t embarrassed to be seen with the lowly dressed misfits, mainly Nana and a few of the staff members. A cringe-worthy screech silences the room as my father takes the microphone and thanks everyone for coming, then invites them to be seated for dinner. My seating card is always next to my father’s, but not tonight. Eventually I find mine and Steven’s, which now belongs to Trick, at the very back table—the escort table. I’m certain this was a last minute switch since our arrival, but I don’t react to my father’s shunning.