A French Whipping (4 page)

He had amazing shoulders, Blake decided, her eyes on his back as he helped Chuck tie knots at another table. He’d always liked knots, she knew. She’d been to his apartment, back when he and Roland and Milton were just millionaires, and had been surprised when she’d found out that he’d turned his dining room into a workroom. In addition to several computers he’d built and a few more in states of disrepair, he’d constructed small machines that did God knew what, and he’d tied knots, dozens and dozens of them, and had laid them out on a table. Milton had explained that knots were one of Nick’s things, that he used them when designing security codes.

Blake didn’t know what knots had to do with software code, but she’d accepted the explanation. All three of the men had quirks. Milton couldn’t keep still and was always making things disappear. Nick preferred control and calm and found knots fascinating. And Roland . . . Roland liked secrets. He collected them. She knew he had one of Keenan’s. Something that had infuriated Keenan—who had always been jealous of Roland, of the wealth and privilege that Keenan felt he’d deserved. Yes, she’d come to expect oddness in brilliant people like her friends, even if she didn’t always understand it.

She’d hoped Nick would come to the hospital today, but she deliberately hadn’t let him know that she’d be here. He’d have avoided the place, most likely, just like he did most confrontation. Anything to avoid messy emotional scenes. As he’d said before, he liked his life simple, uncomplicated, and structured.

Well, tough shit. She wasn’t asking him to complicate his life that much—she was just asking for his help getting laid. Surely if he was willing to fuck those insipid twits that he dated, he could fuck her.

“You okay, Miss Blake?”

Emily was staring at her, and Blake realized she was scowling at the picture of the dog in front of her. She shook herself a little to clear her head of thoughts about Nick Cord.

“I’m fine, sweetie,” she said to the girl with the slightly protruding front teeth and the bald head. “I was thinking about something else.”

The girl shrugged and went back to drawing her picture of Joey.

Thirty minutes later, Blake helped the kids get back to their rooms and tidied up the mess they’d made in the entertainment room. She secured the iPads in a small cupboard near the sink and the leftover snacks in a refrigerator in the far corner of the room, while Nick put away the knots and gathered up the drawings the kids had done.

“How are you getting these to the shelter?” he asked, his voice a little gruff.

He’d gathered all the drawings into a pile and put them neatly into a manila file folder. Where had he found a file folder?

“I was just going to take photos of them with my phone and email them at first, then ask to borrow your car to drive over to the shelter tomorrow morning.”

He grunted, which made her smile to herself. He didn’t like it when she “borrowed” his Subaru—mostly because she did it without asking. Boosting vehicles was a skill she’d retained from her days with Keenan—and generally only used to aggravate Nick.

“How are you getting home now?”

Her shift at the Hairy Lemon started at six. It was nearly three. She had plenty of time to catch the bus back toward Faneuil Hall and get to work on time, but she didn’t want to ride the bus . . . and he wanted to
talk
to her.

When she took too long to answer, he muttered, “Ride with me. Like I said, we need to talk.”

You’d think he was being forced to jump in the icy river from his tone, but Blake wasn’t offended. He could be as prickly as he wanted, as long as she got what she wanted in the end.

“All right,” she agreed, managing to sound as if she were doing him a favor. His mouth tightened and she snickered to herself. He was so fun to tease.

She gathered up the last of the supplies into a purple backpack, which he immediately took from her, and followed him out to the parking lot, where he’d parked his Subaru Outback. He was a billionaire and he drove a Subaru. She didn’t know why she found that attractive, exactly, but she did.

The chill March breeze cut through her coat and denim jacket despite the sunshine, and she wished she’d worn her gloves and a thicker jacket. When was this stupid winter going to end? It felt like it had gone on forever.

Nick started the car and opened the back to put the supplies inside. Blake hurried to the passenger door and hopped inside onto the tan leather, immediately pressing the button to turn on the heated seats. Hallelujah. Heated seats were, no shit, one of the best inventions ever.

Nick joined her a few minutes later, showing no signs of the cold even though he was only wearing one of his fisherman’s sweaters, the dark gray making his eyes seem an even deeper blue.

He shut the door and met her gaze.

Blake felt her lips part. God, he was handsome—and her heart, which was already jumpy, began thumping madly in her chest. Why hadn’t she ever noticed how good he smelled? His cologne was familiar, something really expensive that they’d never sold at the perfume counter at Macy’s.

His mouth opened as if he were going to say something, but he stopped, and his chest started rising and falling even more rapidly.

“Why me?”

Blake had the feeling that he hadn’t meant to ask that question. As it was, she wished he’d asked something else, anything else. The reason why had seemed straightforward to her at first. He was her friend, she was attracted to him, and he would never hurt her. But now there was something in his expression that made her hesitate, a hunger that she hadn’t expected.

“You’re my friend.” She swallowed, seeing how quickly his chest was rising and falling.

“Milton is your friend. Roland is your friend.”

Blake didn’t know how to explain. They were her friends, but she couldn’t sleep with them. Nick was different.

She looked away from the perceptive gleam in his eyes. “I’m not attracted to them.”

He went still next to her, as if he’d stopped breathing. She dragged her gaze back to his and raised her chin. “And they aren’t attracted to me.”

It was a risk, calling him on the desire that tightened his body—she hadn’t recognized it until recently, when she’d look over and see a spark of heat in his gaze while she was serving him a drink, how his gaze would stray to her chest when she wore a low-cut blouse, or how he always seemed to know exactly where she was, no matter who else was around. However, the moments never lasted long. He seemed to want to deny any attraction whatsoever.

He didn’t say anything—his mouth had tightened, and he seemed to be deliberately forcing air in and out of his lungs. “I’m attracted to a lot of women.”

She nodded. “I know that. But you’re still attracted to me. I want to be wanted and want someone in return. I want to not be afraid of sex.”

“They hurt you.”

His hands had curled into fists and the corners of his eyes had tightened.

Blake shoved at his shoulder. “Stop it. We’re not talking about them; we’re talking about me. Yes, they hurt me, but I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about wanting to fuck without worrying that I’m falling for another abusive asshole.”

He turned toward her and caught at her hands, keeping her from shoving him again. “You don’t know what I am, Blake. Or what I’m capable of.”

Blake was unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. You’re big and bad and drive a Subaru. You’re Nick. My friend.”

“Blake—”

She leaned forward, curling her hands into his sweater, and dragged him down to her. “Trust me, please. Help me.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and she did what she’d wanted to do for several months—she kissed him, pressing her lips against his fiercely.

He tasted like coffee and the popcorn they’d eaten while helping the kids, but he wasn’t kissing her back. She could sense his ferocious will as he battled his desire for her. She softened her lips, tasting him delicately with the tip of her tongue, dragging it slowly on the sensitive inside of his lower lip.

Using her teeth, she bit down, gently, dragging his lower lip through her teeth. “I . . .” She kissed the underside of his jaw, tugging him farther over the middle console. “Want . . .” She kissed one corner of his mouth. “To . . .” The other corner. “Fuck . . .”

He grabbed the back of her head, burying his hand in the hair beneath her ponytail and using his grip to tilt her head away from him. His eyes were blazing, his nostrils flaring.

“I can’t,” he said fiercely.

He released her and turned in his seat, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. “Put on your seat belt.”

Put on her fucking seat belt. That’s all he was going to say. He was sitting there like a damn statue, every muscle on total lockdown, his erection straining at the crotch of his jeans, and he wanted her to put on her fucking seat belt.
Oh, Nick.
It was so like him.

She closed her eyes, letting the humor of the situation wash over her. With a sigh, she leaned her head back against the headrest and dragged her seat belt across her chest, latching it with one hand.

“You’re too sexy to give up on, you know,” she said quietly. “And I like bothering you. I always have.”

His mouth tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He just started the car.

Blake eyed his profile, wishing she could get inside that head of his. “So, unless you tell me why, I’m going to keep bothering you until you give in.”

“You’re wasting your time,” he muttered tersely.

Blake felt a smile kick up one side of her mouth. Wasting her time. What a concept. She’d wasted so much time in her life. She knew what it meant to waste time, and what she was doing now, going after something she wanted, taking control of her life—that was the opposite of wasting time, especially because she was enjoying herself.

“It’s mine to waste,” she said without looking at him again.

4

EARLY MONDAY MORNING,
before the sun even started thinking about coming up, Nick swiped his access card to get into the gym at Accendo. He, Roland, and Milton had known that the only way they’d get in regular workouts was to make sure that a full gym, including showers and lockers, was on site. All Accendo employees were given access, and even bonuses for working out.

Roland was already there, taping up his hands in preparation to box. His wireless headphones were already in his ears.

Nick nodded at him without saying anything, though they’d both arrived at least an hour earlier than usual. The gym smelled of sweat, tea tree oil, and Windex. In one corner, suspended from the ceiling, a large TV played a twenty-four-hour news channel on mute, captions scrolling at the bottom of the screen.

Nick had worn his gi—the white uniform that he’d worn when he’d first started learning karate—and had brought clothes in a small gym bag. He crossed to the corner of the room, where the walls were padded and thick mats covered a good bit of the floor. He took off his shoes and set them next to the wall along with his gym bag, then he stepped out onto the mat.

Over an hour later, sweat dripped from Nick’s temples as he ran through his forms again, thrusting his hands out as if forcing away an enemy, every muscle taut and fierce. He’d earned his black belt several years earlier, but he practiced harder now than he ever had before, punching and kicking as if his life depended on it.

Across the room, Roland seemed to be exorcising some of his own demons, relentlessly working the heavy bag until his gray sweatshirt showed patches damp with sweat. He was lean, leaner than he had been even a few months earlier, and there were shadows under his eyes. Nick wondered what was so important about the theft of the software that Roland was losing sleep over it.

Closing his eyes, Nick moved back to his starting position and began the long set of defense moves again, visualizing his arms blocking an opponent, his kicks passing through his enemy’s ribs, head, stomach. Sometimes he pictured Keenan Shy, other times Blake’s last boyfriend, Phillip, but even the intense workout wasn’t enough to relieve the tension that had his head aching and his mood foul.

“You planning on telling me what’s eating you?” Roland asked from several feet away. He’d draped a towel around his neck and was drinking a bottle of water.

Nick finished his form and moved back to the starting position. As soon as he finished his bow, Roland tossed him a towel and a bottle of water. Catching both with a casual grace, Nick opened the water and drank deeply.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk about Blake with Roland or not. Roland seemed to think of Blake as a little sister.

“What’s she done now?”

Nick looked at him. “Who?”

“Blake.”

Scowling, Nick roughly dried the sweat off the back of his neck. “What makes you think—”

“Gimme a break, Nick. No one can make you crazy the way she does.”

“Exactly,” Nick muttered darkly. “You know my policy on crazy. I like my life uncomplicated.”

Roland snorted. “So, what’d she do?”

Raising an eyebrow, Nick studied Roland’s face as they left the room and headed toward the elevator. They had executive bathrooms complete with showers that they used. There was such a thing as being too close to one’s employees.

“She didn’t tell you?” Nick thought Blake told Roland everything. Or it least it seemed that way sometimes.

Roland shrugged. “Nothing specific. She’s been seeing a counselor, looking into school. She seemed
affectionate
with you at the bar Friday before last.”

Nick heard the inflection Roland put on the word
affectionate
. “Yeah,” he agreed darkly.

“So what’s the problem?”

“She wants me to sleep with her.”
She wants me to fuck her.
Nick swallowed more water. She’d kissed him like she wanted to eat him alive. “Part of this life makeover.”

Roland remained expressionless, but Nick thought he caught a hint of amusement in the corners of Roland’s eyes.

“Think that’s funny, huh?” Nick clenched his teeth.

Roland shrugged. “I don’t think it’s the end of the world the way you seem to. You’re both adults.”

Sometimes Nick became painfully aware of the gulf between himself and his friend. Roland—though his biological father had been a criminal and a con artist—had been raised in wealth and privilege by his stepfather, a state representative for Massachusetts. Nick had been raised in South Boston by his alcoholic father and a series of substitute mothers, none of whom had ever lasted long.

“Some people aren’t cut out for relationships. I’m one of them,” Nick said simply. He’d said it many times before and in the past Roland, unlike Milton, had always agreed with him.

“Is that what she said she wanted? A relationship?”

She hadn’t. She’d said she just wanted to have sex without worrying that she was getting involved with another violent, controlling jerk. She didn’t realize that what she asked was impossible for him.

“Not exactly.”

Roland eyed him, his ascetic face thoughtful. “You’re worried because of how you feel about her.”

Nick felt his eyes widen. He’d never talked about it—never said a fucking word—but Roland noticed everything.

The truth was that Nick wasn’t sure how he felt about Blake—she was equal parts friend and fantasy, someone to protect and fear. She was complicated and messy and dangerous to him, to the calm that he’d learned to embrace. When he was around her, he felt off balance, out of control, and damn near crazy with the need to touch her, hold her, possess her.

“I like my life the way it is,” he muttered.

“Me, too, man,” Roland agreed, “but change isn’t always a bad thing. Look at Milton.”

Milton loved Regina, Nick knew that, but Milton had always been the most likely of the three of them to make a relationship work. He had the biggest heart.

“Think he’ll marry her?” Nick asked, mostly to change the subject.

Roland snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already asked.”

The two of them shook their heads in mutual affection for their friend—giant fool that he was.

Blake knew that Nick would probably avoid her for a little while, but when Roland walked through the door of the Hairy Lemon alone on Thursday evening, she fought not to show her disappointment. Roland met her eyes and shrugged, his eyes expressing sympathy. Blake gave him a rueful smile in return and made her way back to the bar to order him his usual scotch.

One of the other waitresses, Cindy, a fiery Italian from Chicago, caught her eye as Blake approached the serving station.

“Who’s the hottie?”

Blake glanced back to where Roland had taken a seat at a corner table, his tablet in hand. Roland was handsome, of course, but Blake wouldn’t ever have called him a hottie. It was too casual, too graceless a word for Roland. Nick—with his friendly good looks and shorter stature—was more of the hottie type.

Nick. Damn, she couldn’t get that kiss out of her head. “A friend,” Blake replied casually. It might be wrong of her, but she wanted better for her friends than a slutty waitress out to snag herself a sugar daddy. Not that Roland wasn’t perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He liked women—rather more than liked—but none of them ever really seemed to scratch the surface of who he was deep down.

“I know he’s your friend. And I know you’re not sleeping with him, so what gives?”

Shrugging, Blake picked up Roland’s scotch and some beers for a couple at a two-top. “His name’s Roland. You want a shot with him, go talk to him. I’m not his secretary.”

“I’d be his secretary,” Cindy purred, eyeing him.

Blake rolled her eyes. “’Kay. Well, good luck.” She walked away without waiting for a response. She dropped off the beers and cleared away a basket of fish and chips before making her way over to Roland’s table.

“Hey,” she said with a sigh, taking a seat next to him as she set down his scotch. He closed the cover on his tablet and set it near his elbow.

“Hey, yourself. You look tired.” He took a long sip of his drink, eyeing her.

“Pot. Kettle.” She waved a hand to indicate his dark-circled eyes. “What’s up with you lately?”

Blake really didn’t expect him to answer, but to her surprise he hesitated, his hand going to his wrist to grip his watch as he did when something was really bothering him. She was probably the only one who knew about that little quirk. Well, except for Keenan; he’d been the one to point it out to her.

“Blake, have you seen Keenan lately?”

She drew in a sharp breath and sat up straight.
Think of the devil
 . . . “Keenan, no. Why would I?”

Roland leaned back a little and finished off his drink. “Because he’s here in Boston.”

Blake felt small needles prick the back of her neck and she shuddered involuntarily. “Why? Do you know why?”

He shook his head. “I think he has something to do with our systems getting hacked, but I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he’s here now.”

His gaze was level with hers, his mouth a flat line. Blake swallowed. Once upon a time, she’d stolen something from Roland, Milton, and Nick, a design for an app, a game based on mazes and knots. She’d stolen it for Keenan, because he’d required her to take it. The boys believed she’d done it to avoid another beating, but the truth was, she’d done it to keep Keenan from hurting them. She knew he was more than capable of hurting—even killing—anyone he thought was standing in his way, including Roland, though they were cousins.

“He hasn’t spoken to me. I promise, Roland.” She also hadn’t received a letter this year. Usually she received them on the anniversary of the day he’d nearly killed her—Valentine’s Day. She’d hoped—stupidly, she saw now—that he’d given up tormenting her.

Roland nodded. “I didn’t think so, but you need to be careful, okay, sweetheart? He may not have been around for ten years, but you know he doesn’t forget.”

Or forgive,
Blake finished silently. And that pretty much summed up Keenan. He wasn’t upset because she’d filed charges against him for nearly strangling her to death; he was upset because he’d considered her his property, and Keenan never liked to lose anything that belonged to him.

Blake adjusted the scarf she was wearing around her neck, making sure it was there, covering the scars that were a permanent reminder of that night. She couldn’t have forgotten it even if she’d tried. The incident was the crux on which her life had turned, the moment when she’d defied Keenan Shy and nearly paid with her life. She still had nightmares about it, though not recently, and would wake gasping for air and crying.

It had been a cold winter that year as well, and Nick, Milton, and Roland had created a software game and had just gotten an offer from one of the major game makers to purchase it. Quite an accomplishment, considering they were still in school. They’d been celebrating at the bar where she worked, and Keenan had been there, buying them drinks and patting them on the back for their success.

Once the three young men were thoroughly drunk, Keenan had pulled her to the side and said, very softly, “You’ve seen them working on that game, right?”

At the time, Blake had been surprised by the question. He knew that she hung out at their apartment sometimes. They’d been showing her how to use computers, trying to convince her to go back to school.

“Yes,” she’d replied, confused.

“Good,” he’d said quietly. “There’s a backup drive in your purse.”

“What?” Blake had frowned, confused.

Keenan, his face filled with a look of concern, had put a hand on her side and squeezed cruelly, pressing on the dark bruise that he’d given her earlier in the week.

“Remember what I did to Michael?”

Michael was a kid from the neighborhood. He’d gotten drunk and tried to kiss her. In retaliation, Keenan had framed the kid. He’d been arrested for robbing a convenience store a month ago and still hadn’t made bail.

Licking her lips, she’d said, “Yes.”

His eyes had flickered to where Nick and Milton and Roland were toasting. “I can do much worse.”