Dirty For Me (Motor City Royals) (14 page)

It was Zee. A short text.

Tamara stared down at the letters on the screen, a lurching disappointment shifting in her gut. That’s it? That’s all she was going to get? Two short sentences?

Yes, of course, that was true. So why did she feel as if something she’d longed for, was desperate for, was now slipping out of her reach? For a few nights he’d shown her what it meant to be herself, helped her discover the woman she was beneath the Tamara Lennox mask. Now it was over. It was time to let that go.

“No,” she heard herself whisper. “No, I don’t want to.”

“What?” Rose was looking at her, raising an eyebrow. “Did you say something?”

Tamara blinked. Her throat felt tight, a pain digging deep somewhere inside her. It made her angry, so goddamn angry. Angry with Zee and his stupid, dismissive text. At herself and her disappointment. And she knew it was crazy to let this get to her so much, but it was and for some reason, this time, she couldn’t keep it under control.

“Uh no,” she said thickly. “Hey, I’ll be back in a second. Just have to go make a phone call.” Without waiting for a reply, Tamara grabbed her phone and slid off the barstool, making her way through the crowded bar to the entrance and slipping outside.

Finding a quieter place along the sidewalk, she pressed a button and dialed Zee’s number.

It rang for a long time and she was already preparing to leave him a message when suddenly his dark, gritty voice answered. “Tamara.”

The sound of it was like a caress, rough yet at the same time soft. It sent a shiver all the way through her. “So that’s all I get?” she said without preamble, hating the way her voice shook. “One line and a sorry?”

He was silent a moment. “What did you want me to say?”

“A reason might be nice.”

“The reasons don’t matter. What matters is that I can’t see you again and that I’m sorry about it.”

She swallowed, trying to ease the tightness in her throat, in her chest. “Yeah, well, they matter to me. Was it something I said? Something I did?” Another thought occurred to her, making the tightness worse. “Was it because of what I told you about my brother?”

“No.” The word was flat and unequivocal, a statement of fact. “You didn’t do a goddamn thing. But things have changed.”

“What things?”

“We had sex, pretty girl, that’s all it was. I don’t owe you any fucking explanations so don’t go and start making this hard. It’s over. Go back to your boyfriend. Have a good life.”

Yes, that’s exactly what she should be doing. So why did that suddenly now sound like the worst fate in the world?

She tried to get rid of the tightness in her throat. Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps she’d had too much. Because that was the only reason she could think of for why she was having this strange, emotional reaction to what was essentially only the end of . . . well, precisely nothing.

“Sure,” she said tightly. “I will. You too.”

Then she hit the end button before any of the desperation that was starting to rise up inside her could get out.

People moved around her, walking past in groups, talking and laughing. And she knew she should go back inside, have another drink, talk with Rose, and forget a man called Zee even existed.

But she didn’t. She stood there for what seemed a long time, staring at the cracked pavement under her feet, feeling the walls of her movie-set life begin to close in again. The lines of her script becoming heavier, more solid.

That’s all she was, wasn’t it? An actor moving through a role she’d never wanted. Soon enough, she’d forget she was even supposed to be acting. Soon it wouldn’t only be a role she played, it would become part of her and the other parts of herself, the ones she’d found with Zee, would be lost forever.

The burn of terror at the back of her throat. The echo of a gunshot in a quiet room. The sound of a body falling onto the floor.

Tamara lifted her shaking hands, pressed them against her eyes.

This was good for her, this was the best thing and yet . . . She couldn’t deny it. She wanted more. Even one last night. Just one to say good-bye properly. Then she could draw a line under it, put it well and truly behind her without this aching sense of . . . loss, almost.

The thought stuck in her head and even though she tried to drown it by going back into the bar and finishing her wine with Rose, it wouldn’t go away.

She couldn’t face going back to the office and finishing off the work she still had to do, so she went back to her apartment. But after ten minutes of staring at the beautifully whitewashed walls, she knew that was a mistake too.

She didn’t want all the prissy little details of her apartment, all the color coordination and neatness. The carefully chosen white decor that was supposed to be so clean and calming. She didn’t want clean. She didn’t want calm. She wanted wildness and chaos and grit. Dirty, rough reality. She wanted Zee, his hands and his mouth and his cock.

Just one more time.

She’d made her decision before she was even conscious of it, finding herself in the bedroom and going through her racks of clothes. Looking at all the cocktail dresses and gowns and suits. But she didn’t want those, not this time. She was going to be something else tonight.

Ditching her work clothes, she finally pulled on a pair of old jeans instead and, in an act of defiance her mother would have a fit about, she ditched the bra, too, tugging on a tight-fitting black tank without it. Then she grabbed her purse.

Okay, so Zee had said no, that things had changed, but if she came to him personally, like she had the week before, then maybe he’d change his mind about that, too. She wasn’t asking for much, only one more night and that would be it. Then she could finally get Zee out of her system, put the past behind her, move forward into the future without all this stupid restlessness and longing. A final fling before she gave herself to her career and to Robert.

Of course there was always the risk Zee would say no, but it would be worth it, wouldn’t it?

She called herself a cab and half an hour later she found herself standing outside Gideon’s garage. This time she didn’t even bother looking around at the cracked sidewalks or the broken-down buildings. Or notice the groups of people hanging around. She just strode right up to the metal door and hammered loudly on it.

There was no response so she hammered again, refusing to believe that there might not actually be anyone inside. The thought of coming all the way here only to have Zee be out was just not happening.

A pair of old guys sitting on upturned milk crates and playing cards on a cardboard box not far off looked up from their game to stare at her, obviously drawn by the noise of her hammering.

“Shop’s closed, girl,” one of them said. “No one’s there.”

Tamara stared at the old man a second, then glanced back at the resolutely shut door of the garage. Her heart began to sink. Dammit. This was definitely not the outcome she wanted. What the hell was she going to do now? Go to Zee’s gym and look there?

“Who’re you lookin’ for?”

She turned back to the old guy. He’d put his cards down and was grinning at her through a mouthful of broken teeth. She probably shouldn’t approach him since she was obviously out of place and by herself, and Zee had made it very clear the last time how at risk she was here.

Yet he didn’t look to be outwardly threatening and she wasn’t getting any weird vibes from him. Besides, she hadn’t come all the way here only to be scared off at the last minute.

“I’m looking for Ezekiel. Do you know where he is?”

The old man gave a wheezy laugh. “Of course you’re lookin’ for him. All the girls do.” And he glanced at his friend, who laughed right along with him.

Tamara ignored them. “Is he at the gym?”

“Nope. He’s off at the fights. Beatin’ up on people.”

A thrill shot down her spine, sending a prickling wash of electricity right through her.

She’d never really considered his fights, though he’d been mesmerizing to watch during the self-defense classes. Yet now that she was here, the thought of seeing him in action was . . . exciting.

Zee stripped down, moving with all that graceful power, dealing out controlled violence on his opponent. What was he like when he fought? What would he be like to watch?

Her mouth went dry as she imagined it. He would be beautiful, she just knew it.

“Where?” she asked.

The old man chuckled. “It’s not boxing, girlie. You don’t pay for a ticket and sit in a seat and eat a hot dog. It’s not that kind of fight.”

She kind of already knew it wouldn’t be. “I’d still like to see it.”

The old guy’s friend muttered something Tamara didn’t catch, making the old man nod his head and mutter something else in return. Then he turned his attention back to her. “I’ll haveta take you, if wanna see it, cos you won’t get in the door by yourself.”

The thrill inside her gathered tighter, making her gut shift uneasily and her palms get damp. This was totally outside her experience and perhaps she should have been a lot more nervous than she was. But this was what she’d come down here for after all. Rough, dirty, hard reality.

She took a few steps over to where the two were sitting. “Okay. I . . . can make it worth your while.” There was cash in her pocket if that’s what they wanted.

But the old guy frowned as if she’d offended him. “Hell, I don’t want your fuckin’ money.”

She could feel herself coloring. Great start. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know. Just messin’ with ya.” The man heaved himself up off the crate. He was holding something dark in his hand. “But you better put this on. Gotta granddaughter your age and flashin’ those titties around at a fight’s a big mistake. Unless you askin’ for trouble, catch my drift?”

Tamara’s blush deepened and she only just stopped herself from folding her arms over her chest. Instead she glanced down at what the man was holding out. A black hoodie.

Oh God, was he seriously wanting her to put that on?

Judging from the look on his face, he really did.

Gingerly Tamara took it from him. She couldn’t see much in the dark of the street, but she was rather surprised when she pulled it down over her head to find that it smelled like laundry liquid.

Her surprise obviously showed on her face, because he gave another chuckle. “My wife just did the laundry. Your lucky day, huh? Come on, we’re already late.”

Three blocks and ten minutes later, Tamara looked dubiously up at the abandoned building in front of her and wondered if coming down here really had been a good idea after all.

The windows were all boarded up and there was graffiti spray-painted over the crumbling brick of the walls. A very dark, dank-looking alley ran off to one side, the entrance almost blocked by several overflowing Dumpsters. Trash littered the deserted sidewalk, the flickering neon from the sex shop across the street washing everything in a lurid red glow.

The old man—who’d declined to give her his name—was busy talking to the huge, muscle-bound guy who was guarding the door to the building. After a minute or two he turned and beckoned to Tamara.

For the first time, doubt curled inside her, along with a good, healthy dose of fear. But she shook off both sensations. She’d come too far now to let a little fear stop her.

The guard, or bouncer, or whoever he was, held open the door and jerked his head at her to go in.

“Past the elevators and up the stairs to the top, girlie,” the old man said. “You can drop my hoodie back later.”

Then with a last chuckle, he went back off down the street again, leaving Tamara on her own.

Okay, so now she was here at a shady fight, in a sketchy neighborhood, by herself. This was perhaps more rough reality than she was expecting.

Taking a breath, she went past the bouncer and into the dim hallway, making her way past a bank of decommissioned elevators and out through some more doors that she soon discovered led to the building’s stairwell.

Up the stairs, the old guy had said. Kind of strange to go up, especially when she’d been expecting some dank basement.

Biting down her nervousness, she started up the stairs, sounds beginning to filter down the stairwell the higher she got. The distinctive sound of a crowd, lots of shouting and catcalling and whistling.

The nervous tension curled tighter inside her, along with a sharp, electric thrill, that had her heart pumping and her breath coming faster.

The noise grew louder, echoing down a small corridor right at the top of the stairs.

She hesitated only a moment, then slowly went down it to the door at the end, pushing it open, and was nearly flattened by the roar of the crowd as it crashed over her.

Through the doorway was the broad, flat space of the rooftop itself, and as she stepped out, she was rather surprised to see that there weren’t actually the thousands of people shouting that she’d expected, but only what looked like a couple of hundred.

They were gathered in the center of the space, clustered in a big circle. Most of them were men, but there were a few women in skimpy outfits here and there too.

It made Tamara glad about the hoodie and she pulled it more firmly over her head so her features were concealed.

There was so much leather and chains and piercings and tattoos it looked like a heavy metal convention. People were drinking, beers in hands and cigarettes in mouths as they shouted and gestured to one another.