Downtown Devil: Book 2 in series (Sins in the City) (29 page)

On his way, Mica snagged a glass of red wine from a passing server, gifted her with a quick smile. Vaughn heard Clare blow out a long breath at his side.

Mica stopped before them, holding up his glass. “Opening night.”

Clare tapped it with her flute. “Thanks for coming. Hell, thanks for hanging on a wall. You’re over there, by the way.” She pointed to where Mica’s portrait was displayed, currently being discussed by a small group of guests. Mica spared a second’s glance, but his interest seemed to be locked tightly on the two of them.
That’s his magic,
Vaughn marveled. The way he could make you feel like the only one in the room, the most fascinating person in the world. His attention was addictive, as Clare had learned the hard way.

“Good crowd,” Mica said.

“I know. I can’t believe it.”

“Remember me when you’re famous,” he said, and sipped his wine.

Clare paused—blushed, if Vaughn wasn’t mistaken—and spoke quietly. Pointedly. “You’re hard to forget.”

Mica’s gaze dropped for half a breath—to her glass or her cleavage or her dress . . . Who could say? He smiled. “That’s nice to hear.” The two hadn’t seen each other since the final three-way. The night Clare had snuck out in the wee hours. Hadn’t spoken since he’d blown her off, the day she’d lost her job. Vaughn always went to her place.

With the sharpest, hottest bolt, Vaughn remembered the sight of their two bodies on his bed. Jealousy and lust mingled, and he needed to see that again. Needed to watch his best friend serve and worship his girlfriend in the darkest ways, all the while knowing he was the one who got her for keeps. Closure would never look half as hot as it might tonight.

“You’re leaving on Sunday?” she asked Mica.

“Yeah. My flight’s at noon.”

“Pittsburgh will be sorry to see you go.”

“It’s a cool town. I’d stay longer, except the soon-to-be rightful owner of my room probably wouldn’t appreciate it.”

Vaughn had found a new renter for the second bedroom, a fellow EMT he expected would be a great fit. The new lease was signed. They both worked odd, clashing hours, so it’d be a nice mix of social time and solitude. He’d be able to have Clare over when Andy worked overnights and have the whole place to themselves. And he was ready for the change; Mica might be his best friend, but their relationship was intense, and living together had been a dynamic, and sometimes exhausting, endeavor.

“Vaughn talked to you,” Clare said carefully to Mica, and panned the vicinity to be sure no one could overhear. “About us all . . . saying good-bye.”

Mica nodded. “Tonight?”

“Now or never, really, if Vaughn’s working all night tomorrow. Did you . . . Do you want that, too? No pressure.”

For once in his life, Mica was direct. “You were upset with me, the way things ended.”

She smiled, looking sheepish. “For a little while, sure. I liked you. You probably knew that. I needed a reality check, and I got one. And no hard feelings. If we . . . If anything did happen tonight, it’d just be sex.” That final word was a whisper.

Another of those wolfish smiles. “You say that like sex isn’t plenty.”

“You know what she means,” Vaughn said, ending his silence.

Mica nodded once. “Just making sure.” He paused, breaking eye contact—a rare gesture for him. When he did reconnect, it was Vaughn’s gaze he met. “I’m not usually one to think too hard about an offer, but what you two have, it matters. I want to be sure I’m not going to fuck it up.”

Vaughn could only blink, taken aback. This was a layer of
sensitivity he’d not thought his friend capable of. He had absolutely zero doubt that Mica would be the other man, if he wanted somebody bad enough—be the one a person cheated with, that was. Ethics weren’t his strong suit. To hear him say those words left Vaughn upended. Luckily, Clare spoke for the both of them.

“We’ve talked a lot about it,” she said quietly, and glanced around again to confirm their privacy. “We’re sure. Just for fun. Think of it as an epic farewell.”

Or maybe an epic “until next time,”
Vaughn couldn’t help but think. Next time Mica was in town, or if Clare and Vaughn stayed together, and she ever wanted to try her hand at climbing, some summer. There had been a time when he’d been so frightened of that conflicted side of their friendship, he’d stayed in a toxic relationship just for the excuse of fidelity. But Clare had changed everything. He knew now, when the sexual side of things with Mica ended, a dark but rich facet of their complex relationship would be severed, and now the thought of that brought some measure of sadness, instead of relief.

“I’ll think about it,” Mica said, and drained his glass.

Clare’s brow furrowed as Vaughn felt his own do the same.

Mica smiled. “Lemme check out the show. What time’s this place close?”

“Nine,” she said.

“I’ll tell you at nine, then.”

You just
have
to make it a game, don’t you?
Vaughn thought, more amused than annoyed. How very Mica. If he couldn’t be the one in pursuit, he’d make you chase him.

And with that, Mica left them, edging his way toward the nearest photograph.

Vaughn caught Clare’s confounded expression and rolled his eyes. “If he can’t be the hunter, he has to be the prey. I’ll work on him.”

She nodded, looking confused, but luckily two of her girlfriends arrived then, making a giddy beeline across the room to assault her with hugs. Vaughn said hello and then excused himself, making his way to the bar, where he ordered two bourbons. He wouldn’t finish his, but goddamn, he needed to taste that just now. He paid and carried both to where Mica stood before Clare’s self-portrait.

“You just hate it when it’s easy, don’t you?” Vaughn asked, keeping his tone hushed and even.

Mica smiled, not looking away from the photo. “What does that mean?”

“You want me to beg?”

“She’s beautiful,” Mica announced, gaze locked on Clare’s printed image.

“I know.”

“If I was capable of staying with somebody, I would have managed it with someone like her.”

“Well, we’re not asking you for that. Just inviting you to join us, one last time.”

Mica turned and spotted the two glasses, accepting the one Vaughn offered. “I remember back when it was her, inviting you,” he said, and took a taste.

Vaughn did the same.
On your behalf,
he corrected in his head, knowing Clare had been Mica’s toy back then, but he held his tongue. “So do I.”

“Funny how things come around.”

Vaughn stepped closer, near enough for their shoulders to brush. He kept his attention on the photo and spoke softly. “I’m not going to see you for another year, probably.”

“Probably not.”

“For once in my life, I’m not going to fight this.” He swallowed and
spoke the truth. “I want to see you with her, one last time. I want the two of us to spoil her rotten.”

Mica, too, kept his eyes glued to the photograph. “I see.”

“And I want to fuck you,” Vaughn said quietly, carefully. “Slow or fast or hard or gentle, whatever you like.” He sensed Mica go still as stone, uncharacteristically shocked. “That’ll always be our secret,” Vaughn went on, “but I’m sick of acting like it’s all on you. You come with us in my car when we leave here, and I’ll show you how mutual it is between you and me. And always has been. I’ll show you and her both.”

“Well.”

“Just say yes.”

“Like you don’t know my answer already.”

And Vaughn didn’t press him. Why bother? Mica was a cagey motherfucker, always had been. Why should tonight be any different?

Clare appeared at Vaughn’s side then, smiling tightly at each of them.

“How’s it going?” Vaughn asked her.

“Good. Winding down. It’s five after nine.”

Vaughn looked to Mica.
Now or never.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he told Clare.

“I’ll grab my bag from the back and say thanks to the owner, and good-bye to some friends.”

Vaughn nodded. A scan of the room showed the party had thinned around them, just a dozen of Clare’s friends still lingering, finishing their drinks. He and Mica watched Clare join them, accept their parting congratulations. It was Mica who finally broke the silence.

“You and her have a good thing going.”

“We do.”

“You sure you want me in the middle of that?”

Vaughn held his friend’s stare. “You really care, don’t you? You actually care what happens after you disappear the next morning.”

Mica nodded, gaze flitting away.

“Well, yes, I am sure. So’s Clare. I’m not gonna beg, but I’ll say it one last time: Come back with us. Come to bed with us.”

And after a long, long pause, a smile spread across Mica’s lips. “Whose bed?”

Vaughn smirked, chest unknotting, hopes first rising, then sinking down deep to heat his belly. “Lady’s choice?”

“Sounds good.”

Vaughn watched Clare hugging her guests good night. His woman. His lover. He looked to his other lover, those dark eyes ever guarded, ever mischievous. And with a smile, he said to his best friend, “Let’s take her home, then.”

Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in Cara McKenna’s Sins in the City series,

MIDTOWN MASTERS

Available in February
2017.

S
uzy eyed the microwave clock as she stepped inside her apartment. Six ten—enough time to shower before her evening gig began.

She toed her sneakers off by the door and dropped her purse on the counter. Her purse, containing a wallet that held a driver’s license issued not to a Suzy or a Susan or a Suzanne but to a Soo-Jin, though she was Suzy to most everyone except for her mom and grandma. Plus a few creepers she’d dated who were a little too enamored of her Asianness for her comfort. “Suzy” fit her—apart from being petite and probably more cute than beautiful, she liked the contrast of such a sugary, quaint name with her thoroughly, shamelessly debauched soul.

Shower accomplished, she blew her hair dry and walked past her bedroom to the one at the end of the short hall, a towel wrapped around her trunk and her cell phone in hand. She checked its clock and texted Meyer.

Where are you? 20 minutes to showtime.

He wouldn’t
not
show, but she hated when he cut things close.

She set the phone on top of the dresser and began rooting through drawers as she considered the occasion. A click from down the hall turned her head. “Meyer?”

A “Yes,” came from the kitchen, where he’d let himself in with his key. “I felt your text. No faith,” he called, his voice growing louder, closer.

“I hate rushing. It throws my game off.”

Meyer strode into the room—she watched him in the reflection of the stately cheval mirror that stood beside the dresser. He was a tall, slender man, and moved with more precision than one might expect. Everything about him was precise. Not stuffy or OCD, just . . . neat. He was the most self-possessed pervert she’d ever met, and she’d met quite a few. Good-looking to boot, with just a few fine lines to give away that he was in his mid-thirties, and a few grays glinting at the temples of his stylish brown hair. Stylish but, again, not fussy. He could’ve been a model in an ad for scotch or cashmere sweaters or investment services. He looked
expensive.

Hell, he
was
expensive, same as Suzy.

“Good day, darling wife?” he asked, coming to stand beside her and check his reflection. Those hazel eyes made a quick and approving scan before moving to her.

“Not bad. I was at Baker Hall this afternoon, helping my old neuro professor with her research,” she said. “You?”

“The usual. Clothed some orphans, bathed some lepers, threw a Frisbee for some three-legged puppies.”

She snorted. “Uh-huh.” It was far more likely her fake husband had spent the day in the park, arguing with octogenarians. “Let me guess—you played chess for ten hours and drank eight espressos and got into a fight with somebody’s great-grandfather over a war that happened a century before you were born.” Meyer had a
doctorate in history, Suzy a master’s in psychology. They were both as underemployed as they were overeducated.

“I prefer to think of it as passionate political discourse,” he replied.

“You’re a waste of a PhD.”

“And your only resemblance to a shrink is that you charge by the hour.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“But let’s not argue, darling. Who are we fucking for tonight? A regular?”

Smiling, she bobbed her eyebrows. “Miss Lindsay.”

Meyer rubbed his forehead in mock despair and groaned, stepping away from the mirror.

“Oh, come on! I like her. She’s sweet.”

He walked to the computer desk that faced the wide bed. “How a person can pay for live pornography and yet remain so aggressively vanilla, I’ll never understand. Where’s my ring?”

Suzy crossed the room to riffle through the top desk drawer, where she found the small polished pine box that held all three—his and her silver wedding bands and the cubic zirconia engagement ring. She handed Meyer his. “I find Lindsay very refreshing.”

“I was hoping for somebody kinky tonight,” he countered, slipping on his ring. “Dust off the old strap-on?”

“Maybe tomorrow, if you’re lucky. But that’s all up to the customer, and tonight Lindsay calls the shots.”

“I’ll endeavor to stay awake,” Meyer said through a sigh. “Please fuck me properly when this is all over.”

She ignored that. “I’ve got a million stories in my head about who she is—Lindsay.”

“Librarian with a gluten allergy,” he guessed, circling the bed, straightening a pillow. “Frozen dinners, twelve cats, no life.”

“You’re mean.”

“Who books for
seven
on a Tuesday evening?”

“She could live in England for all we know—that’s like midnight or something there.”

“Too shy to even let us hear her voice. Probably has a debilitating stutter.”

“So what if she does? Besides, plenty of our viewers do that.” They were fully enabled to do a regular webcam chat, complete with video and audio feeds of their audiences, but they offered other options, too, including text-to-speech. Shy clients liked that. They could type their requests and the computer would read them to Suzy and Meyer. Not as erotic as hearing the orders issued by a panting human on the other end of the Internet, but comfortable clients were repeat clients, and paying customers, besides. They’d agreed to do this for a year, and by the time they were done, Suzy would have made enough to pay off her mother’s mortgage, and Meyer would have made enough to . . . to do whatever he wanted the money for.
Something depraved, no doubt.
Bless him.

“Better get limber,” Meyer said, and commenced stretching his jaw in all directions.

She laughed. “Not a bad idea. The lady certainly likes the way you give head. And you won’t catch me complaining.” Suzy rarely faked orgasms for the camera. She didn’t like to, and never
had
to
when that particular talent of Meyer’s was their audience’s request. And with the mysterious Lindsay, it always was.

Lindsay liked intercourse, too—usually missionary, sometimes doggy, always Meyer doing most of the work.
Every woman’s fantasy,
Suzy thought with a smile, though frankly a waste of her talents. Still, a night camming for Lindsay was always a relaxing one.

Mr. and Mrs. Parks was the name of their venture, and their website. Park was actually Suzy’s real last name, and Meyer had figured that pluralized it sounded adequately expensive, like they were “the sort of people who had a couples membership at a racist country club.”

“Never mind that we fuck for money,” she’d said to that. “And we’re not married and never have been, but if we were, somehow you’d have taken my last name.”

“Details.”

They
had
dated for a time, shortly after they’d met in a coffee shop on the Carnegie Mellon campus, though they fared far better as friends and business partners than they ever had as boyfriend and girlfriend. Suzy liked performing, liked the camera, and Meyer . . . well, Meyer liked everything sexual. Women and men and all designations in between, being on top, being on the bottom, being watched, doing the watching . . . pretty much everything that ended in a screaming orgasm.

They’d started camming about six months into their relationship—not for money, but merely as a stubborn, grasping attempt to stay monogamous in the face of friends’ skepticism that either was capable of it. Suzy had wanted strangers’ eyes; Meyer had wanted variety. They’d both been shocked at how quickly they had earned a large and enthusiastic following, and soon they began receiving requests for private shows. Each could use the extra money, and building the venture had injected some new passion into their lives, both in and out of bed.

Before long it became clear their romantic relationship was fated to dissolve, but the money was so good and the sex was so fun, they’d agreed to stay monogamous for one year and make the most of it. Forgoing condoms helped support the illusion that they really were married, plus, Meyer informed Suzy that telling women you were abstinent basically put them in heat. The Morrissey Effect, he’d called it, pussy in the bank, though Suzy had pointed out that he wasn’t abstinent at all—he had sex with her on camera nearly every night.
Details,
he’d said. Always
details
with Meyer. A bride could abandon her groom at the altar and he’d still proclaim it the best wedding ever, provided there was cake and an open bar.

The groom tried to hang himself in the coatroom,
you’d say.

Details, details.

“What do you think?” Suzy asked him, holding up two fistfuls of matching underwear, black and taupe.

“Can’t you wear some garters or something?” he asked, finger-combing his hair. “Give me something to play with here.”

“Not for Lindsay.” The girl—no, the
woman,
more likely, given how much she spent on these evenings—wasn’t the garter type, Suzy bet. Miss Lindsay liked passionate but traditional sex. She liked her men lustful yet doting, her women seductive but not trussed up like pole dancers.
She wants to watch sex she could imagine being part of,
Suzy hypothesized. Sensual, explicit, but fundamentally
respectful sex,
where the man was gorgeous and gifted and the woman always got hers first. “She’s a classy one, our Lindsay.”

“Dull as an old crayon.”

“Bitch all you want, but at least with her I know it’s not going to be two minutes of deep-throating, then you coming all over my face.”

“That happened
once
,” Meyer said, holding up a single finger. “And the customer is always right. Look on the bright side—same price if they use the entire hour or just the two minutes, and if I recall, you were finishing your thesis that week. We charged five hundred bucks a
minute
that night,
and
you got an extra hour to work on your dissertation.”

“I’m just glad we’ve got regulars and a ten-week waiting list—that’s all I can say.” She stripped off her tee and bra and slipped into the taupe push-up. “Otherwise I’d be getting it up the butt every night.”

“Lucky girl,” Meyer said, fussing with the angle of the camera.

“Hey, it’s fine if I have time to prep, but you’re not exactly the sort of man who can just jump right in.” Meyer was blessed, you might say. Great for business, but a bit rough on a small woman, without ample warm-up. “Nice on occasion but not every night. Which is what it
would be if we were stuck relying on randos. We could rename the website Asian Girl Takes It Up the Ass.”

“That’s half the Internet, Suze. No way the domain is still available.” Meyer grinned at his own joke as he dimmed the lights. “Candles?”

Suzy checked the clock—four minutes to seven. “Shit. Hang on.”

She tugged a gray sweater dress over her head, then jogged to the trunk beside the desk, where she stored their props. She pawed past a tangled strap-on harness and handcuffs and assorted dildos and found the shoe box of candles. She took three and Meyer took three and they lit and arranged them on the matching bedside tables, soft, flickering light setting off the gold accents woven through the quilted comforter.

What a weird room,
Suzy marveled. She and Meyer had already been camming when her roommate had moved out this past winter, and instead of finding a new renter, Suzy had made a trip to IKEA and invested in an expensive-looking bedroom set. She’d done their stage up nicely—way nicer than the rest of the apartment—so now it appeared as though an art-school dropout and a sensuous housewife were cohabitating. The dresser was full of her cam clothes, outfits ranging from young and raunchy to glam-on-a-budget, the closet filled with various dresses and a couple of Meyer’s suits. It was going to feel strange, and a little sad, to disassemble this space when their exhibitionist period came to its inevitable close.

She went back to the dresser to put in earrings. “What do you think you’ll do when our year of professional monogamy’s up, Mey? Date? Or just fuck every guy in Pittsburgh in alphabetical order?”

Meyer snorted. “Dating. You’re so old-fashioned. What would that even look like? ‘Kinky, bisexual, alcoholic, lapsed Jew pervert seeks same,’” he dictated, air bracketing the heading with his fingers. “‘I enjoy walks on the beach, sunsets, pegging, flogging, brunch—’”

“I get it.”

“Single file line, ladies and gents. No shoving, please.”

She rolled her eyes, feeling adequately stupid for having suggested it.

“No one dates anymore,” he said, fussing with the computer. “Especially not me.”

“You and I tried to. And I’d like to again when this is all done with.”

“More power to you, sister. Just don’t bore me with the details.”

“I won’t even know how to dress for a date,” she said, thinking aloud, eyeing Mrs. Parks’s open closet once more. “I’ve gotten so used to costumes. I forget what plain old Suzy even looks like when she’s trying to get into somebody’s pants.”

Tonight they were dressed down, relatively—her in her dress, minimal makeup and jewelry, and Meyer in gray slacks and a snug black sweater over a collared shirt, as if they’d just gotten home from a night at an art gallery or wine bar.
Lindsay would like that,
she thought. Just the sort of date their one-woman audience would want to go on if only she could muster the nerve.

“Time?” she asked Meyer.

“Thirty seconds. And she’s online.”

“Yikes.” Suzy scurried to the end of the bed and sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, hands in her lap, smiling warmly, eager to greet an old friend. Meyer tapped and clicked on the laptop, readying the feed and setting the linked-up camera on the tripod to standby. He punched the volume up, loud enough for them to hear Lindsay’s requests read out by the computer, but hopefully not so loud that the robot voice would put a damper on the sophisticated tone they were after.

Now Meyer, too, hurried to the end of the bed and sat beside Suzy, took her hand, and smiled for the camera. “Ready, Mrs. Parks?”

“Ready, Mr. Parks.”

And when he said, “Record,” the curtain lifted on another night’s command performance.