Filthy: A Bad Boy Romance (24 page)

“What’s up here?” He indicates one of the ovens, which is half-disassembled, and that surge of pride comes crashing down.

“It’s broken.” Why did he have to notice that? Why can’t I just have a nice little moment being happy about my business? “And so is that mixer, and that set-up over there needs to be updated something fierce. Oh, and you’ll notice we have no coffee makers? Yeah.”

“What’s stopping you?” He’s peering closely at the broken oven as if he thinks he can tinker it back into shape.

“Money,” I admit. “Or, rather, lack of same.”

His eyes cut toward me. “Sal’s got money. Have you asked him to help out?”

My stomach twists. The last thing I want to do right now is go into my fucked-up relationship with Sal. “It’s a long story,” I tell him. “Short version—yes. He said no.”

Nick frowns. “That doesn’t seem like a good business move.”

I don’t answer him, because I have no answer for him. He’s not wrong. I know Sal refuses to help because he just doesn’t want me to have any kind of control over anything, even the business I started myself. Never mind I started it with his money.

“Like I said,” I finally offer, “long story.”

He moves closer to me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “You have an excellent product here, Sarah. You need somebody to help you out, put some money into this business.”

“I know that.”

Something’s rolling around in Nick’s head; I can tell by the way his eyes go distant for a few seconds. Then, abruptly, he comes back to himself and looks directly at me. “Sal’s an asshole. And he’s not a good businessman, if this is any indication.”

I can’t answer. He’s trapped me in his gaze, in the grasp of his fingers on my shoulder. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be alone with this man, shouldn’t be letting him touch me. Sal would kill me if he knew. Probably literally.

“Look—” I start, but he breaks me off with his mouth against mine. His fingers tighten on my shoulder, and then his other hand comes up to grasp the other shoulder.

Automatically, I open to him. His tongue presses inside, and I respond with my own, tangling with his as he explores my mouth. My whole body’s melting, and I reach up to grab his arms to hold myself steady. I feel like I could collapse to the floor, my knees weak and wobbly.

And he keeps kissing me. I’ve never been kissed quite like this before. Sal’s always rough, peremptory. Kissing to him is nothing but a quick thing to get out of the way before he heads on toward the main course. Before Sal—well, there’s not much before Sal for me. I was never much of a social butterfly.

So I just respond, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head that tells me this is a horrible, horrible idea. Then Nick draws back and looks down into my face. One hand lifts from my shoulder to cup my face. Before I quite know what he’s doing, he shifts again and lifts me, both hands cupping my buttocks, and sits me on the counter behind me. The first thing I think is that I’ll have flour all over my ass, and wow won’t that be attractive, but then his mouth latches to mine again and I can’t think much about anything at all.

I loop my arms around his neck, pulling him a little closer. I want nothing more than to just get deeper and deeper inside his mouth. Or at least that’s what I think until his hands slide up under my shirt, pushing it half off me, exposing my bra. Then he’s under the bra, too, and one hand has closed around my breast. And then I know I want so much more than just his kisses. I want him on me, over me, inside me.

What the hell is going on here? I suppose somebody would call it chemistry, the way we seem to be setting each other off. They’d probably not be wrong, but there’s one think I know about chemistry, and that’s that sometimes if you do the wrong thing, stuff explodes. And people die.

I draw back a little. “Nick…”

“No, Sarah. Give me just a minute more.”

Fine. I don’t really want to fight him, anyway, except I’m scared not to.
Nobody’s here to see you
, I tell myself.
Nobody will ever know.
That’s enough to quiet the voices in my head, at least for now.

He’s toying with my breast, his thumb plucking at my nipple, and I’m melting under the contact. I want to give myself over to him completely. It’s like we’re stoking a fire where none has been before. Compared to anything I’ve ever felt for anyone else, this is a conflagration.

I can’t fight it anymore. I do what I want to do, which is sliding my hands down the back of his trousers. I go right under the cotton underwear and cup his ass with both hands, dragging him closer and wrapping my thighs around his hips. His glutes tighten under my fingers and he thrusts up against me. I can feel his dick, hard and hot through his clothes, through my clothes. His ass fills my hands just perfectly, and I scratch at his skin with my nails, feeling the tight muscles, the rough hair. It’s so wrong for me to want him like this, but God, I do. I really do.

His mouth draws back from mine, and I let out a small sound of protest. I don’t want this to end. Not ever. His lips tickle against my ear. “I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

“Yes,” I say without thinking, and he chuckles.

“We can’t. Not right here.”

“Why not?” I’ve lost all sense, obviously.

“Well, first of all, its a commercial kitchen. Having sex in here is probably not the most hygienic thing. Second, it’s broad daylight, and there’s a chance somebody might come looking for you.”

By “somebody” I know he means Sal, and all my carefully stoked desire disappears, falling to tatters around me. God, what would Sal do if he walked in here right now and found me damn near fucking Nick? I know damn well what he’d do.

I move back a little, realizing he’s right. “This is a very bad idea.”

“Of course it is.” He takes in my face, almost stroking me with his gaze. Then he reaches up with his free hand—the other one’s still having its way with my nipple, in spite of his protests that we should stop—and runs his thumb over my lips. “Let me take you out somewhere tomorrow. We can go out of the city. Nobody will know.”

My heart leaps, wanting to say yes, but logic takes over. Thank God, because it was sure keeping quiet over the last few minutes. “No. Also a terrible idea. If Sal finds out—”

“He won’t.”

“You can’t guarantee it. And if he does, I’m dead. Or worse.”

His expression sobers. I’ve gotten through to him, at least. I figure he’s finally getting his head around what I’ve been saying, and he’s picturing me lying on the ground covered in bruises, bleeding out of my mouth, limbs broken. Or something equally hideous. He can probably get as imaginative as he wants and not be far from the truth.

“I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

I shake my head. I’d love to believe him, but I know how these things work. “You can’t promise that. You know that.”

“Nothing and nobody is going to get to you if you’re with me.” His voice is low and earnest and damn near persuasive, but I shake my head again.

“No, Nick. This can’t happen. As much as I hate it, I’m Sal’s. Probably always will be, and not a damn thing I can do about it.”

“There’s always something you can do about it.”

“Not this time.” I draw back from him, pulling my shirt back into place. His hand slides away from my breast, and I immediately want it back where it was. “I’m sorry, Nick.”

“So am I.” He leans forward and kisses me again, long, deep, searching. I whimper, reaching up to comb my fingers through his hair. When he’s done, he stands there for what feels like an eternity, just looking at my face, into my eyes.

Finally he steps away. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, fishes out a business card and hands it to me. “Call me if you change your mind.” As I take the card he adds, “Hell, call me if you don’t change your mind. Call me if Sal tries to hurt you. Call me if you’re lonely. Call me if you just want to say hi.”

He leans forward and kisses me again, quick and gentle this time. When he heads back to the front of the store, I slide down off the counter. I hear the door close behind him, and when I make my way back out to the front, he’s gone, and so are the boxes of pastries. He’s left two hundred-dollar bills next to the cash register—about half again what he actually owed.

I pick it up and ring out the order, then pull all the money out to count it for my end-of-day routine.

Time to go back to real life.

#

Back home, Sal’s returned; his car’s in the garage, and there are lights on in the house that were turned off when I left. Everything still smells like spaghetti sauce. Though I’d prefer to avoid him, I head for the kitchen, figuring Sal’s in there eating his dinner. I hope he’s enjoying the extra spices in his sauce.

Sure enough, he’s at the table shoveling down spaghetti like there’s no tomorrow. The dog sits at his feet, watching hopefully, hoping Sal will drop something or pass him a noodle or something. I’d think he developed a taste for the sauce after I gave him that sample, but the truth is that dog will beg for anything. If you’re eating it, he wants to be eating it.

He’s a good dog. He deserves better than Sal. So do I.

“Sarah,” Sal says when I walk into the dining room. “About time you got home. Join me for dinner?”

I hold back the sneer I’d like to show him.
No. You eat your dog-spit-infused spaghetti sauce all on your own. I’ll be fine.
“No, thanks,” I say out loud. “I’m not really hungry.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Probably for the best, anyway.”

I grind my teeth. I know better than to ask him what he means by that. He’ll tell me I’ve been eating too many of my own pastries, or that my muffin-top is getting out of hand. I don’t want to hear it. So I say nothing and watch him take another big forkful of his spaghetti. The dog has started to drool.

“So how was business today?” he finally says. I figure he gave up on waiting for me to rise to his bait about my not eating.

At least I have good news to tell him on that front. “Not bad.” I show him the envelope I’ve brought in with me, and then lay it down on the table next to him. He gives me a brief look in response to the thickness of it, and then opens it.

Sal gives a low whistle. “This is more than you usually take in on a weekday.” He lays the envelope back down. “You get some special orders or something?”

I open my mouth to tell him about Nick buying the pastries for the nursing home, but suddenly I don’t want to share that with Sal. Instead I say, “Some schoolteachers came in. Wanted some bread and pastries and stuff for the teachers’ lounge, and a meeting they were having or something. They bought quite a bit of stuff.”

“Well, good. Maybe I can still squeak a few bucks out of the place before we shut it down.”

Cold crawls along my stomach. “Shut it down?” I thought he’d dropped this angle. Apparently not.

“Of course.” He gives me a level look. “Sarah, you have to understand how business works.” His tone has gone soft and almost cloying, like I’m a five-year-old and he’s explaining to me why I can’t hit my little sister over the head and take her candy. “If there’s no profit, then there’s no business. At some point, I’m going to have to cut my losses. You’re just not selling enough doughnuts or whatever.” He waves it off, as if it’s of no importance at all.

I know I shouldn’t say anything. Arguing with him never gets me anywhere but back up in my bedroom nursing bruises. “It’s my business, not yours.”

His eyes narrow. “Not unless you can pay me back for the little business loan we arranged. You know that. And you’re pretty deep into back payments at the moment.” He swirls more spaghetti around his fork. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter in the long run. When we get married, it’ll be half mine anyway in the eyes of the law.”

“Married—” I start, almost choking on the word, but he’s still talking.

“Even though technically it’s mine already. I paid for it.”

He’s right. Sort of. His money paid for it; my money hasn’t been sufficient yet to pay back the loan. Otherwise I wouldn’t be putting up with him on a daily basis. Otherwise I wouldn’t be living in his house and allowing him free access to my body. He had be over a barrel. Between a rock and a hard place. Whatever cliché you prefer, but none of them quite match the level of anger, hatred, and despair that’s become the everyday normal for my life over the last several months. The backs of my eyes start to burn, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to break down in front of Sal.

“So, we’ll get married,” Sal continues, and my stomach lurches, “and then I’ll take care of the bakery. I’ll figure out some way to turn a profit, even if it means collecting on the insurance money.”

I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Well,” I spit, and I know, again, that I’d be better off if I just kept my big, stupid mouth shut, “I guess you know best.”

I turn on my heel and head upstairs. At least I have my own room—I can lock the door and not have to worry about Sal busting in and demanding sex, or just busting in and hitting me. I flop ungracefully onto the bed and sob, because there’s not one damn thing else I can do.

#

Sal doesn’t bother me that night—thank God—and the next morning he seems pretty even-keeled. Which is a nice change. I go about my business, trying to pretend my business is really mine, trying to believe I can really accomplish something with my life. It’s a nice delusion, I guess.

Things stay quiet for a couple of days, which is a welcome relief. Then, one morning when I’m on my way out the door to go to the bakery, Sal says, “We’ve got dinner tonight. Try to be home a little early so you can be sure to be presentable.”

Great, I think. What the hell has he got going on now? But when I get home, early as requested, he’s all smiles.

“Did you forget it’s your birthday, Sarah? Go get changed—I’ve got a big surprise for you at dinner.”

My brain is just stupid enough to jump a little in anticipation. Maybe he’s actually going to do something nice for me. After all, it’s my birthday. I hadn’t forgotten, of course, but I hadn’t been thinking about it much, either.

I change into a lacy black dress and heels and drape a string of pearls around my neck. I look good. Damn good, if I do say so myself. Sal makes an approving noise as I come down the stairs, and as we head for the car, he actually takes my hand. It’s almost affectionate.