Only Trick (6 page)

“Have you ever had Moroccan?” He looks down at me as we wait to be seated.

“Not in Chicago.”

“Where have you had it?”

“Morocco.”

He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“What?” I follow him back outside.

Releasing my hand, he keeps walking. “Maybe you should pick the restaurant.” He calls back with exasperation weighting his words.

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“Just … let’s go.”

I fist my hands on my hips, refusing to move until he turns to look at me. “If this is about you gauging my rich-bitch whore status by the stamps in my passport, then you have just confirmed my earlier assessment—you
are
an asshole.”

Trick turns, eyes giving away nothing as they stare intently at me like I’m a code to be deciphered. Then his hardened features soften a fraction. “I’m paying.”

“Damn right you are,” I reply as he brushes past me. I’m not certain, but I think the corners of his lips curl up a millimeter or two.

He looks at me with his million-thoughts-zero-words, completely unreadable expression. “Table for two, something more private please,” he says to the maître d’.

Trick pulls out my chair for me, maybe as a peace offering.

“Trying to be a gentleman?”

A smirk. “I can assure you, I’m no gentleman.”

I knew this, but his confirmation has a biting chill to it.

“Welcome. Can I take your drink order?” our waiter asks.

Trick looks at me.

“I’ll have a glass of Riesling, please.”

“And for you, sir?”

“Water’s fine.”

The waiter nods then moves to the next table.

“I was an addict.”

This feels like a test, so I choose subtlety. With a minute raise of my shoulders, my eyes shift from my menu to him. “I didn’t ask.”

“You wanted to.” He taps the rim of his water glass.

I glance back at my menu. “Alcohol?”

“Everything.”

I meet his gaze again, and he dares me to flinch with his unyielding look.

“How long have you been clean and sober?”

“Nine years.”

The waiter sets down my glass and pours the Riesling. “Shall I give you a few more minutes?”

We both nod.

I take a sip of my wine. “I used to chew my fingernails. My nana tried everything to make me quit—gloves, nasty tasting polish. I think she even considered shock therapy.”

Trick’s whole body visibly relaxes. I grin, relishing in his reaction to my unexpected confession. I’d hate to be predictable.

“How long’s it been since your last chewing?”

I laugh. “I’m not sure. I probably still take a little nibble when I’m watching a scary movie or something like that.”

He reaches across the table and takes my hand, rubbing his thumb over my short, neatly-trimmed nails. I hold my breath that’s so easily lost to his touch, then slip my hand from his when I need to breathe again.

“So how’d you become the ‘it’ man in the world of makeup artistry?”

“My partner dragged me into the business.”

I clear my throat. “Is he a makeup artist too?”

“No, he owns several salons, but when he met me he saw ‘untapped’ talent and decided to open Rogue Seduction.”

“You must be quite the couple. Your business looks like a hole-in-the-wall from the outside, but Gemmie said you cater to the rich and famous.”

He nods. “It’s not supposed to attract anyone, hence the ‘hole-in-the-wall’ appearance. We don’t exactly take walk-ins. The business is all Grady Cross, my partner. He knew everyone who’s anyone before I was old enough to vote. I can’t explain the decor. It’s just … Grady.”

I inwardly smile, thinking of Etta James and my Grandma Carmichael. “An older man, huh?”

Trick raises a single brow and smirks. “Yes, he’s older than I am. Forty-five to be exact.”

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter interrupts.

I order a salmon dish; Trick orders lamb.

I can’t believe Trick’s boyfriend, partner … whatever, is seventeen years older than him. Taking another sip of wine I try to mask my shock.

“So you know I was a junkie and that I live with an
older
man … and that I’m not an asshole, so what’s your story?”

Pursing my lips, I squint one eye. “The asshole part is still up for debate.”

“It’s not—”

“It is.” I insist. “So you and Grady live together?”

“Yes.”

“Where was he last night?”

“LA”

“Oh?”

“He only lives in Chicago a few months out of the year.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Trick takes a sip of his water. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. Long distance relationships don’t usually work.”

He dips his chin into a slow nod. There’s something in his eyes that tells me for every word he does say, there are a thousand caught inside that tell his real story.

I wait to see if he wants to add anything, but he seems mesmerized by the flickering flame of the votive in the middle of our table. “Okay, me … let’s see … I love working in the ER, and I like riding in vehicles with at least four tires.”

Trick laughs and it’s such a beautiful sound. It’s like this frigid wall that’s been between us is beginning to melt one laugh, one smile at a time. “That’s it? All I get are two things that I already knew about you?”

“You know I work in the ER, but you didn’t know that I love it.
And
don’t forget about the nail chewing.”

He shakes his head as the waiter brings us our salads.

“Thank you,” we both say to the waiter.

“What’s your favorite part about working in the ER?”

“The smell.”

He squints, stopping mid bite.

“Yeah, it’s the refreshing mix of alcohol, saliva, and dried blood. Some rooms smell like fresh plastic tubing. The nurses’ station smells like coffee grounds, and the rest is just …”

Trick still hasn’t brought his fork the rest of the way to his mouth. “Don’t stop, now. You haven’t completely ruined my dinner yet.”

I laugh. “Well if you insist. There’s nothing like the smell of a freshly incised abscess, 80-proof vomit—”

“I get it!” Trick’s eyes bug out.

I giggle. He didn’t let me get to the good stuff like the ammonia and fishy odor of lady parts in need of help, or the pungent stool smell from a GI bleed. I’ll save that for dessert.

“So what are you dying to know if it’s not about my disgusting fingernail habit, my favorite mode of transportation, or the aroma of the ER?”

He stabs his lettuce. “I’m dying to know what you would be doing tonight if you weren’t with me.”

I chew my bite then dab my mouth. “That’s easy. I’d be on my back getting a subpar lay.”

Trick chokes on his food to the point where I scoot out of my chair and wonder if I need to do the Heimlich maneuver.

“Are you okay?”

He nods with his hand fisted at his mouth.

I ease back into my chair with apprehension. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says with a hoarse voice before taking a sip of water. He clears his throat. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“Really? What else would my ‘rich-bitch whore ass’ be doing?”

He flinches. I know it’s a low blow since he’s trying to make amends, but I’ve been judged my whole life and I’m tired of the Darby the Doormat role. “I’m sorry. I have trust issues with women and I shouldn’t have said it.”

Keeping my eyes on him, I try to gauge his sincerity. Then my gaze slips to my wine glass and I nod. “I forgive you. I apologize for being so crass with my remark.
I
have trust issues with men, and I’ve never had a real friend so my casual conversation skills aren’t very refined—”

“Wait.” He holds up his finger. “You’ve never had friends?”

“Not really.” I look down at my plate and push my food around.

“How is that possible?”

“My
stellar
personality…” I wink “…was disguised by braces, zits, split ends, glasses, hips that developed before my boobs, and a painfully shy, introverted personality … get the picture? Oh, and how could I forget, I vomited down the back of the most popular boy in school who was sitting in front of me at a pep rally my freshman year. That’s the day my name was officially changed from Darby to Barfy.”

Trick’s face morphs into a mixture of pain and humor. “And you chewed your finger nails.”

I laugh and nod. “And that.”

“Wow … that’s just … wow. Well now you’re …” His eyes move from my face to my chest and back up.

“Yes, now I have boobs to balance out my hips. They may not be what wet dreams are made of, but they’re functional and give my bra something to do besides cover my nipples under white shirts. And my face survived puberty without scarring. I had Lasik on my eyes and Gemmie pampers my unruly hair.”

Another blinding smile. “You’re…” Trick slowly shakes his head “…not trying to impress me.”

I cock my head. “Is that a backwards way of saying that I’m unimpressive?”

“To the contrary, I’ve never been so impressed.”

I squint one eye. “It’s was the Barfy part, wasn’t it?”

He chuckles. “Yes, definitely that. And your introverted personality?”

I laugh. “In college I crawled out of my little introverted hole. I’m still not the life of the party.”

Trick’s jaw goes slack.

“I know. How could I not be, right? My profession requires adequate social skills, but I still have trouble feeling comfortable around women. I think it’s from years of never fitting into a clique or group of them.”

Trick raises a single brow.

“I’m not a lesbian or anything—” I try to reel in the words, but it’s too late. I grimace. “I mean … I don’t have a problem with them or gay men or really the homosexual community in general.”

Double brows peaked.

Shit!

Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose, pausing just long enough to think before I speak. “I desperately wanted to fit in and have friends, I just never knew how. Even today I feel awkward with my female coworkers if I sit by them in the cafeteria. Unless it’s about work, they do all the talking and I just sit and nod with a polite smile.”

“Why, what do they talk about?”

I grin. “Men.”

Trick chuckles. “But you have nothing to add?”

“No, I do. I just have yet to muster the courage to add my two cents. It’s like my mind regresses back to high school and the nightmares I used to have. I imagine an awkward silence after I say something and then the whole room erupts into laughter—fingers pointing, eyes rolling, and me sinking into my chair.”

Trick’s lips pull into a bemused smile. “You’re paranoid.”

“I’m shy.”

“You’re scared.”

“Screw you. Men are jerks anyway. What’s the point in talking about them?”

“Well if you’re getting a ‘subpar lay’ then maybe you need to talk about it.”

“Why did you start doing drugs?”

He chuckles, giving me a slight head shake. “Yeah, I think we’re done here.” Standing, he tosses a wad of cash on the table. “Come.”

I guess we’re both done.

He goes through his routine of getting me ready to ride without saying a word. I let him, because I need the physical touch, even if it’s just his hands twisting my hair or grazing my neck as he fastens the jacket on me. Then there’s the really twisted part of me that hopes—
prays—
his hand finds its way to my ass when I get on the back.

It does!

I feel like such a fool … a desperate misfit. I’m not that girl anymore. The need to fit in has faded over time and been replaced with a healthy dose of confidence. But Trick has a way of drawing that repressed vulnerability to the surface. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

T
his is one
fucking huge mistake, but this woman came out of nowhere. I’m fascinated by her. A distraction? Hell yes. A bad decision? Absolutely. Will I do the right thing? Unlikely.

I
expect Trick
to fast track to my place and bid me a permanent farewell. He proved he’s not a total asshole and cleared his conscience while I proved I’m a total freak. I had the upper hand going into the evening, but somewhere along the way I lost it. Most guys would look past the freak part in exchange for a quick lay. So I’m surprised when he pulls into his mammoth garage. I have nothing to offer
him
 … at least that he wants.