Only Trick (8 page)

I should call
Steven and apologize for blowing him off yesterday, but then he’d want to make plans to meet up—hookup. But that’s not what I want to do. For reasons unbeknown to myself at the moment, I want to see Trick again. Maybe it’s too soon, but then again, it’s not like we’re dating so the customary waiting period shouldn’t apply.

I need a reason to stop by, like I just happen to be in his area. Honestly, I’m not in his area unless I have an appointment with Gemmie. That’s it. I should stop by and get some hair products. My nose wrinkles as I glance at the time. Gemmie will be closing up shop in less than an hour.

“Choose it, Darby.” I chastise myself for my expert ability to make hard decisions with ease, yet easy ones debilitate me.

The choice makes itself. I’m in my red beamer heading south before my brain catches up to what my body has already decided. I’m off to see my new friend—my only friend.

“Shoot! Did I forget to put you into my schedule?” Gemmie asks with concern crinkling the corners of her eyes as she mists hairspray over a young blonde’s wavy hair.

“No, I just need some…”
Crap!
I have to sell this lie better if I expect always-skeptical Gemmie to buy it. “…conditioner.”

Gemmie’s not buying it as evidenced by her bullshit squint. I look at the products assembled with perfect precision on the glass shelf by the window.

“Third shelf down on the far right.”

I grab the bottle of conditioner.

“Still coming on Saturday?”

I turn, biting my lips together as I nod.

“I’ll add it to your bill, sweetie.”

“Um … thanks.” I submit to the nervous smile revealing my lie as I head out the door.

Her knowing glare pierces my back; I can feel the icy burn of distrust. No sense in hiding my next move, so I throw my shoulders back and saunter across the street. With each step my heart palpates, heating my skin, while long fingers of anxiety strangle my nerves.

The security chime of the front door to Rogue Seduction announces my arrival to both Trick and the raven-haired skeleton in Prada perched on the stool. He’s still working and maybe I should have thought of that. Not everyone works the same unpredictable ER hours that I do. The woman stares at me with what I read as an unwelcoming gaze. Trick, however, doesn’t so much as flinch in acknowledgement of my arrival. I wait for him to say something, but then again, I’m the one who walked through his door. This is a poorly thought-out plan.

Holding up the bottle of conditioner, I shrug with a slight grin. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought …” Either the floor is sinking or I’m having flashbacks of my youth being the unwelcome new kid at school. Either way, I feel an inch tall. “Sorry, I should have called or—”

“Sit,” Trick says with a clipped voice, keeping his full attention on Ms. High Cheekbones and pouty lips.

The repressed part of my personality, the defiant part, puffs out its chest.
Maybe I don’t want to sit. Maybe I want to stand and wait. Or maybe I don’t want to wait at all.

“Or stand.” Trick glances back over his shoulder. There it is—the twitch of his lips.
Cocky shit!
Never did I imagine thinking a guy could look anything but rebellious in makeup, but for the love of all things skin-tingling, breathtaking, and nipple-hardening sexy … Trick in black guyliner makes me crave friction in my girly parts like nothing and no one before.

I swallow. “I think I’ll sit, thank you very much.”
Take that!

Trick lines pouty lips with an orangish-red tint that looks surprisingly good on her. Dark eyes hooded in mile-long lashes look me over. I fight the urge to squirm with insecurity, like when the popular kids rolled their eyes over me with scrutiny.

“Beautiful.” I hear a French accent as I look up expecting to see her admiring her reflection. Instead, she’s still staring at me.

“She is,” Trick replies, just inches from her face.

Embarrassment and
shock
careen through my body, obliterating my ability to respond, or think, or … breathe. These two beautiful people are talking about me … they’re calling
me
beautiful. It’s … crazy!

Interlacing my fingers, I stare down at my hands while I twiddle my thumbs just like Nana does. I bet my mom did it too.

“You’re a god,” French accent gushes as she stands, leaning into the mirror.

I sneak a peek but look back down as she walks toward the register.

“I’ll see you onsite next week, darling,”

Through the corner of my eye I see Trick nod as he takes the wad of bills from the perfectly manicured hand. She flutters her fingers in a dainty wave upon her exit. I return a shy smile.

Trick straightens up his work area as I ease my way over and climb up on the stool.

“She’s pretty.”

“Thank you,” he replies with a smirk while keeping his eyes cast downward on his busy hands reorganizing everything.

“Don’t be so arrogant. She may think you’re a god, but her beauty is her own. You just enhance it.”

Trick turns and steps closer, as in
really
close. If I try to regain my personal space, I’ll fall off the stool, so I just pray he doesn’t feel my nerves or see my whole body blush with heat. His hand moves and I flinch, but it doesn’t deter his motion. Grabbing a few strands of my hair, he runs it through his fingers, teasing it then releasing it at my breast.

Breathe, breathe, breathe!

“If you would have said
he’s
pretty, then the compliment would belong to
him
. But you said
she’s
pretty, so the compliment belongs to me.”

“She—he—
that
was a guy?” The incredulity of my voice trips through the air.

Trick shows me his full-on grin filled with pride. “Don or ‘Donna’ does cabaret shows.” He turns and finishes cleaning up.

“I-I mean—wow!”

“Thank you.” He shoots me another smirk.

I roll my eyes. “Stop being so cocky. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh?” He glances up with a raised brow. “Then what suits me?”

With a thoughtful squint, I twist my lips to the side. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“Come.” He shuts off the lights.

“Where are we going?”

“Grocery shopping.”

“Why?” I hop off the stool and follow him out the door.

“I need groceries.”

“Want me to drive?”

“Nope, we’ll walk.” Trick is a good ten steps in front of me.

The guy doesn’t wait for anyone or anything. I jog to catch up.

M
y distractingly sexy
new friend drags me through every aisle, and all the lip-licking glances go unnoticed by him—but not by me. “Women sure do like you.”

Trick inspects each apple before adding them to the cart. “Impossible. They don’t even know me.”

Proving my point, I glare at a lady eye fucking him while her kids cling to the side of her cart like a troop of monkeys. “Let me rephrase, they like your body.”

He pushes the cart toward the checkout, glancing over at me. “Do you like my body?”

I swallow hard, grabbing and thumbing through a magazine as we wait in line. “It’s … fine. I guess. I haven’t paid it much attention.”

“No?”

I suck in my lips and shake my head. Ten minutes later we leave with six paper bags of groceries. He carries two in each hand, and I carry the other two.

“If you don’t feed me when we get back, I’m going to feel used. You really should consider trading in your motorcycle for something more practical.”

The look he gives me misses my jugular by a few millimeters. Warning received. It was a joke, well … sort of.

“If you’re hungry you can drink one of the four bottles of fresh pressed juice you stuck in my cart.” He gives me a quick sideways glance.

“They were on sale.”

He chuckles.

“What? Is something wrong with saving a buck?”

He stops, turns, and bends down so we’re at eye level. “
You
didn’t pay for them.”

My face morphs into a slight grimace. “I’ll pay you back.”

He shakes his head, continuing on, once again leaving me scurrying to catch up. “I don’t want your money.”

“I know…” I give him a playful nudge “…that’s why I’m letting you be my friend.”

“Lucky me.” He sets down two bags to open the door.

“Uh … yeah. I’m quite the catch.”

He glances back with a questioning brow.

“I don’t mean in a romantic way …”

His stare intensifies.

“Not that I’m not romantic, just not with you because you’re—”

The one brow raise turns into two. “I’m?”

I sigh. “Ugh! Just … let’s go.” I kick the heel of his boot.

The signature twitch-smirk filled with a million unsaid words makes an appearance. In such a short amount of time, I’ve developed a love-hate relationship with it.

We set the groceries on the counter. “I’m going to shower. Feel free to put things away and start dinner.” Trick walks toward the glass-walled bathroom.
Wring out my panties and mop up my drool.
He shrugs off his shirt revealing a smoking body marked with various tattoos. “You’re staring—
paying attention.
”

“I-I’m … not,” I croak. My skin heats to a nice crimson.

“You are,” he calls back without looking before disappearing around the wall.

“Smug bastard,” I mumble to myself.

“I heard that.”

“Whatever and … don’t flatter yourself.” I start to take the groceries out of the bags, putting things wherever I damn well please. Serves him right for being so bossy. “You’re not my type,” I yell over the sound of the shower water.

“Really? So what’s your type? Straight-laced?”

No, just straight in general!

“Funny,” I yell back.

“So fat clowns?”

I bang the bag of blue corn chips against the counter for the fat clown comment. “Sensitive.”

“So pussies?” he yells.

Oops, I just hate it when the gallon jug of milk accidentally gets set on the vulnerable little carton of eggs.
I smile in evil revenge as yolk oozes onto the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

“Intelligent.”

“Stuffy.” He shuts the water off as I stomp on the package of linguini.

“Sexy.” I grind the word through my teeth, determined to not let him get the best of me.

Too late … holy spontaneous orgasm!

Trick walks out with a gray towel wrapped around his waist, drops of water clinging to his messy hair and rivulets racing down his etched form. “You’re staring again.”

I clear my throat. “I’m not—what the hell?” My voice screeches to a decibel that even I don’t recognize as he drops his towel—revealing his ass. I whip around and squeeze my eyes shut, but his naked body is branded into my brain. I do the only thing I can at this point; I commit it to my deathbed highlight reel.

“Told ya you were staring.”

I lean against the counter gripping the edge with my back to him, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Are you standing on my pasta?”

Opening my eyes, I glance down. “It fell.”

He bends down, thankfully in jeans but still no shirt, and tugs the package of broken linguine out from under my brown-heeled boot. “It fell
under
your boot?” He stands, tossing the package on the counter while giving me a menacing frown.

I shrug. “Something like that.”

“I like breakfast for dinner. How about toast and eggs?” He opens the refrigerator door.

“Works for me.” I dig my teeth into my bottom lip.

Trick grunts as he moves the milk off the crushed carton of eggs. Yolk drips on the floor as he brings it to the counter.

I smile in spite of the grinding sound of his teeth and flare of his nostrils. “I’ll cook the eggs.” I take the carton from him as a sort of peace offering. “You good with scrambled?”

Another grunt, actually it might be a growl. “For your information I like them over easy, but your disturbing ‘friendship’ skills would indicate that scrambled is my only option at this point.”

“You were being mean.”

He hands me a skillet after I open every cabinet door except the one with the pots and pans. “I was joking, as in a sense of humor, which I believe was number one on your list of desirable traits.”

I spray the pan and pour approximately four eggs into the skillet while choking back my initial response. What he didn’t hear was a man who is
straight
is my number one desirable trait. “Yeah, you’re a one-man comedy show. I think I’ve seen your teeth um … twice. You’re …
icy
.”

“Icy?” Trick cocks his head while dropping two slices of bread in the toaster. “How so?”

I season the eggs and stir them. “You have a … how shall I say it? It’s a …
fuck-off
vibe thing going.”

He gives me the stink eye. “Well, you sure didn’t get the message.”

“Doesn’t mean you weren’t sending it.” I spoon the eggs onto the plates.

Trick sets two pieces of toast on each plate and slides them to the opposite edge by the barstools. Then he gets out butter, jelly, orange juice, and a jar from the spice cabinet.