Othello Station (8 page)

“What the hell?” She watches her phone plop onto the white, fluffy towels.

“Garrett. Are you a thing?”

“Are we a thing?”

“Yeah. What’s going on between you two?”

“Didn’t you just hear for yourself?”

“I just want to know if there’s anything there. Am I interfering with anything? Is that why you put the brakes on the other night?” The sound of my voice surprises me almost as much as what I’m asking this girl. Who cares if she’s fucking someone else? Who cares if I’m interfering? Clearly, she doesn’t mind me interfering, because I’m here, in her place. I almost had her in my bed, in my arms, just the other night. Or does she mind? Am I interfering? Maybe she just wants me to get the fuck out of her apartment.

“If that was the reason, I’d just tell you. I have no need to keep secrets from you, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Well, you haven’t exactly been an open book.”

“You haven’t, either. You want me to be?”

I shrug.

“You confuse the hell out of me, you know that?” She sighs and walks over to the bed to plop down.

“Okay, at least now we’re getting somewhere.” I walk over to join her, taking a seat on the edge. “How do I confuse you? I’ve been nothing but straight up with you since we met.”

“That couldn’t be farther from the truth.” She falls back and looks up at the ceiling. I do the same, watching the blades on the fan spin above us, and I briefly entertain the dark, twisted thought of one of the blades flying off and implanting itself in my head. Or chest. Either option would get the job done. At least then I wouldn’t be lying here, trying to navigate the world of girl code and how to fucking speak its language.

“Elaborate, please.”

“Your perception of being
straight up
,” she holds her hands up to air quote, “is kind of skewed.”

“I asked to fuck you. That’s pretty straight up in my book.”

“That’s the only thing you’ve been forward about. You’re guarded. Cold. Closed off. Numb.”

“Please, do keep going. This is doing wonders for my manhood.”

“Something tells me you have no problem with your
manhood
.”

My gaze slides to the side. I want to roll over. Want to touch her. Want to kiss her. Then fuck her, then tuck her against my chest. But I don’t move. My arms remain still at my side, and my eyes return to the ceiling fan. “Sounds like you already have me figured out. What’s there to be confused about, then?”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear what you want. But then you go and start asking about Garrett. You’re not making sense.”

“How am I not making sense?”

“If you just want to fuck me, then you shouldn’t be asking things like that. It doesn’t concern you.”

“So, what you’re saying is, stay the hell out of your business. Fair enough. But while we’re on the subject, I’m not sure any of this is relevant.”

“Huh?”

“We haven’t had sex yet, so…”

Mira’s hands fly to her face. They cover her eyes and she releases another sigh. “It’s getting really late. I need to sleep.”

“What about your chores?”

“They’ll have to wait until I get home tomorrow. I’m going to bed.” She rolls over and lifts the blanket up to snuggle in.

“Just like that?” My head turns toward her. “What about my cab?”

She doesn’t say anything, just reaches back and pulls at my arm, guiding it toward her. She scoots back to lock us in a spooning position. I give in, rolling onto my side and tugging her against me, resting my arm over her waist. My palm presses against her stomach and I breathe her in, pressing my nose into the crook of her neck.

A thousand thoughts flood my mind, like whether or not this is an invitation to stay the night or if it’s simply a hint to shut the fuck up, or both. I wonder about the morning and how awkward it will be, or how long I’ll actually stay at the hotel. I fight to push out the image of Garrett’s hands on Mira and attempt to
squander
the thoughts of what else he’s done to her.

It isn’t until I begin to drift asleep that I think of my wound and the paralyzing panic that’s subsided since returning to Mira’s apartment. I take another deep breath and curl up against her, as close as I can get, welcoming her scent. It’s a healing balm that
lulls
me right to sleep. In minutes, I’m gone, settled on Cloud Mira, where the day’s troubles melt away. They’ll still be there tomorrow, but for right now, I’m fucking golden.

And she’s the sun.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t block out the flapping. It’s a constant noise, a constant motion fanning my face. The sensation should be peaceful. This isn’t an obnoxious flapping. It’s graceful and delicate, like an angel’s wings spreading, just barely brushing my skin. The feathers are light and soft, just as an angel’s should be.

But this isn’t an angel.

It’s a dove. A persistent, white fucking dove. And no matter how stoic and poised this damn bird is, it’s leaving me feeling anything but peaceful. Because I can’t get it to fly the hell away. Its feathers tickle my face and I swat at the bird. Repeatedly. My arms swing up and out in a dramatic, sweeping motion, but they move as if they’re struggling to swim under water. As if weights are holding them down, keeping them from making any progress.

I look up at the dove again, resenting its freedom, its easy ability to just…fly, while I’m down here, stuck trudging through quicksand just to get to where I need to be—away from the dove, of course. I swat at the air and swat some more, until the bird finally disappears, floating off into nothingness. It leaves me in a blank, empty space, somewhere between sleep and reality.

As that reality registers, I realize I like it far better than the land of sleep. A whisper invades the scene, dispelling the flapping of the dove’s wings. It calls my name, the sound so distant, its reach is an ocean away. It gradually turns clearer, closer—right next to me. My eyes crack open, slowly adjusting to the sunlight. Mira’s still curled up against me, her back to my chest, ass to my groin. Her dark hair is swept to the side, over her shoulder, revealing a sliver of her neck. I bring my fingers to the skin, running them lazily over the curve, then down the tip of her shoulder, where her grey sweatshirt hugs the flesh.

She rolls over and runs her warm, soft hands over my lower stomach, stirring my senses—and my dick—from sleep. My eyes drift shut in pleasure. I can’t see her anymore, but my God, can I feel her. She whispers my name again, murmuring against my neck, her voice just as groggy as my sleepy state. I reach up to skim the curve of her jaw, and my throat hums the second I make contact with her skin.

“What, baby?” My voice comes out raspy. “What do you want?” I know what I want. I want her to say it. I want to hear her ask for it. And this time, I want to give it to her—all of it, until she’s falling apart, writhing beneath me.

She doesn’t respond with words, though. Her shyness takes over and she simply nudges my throat with her nose, trailing her lips along my collar bone. My fingers begin to roam, traveling lightly down her shoulder, then along the slope of her waist, to her hip. Her skin flinches where my hand clamps down. I delve carefully but deliberately into her panties, and the moment I touch down, I curse inwardly to keep myself in check. It’s going take every fucking ounce of will power in me to take this slow. And I know she needs slow right now. No. What she really needs is to have it hard and fast. Her body is deprived. But this will set the precedent. Pace matters right now.

She presses her pussy harder against my palm and I can’t wait. I dip down, searching for her mouth. My lips find hers and she lets me in, lets my tongue explore hers. My fingers begin to stroke her, working her toward me, higher and higher. Her back arches and her body lifts, seeking me out, closing any space left between us. A smirk forms on my lips as I kiss her. This is fucking perfect. So, so good.

But I still need her to say it.

I leave her mouth to bend and bite her neck. “You’re so wet, Mira.” My fingers plunge inside of her, gliding over her hot, swollen skin. She moans in approval and a little gasp escapes when I delve deeper. As my eyes open to watch, hers flutter open, too, landing on mine, wide and hazy with lust. “Is this enough?” I pump my fingers once, then twice. She shakes her head, keeping her eyes locked on mine. “Because I have something much better for you.” I withdraw my fingers and reach for her hand, moving it down my torso until it makes contact with my target. I press her gentle hand against the seam of my fly and she grips me, so naturally, like breathing.

Her first words of the morning finally spill from her mouth. “I can’t.”

“Of course, you can.”

She closes her eyes and licks her lips, giving me another squeeze. “I really, really want to. But I’m going to be late for work.” She leers over my shoulder at the alarm clock on the floor and sighs. “I’m already late. I didn’t set the clock.”

“Call in sick.” I get back to work, determined to keep her in this very spot. No fucking way am I letting her out of my grasp now. I change things up, going straight for the kill. I pull her tighter into me and yank down her sweatshirt, exposing her breast. I’m able to take in the sight for about a second flat before I bend and suck, eliciting a sharp gasp from her lips. Her head snaps back against the pillow and she blows out a harsh breath. Her fingers dive into my hair and she grips hard, pushing up against my mouth.

“Grant,” she protests breathily, “oh my God.”

“Do it,” I whisper against her nipple, adding a bite for good measure. “Call out.”

“No way can I call out. I need the money. I need this job.”

“I’ll give you the money. A day’s worth of pay. Whatever you earn—it’s in my pocket. Don’t worry about it.”

“Stop.” She wiggles away from me, her voice more insistent this time. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Throwing money at me. Talking about it as if it’s nothing, no big deal.” She abruptly pulls her sweatshirt up and sits upright, fluffing out her hair. She rolls her shoulders and shakes her head. “It’s a very big deal. Maybe not to everyone, but to me, it is. It’s the only thing holding this roof over my head.”

“Whoa, Mira, slow down.” I sit up with her, touching her knee. I can’t get the visual of her half naked and moaning in my ear out of my head. This girl’s completely immersed me in some kind of black magic. But I fight the fog and try to focus, attempt to hear what she’s saying and respond with coherent sentences. “I’m not saying quit, I’m just saying take a break, that’s all. You work hard. I doubt you’ve called out once since you’ve worked for these people. One day won’t kill you. It might do you some good.” I brush my thumb over her lip and scoot toward her, but once again, she pulls away.

This time she stands up.

“You’re right. I’ve never called out. Not once.” She hurries over to the corner of the room, to a sky blue vintage suitcase that’s propped against the wall. “And I don’t plan on breaking that record, either. It’s the only thing I have, Grant. The only solid thing beneath my feet.” She digs frantically through the suitcase for some clothes, her voice climbing an octave, higher and higher. “This is exactly why I’ve been putting the brakes on this. Because I don’t have the mental space for this.”

“For sex? For some relaxation? Christ, Mira. You’re really not used to being taken care of, are you?” I stand with her, my gaze drilling holes in her back. No doubt, I want this girl’s body. But I want her to fucking look at me, too.

“Excuse me?” She swings around, and when she meets my gaze, her brown eyes spit fire.

“Look,” I hold out my hands and balance out the tone of my voice, speaking calmly and evenly, “I think you’re misunderstanding me again, here. I’m not insulting you or trying to tell you how to live your life. I’m not attacking you. I’m just trying to spend time with you.” The honesty of my own words smack me in the face, and the punch resounds, sending shocks of aftermath straight to my gut. Why am I even here? Why am I standing in this strange girl’s apartment, having this conversation?

Why does this even matter?

Mira’s eyes aren’t the only thing that spit fire. Her words are daggers, her voice fueled with venom. “No. I guess I’m not. I’ve been too busy taking care of myself.” She glares at me for a second more before jumping back into action, tugging off her grey sweatshirt and jeans to slip into some work clothes. I feast my eyes on her bare flesh as she changes, struggling to look away, but I manage, trying like hell to keep my eyes trained on hers. I’m not letting this go that easily, and she needs to see the fucking determination in my eyes.

I only wish I understood its damn source.

“Mira. I want you. I just want to make you feel good. I just want—”

“That’s the problem, Grant. This is all about what you want. You need to back the fuck off.” She zips up her skirt and grabs her heels from the floor, glancing down at my bandaged hand. She waves at it, flustered and without a doubt still turned on, despite this damn argument, and points. “Be in your room at noon. I think I know a way to take care of that without a visit to the doctor’s office.”

“What? What happens at noon?”

“I don’t know for sure yet. Just be there.” She storms off and out of the apartment, slamming the door. I stand there in a wave of confusion, flailing around in her angry wake. What the hell did I just walk into? What triggered that shit storm, and why am I even allowing it to bother me? Whatever issues this chick has with money clearly sends her through the fucking roof.

Note to self: do
not
offer to pay for anything for her ever again.

I groan and snatch up my coat, then start for the door, thinking twice before I do. How am I supposed to lock up for her? Does she leave a spare key somewhere? I step out into the hall and lift up the welcome mat. Nothing there. The kitchen, maybe? I wander over to the little counter and do a quick sweep, lifting up piles of mail and peeking through a basket of odds and ends she has stationed near the stove. Still no sign of any spare keys.

Jogging out into the hall, I hurry downstairs to try and catch her in the street. She’s already at the corner, hopping onto a bus. She ducks inside and it whisks her away, careening down the hill. I give up and jog back up to her apartment to grab my stuff. I can shower and have breakfast back at the hotel. It takes me seconds to scoop up my stuff and head out. I opt to skip the bus. I need the quiet. Need a few minutes to think. No distractions. It takes me no time to hail a cab this time of day.

When I make it to the hotel, Mira’s in the lounge area to the right of the front desk, arranging the furniture. Her eyes are hard and focused, her hands determined. She works diligently to align the chairs just right, so they’re perfectly in tune with the placement of the accent tables. Once she’s done fussing with the chairs, she moves on to the flower arrangement on the center console. Her fingers fly over the tulips, adjusting each stem before repositioning the vase. Her dedication stops me in my tracks. I stand there in the middle of the lobby and stare like an idiot, but this is damn amusing.

I move a little closer, slipping my hands into my pant pockets. Businessmen hustle past me, while Mira’s co-workers check people out and answer phones at the desk. The full buffet breakfast that is included with our room rate is being served in the kitchen area on the other side of the lobby. People congregate there, filling their plates with pancakes, fruit, and sausage, while discussing their plans for the day. A strong coffee aroma permeates the space, alerting me to my need for caffeine.

Like a total creeper, I move to the shadows, stepping around the corner to another sitting area, where a fireplace and television frame the space. Coffee will just have to wait. I get the perfect view of Mira as she executes her mission from this spot. It conceals me just enough, so I can enjoy the show without blatantly spying.

She continues to fiddle with the tulips. She moves the vase again. Once, twice, three times.  Her head tilts to the side and she studies the purple flowers. Her arms cross and she huffs in frustration, mumbling something to herself. She finally gives up and goes back to adjusting the chairs. I thought they were just fine a few seconds ago, but what the fuck do I know? Chicks are weird.

Mira is exceptionally weird.

She moves one of the armchairs a hair to the right, then swivels the end table to match its stance, stepping back to admire her work, an artist weighing the value of her creation.

“Oh! Mira!” A sweet, mousy voice pops from behind her, and a tall, waif of a girl flits toward her from the front desk with a bottle of cleaning solution and a rag. “Can you wipe those tables down? You know how Roberta gets if the glass tops aren’t sparkling.”

“Sure, no problem, Carina!” Mira’s enthusiastic hands reach for the cleaning supplies.

“You’re the best. Thank you so much.”

“Of course. Roberta and Briggita.” She shakes her head playfully and her co-worker laughs as she dashes back to the desk to answer another phone call. “How did we wind up with the most finicky, demanding managers again?”

“Guess we’re just special like that,” the girl giggles. Her voice jumps an octave as she delivers her well-rehearsed spiel to the customer on the other end of the phone line.

“I heard that,” a short, feisty blonde sings as she breezes past Mira through the lobby, “and you can bet I’ll be telling Roberta
alllll
about it later this afternoon.” She winks at Mira with a smart-ass smile and they both exchange a look, then laugh. These girls have way too much fun at work. Whatever happened to bitching and griping? Did that shit go out of style and I missed the memo? Work sucks. Who wants to report to The Man five days a week and punch in at a time clock? Moreover, who enjoys doing it? Who likes to clean and arrange furniture for snooty, picky, grumpy hotel customers? Mira, apparently. That’s who.

Yup. Exceptionally weird.