Provocative Professions Collection (35 page)

"Wake up!" I shout at her.

Please let it be her.
I really don't want to have to fire any warning shots.

"What the fuck?" a throaty voice yells back. Make that a very deep,
very
masculine voice, compelling even over Lucy's subsequent snarling blaze out of the room. My jaw drops, heart racing as I grapple for another light switch and watch the covers go flying, exposing the bare upper body of a large, well-built man.

I scurry back, mentally devising my "get to and grab gun mission," but only manage to less-than-tactically trip over something. Whatever it is wraps around my left foot, and before I can stop myself, I'm falling. I tense and squeeze my eyes shut, arms out, braced for the impact that never arrives. Instead, firm, capable hands grip onto my hips and steady me.

"Whoa, easy girl. Never had a chick run away so damn fast before," the owner of said strong hands jokes.

"Let me go!" I swat at his grabby paws, my heart pounding, breathing rampant…but not so much in panic anymore. One stolen peek at his lighthearted slate eyes reveals amusement, arrogant challenge, and an obvious ego—but no danger. Also pretty telling? It's been a good three minutes and he's yet to bust anything over my head, strangle, suffocate, and/or attack me in any way.

"How 'bout trying
thank you
?" He drops his hands and lifts a brow, head cocked to the side.

Brain still sputtering, adrenaline washing away, I roll my eyes and take a needed minute under the convenient excuse of unwrapping the jeans wound around my ankle. All the while, his rich chuckle reverberates behind me. Once I've got my shit somewhat together, the possibility of death no longer pending, I peer back at him, eyes slanted in contempt.

"Who the hell are you?" I throw the jeans, which I assume are his, at his smart-ass face. "You're so not Amelia's type! Which, I'm guessing," I glance about sarcastically, "is why she's not here?"

Everything about him, from his formidable presence to his mischievous aura and the glint in those eyes, reeks of danger and sex. Throw in the black hair, disheveled in that way most men strive for but rarely attain, massive arms, impressive shoulders, and abs cut like a warm knife through butter…damn. My tongue darts out, wetting my lips despite the
specific
mental command I just issued to remain unaffected.

"You 'bout done lookin'? I'll let ya touch, sweet thing, if you bring that fine ass over here." He winks, his long, dark lashes sending out a ripe gust of confidence. "And I'd be more than happy to show you a thing or two about a thing or two while we're at it."

Despite the heat settling across my cheeks, I don't stare a moment longer, conveying a challenge of my own.
This smug asshole just met his match.

"Tempting." I twist my lip and mock-ponder at the ceiling. "Copious rendezvous with possible vagabond in my missing cousin's bed. Hmmm." I tap my chin, then again meet his eyes with my own. "Nah, I'm gonna go with door number two, if you don't mind. Where's Amelia?" I
might
yell the next part, hands perched on cocked hips. "And if you're dating her, I'll
help
her kick your ass for hitting on me!"

That infuriatingly sexy "I'm enjoying this" sound he makes comes out again as he stands, unashamed, a pair of black boxer briefs the only stitch worn…too damn well. He takes the few steps between us and stands directly in front of me, but I don't budge, holding my own.

"Amelia's too sweet for me." The back of his hand strokes down my cheek, but I rob him the satisfaction of any reflex. "I like my women rough around the edges."

Now I react, smacking his hand away with a scoff. "Fascinating, really. Hey," I feign excitement, "know what'd be super
sweet?
Her whereabouts. As in you tell me ten minutes ago!"

His lip curls up into a wicked grin, the effect as devastating as he meant it to be. "I like that mouth of yours. Let me know when you want to do more than just run it." He winks and brushes past me, the heat of his body pressing against mine sparking a flame I struggle to extinguish.

I only steal a couple seconds to compose and remind myself why I'm here before following behind him. Slipping on his jeans in the bathroom, door wide open, our eyes meet in the mirror. "Where's Amelia?" I ask, patience wavering.

"Upstairs in my apartment," he answers, opening the mouthwash. A gurgle and spit later, he walks out past me, not bothering to put on a shirt.

Only entertaining this continuous and uncharacteristic game of follow the leader for my cousin's sake, I again trail behind, absolutely
not
taking another sweep at my lips with the new view of his broad back. Or more specifically, the intricate cross tattoo covering it. "Why are
you here
and
she's there
?"

"'Cause as much as I like them, not real big on listening to her and Shaw fuck." He stops mid-stride and looks back at me over his shoulder. "Which they do, loud and often."

I shake my head, brows pinched. "Who's Shaw?"

He turns to face me fully, hand raking through his hair. "The guy fucking Amelia. Thought I just explained that." He leans down to pet Lucy, who's weaving herself through and against his calves, purring. Some guard cat. Thank God he turned out to be non-homicidal.

"Seriously," I heave, suddenly exasperated. "Er…what's your name?"

"Vaughn Stone." He takes a step forward, offering me his hand. "And you are?"

"Worried about my cousin. Please," I reply, tone resolute as I squeeze his accepted hand then drop it.

The humor flees from his face and he nods. "Alright. Shaw's my roommate, and Amelia's boyfriend. When they get too…
noisy
, I steal her key and come down here to catch some Z's."

"Why don't
they
just stay here?"

His eyes go wide, face animated. "
Right?
I keep asking them that same question and they go on and on about how they will, but they never fucking do." Squinting his eyes, he adds absently, "I think Shaw's trying to drive me out."

"Can't imagine why," I drawl, a tinge of regret hitting me instantly. Where it came from (the regret, of course) is unknown, a place I've never visited.

"Hey, I'm a helluva roommate! I'm not even home most the time."

I smirk, unable to resist. "'Cause of all the other beds you simply must pay a visit?"

His face splits into a broad grin. "You're cute, but no, I drive a truck." He struts away, and my feet force me to follow him into the kitchen where he grabs two beers from the fridge. "So," he offers me one, "what about you, No Name? How do you fill a day?"

I move toward him and take the bottle, twisting off the cap. "It's Paige. And right now, nothing. I'll be job hunting first thing in the morning."

He leans back against the counter, sipping his beer, regarding me thoughtfully over the end of it. "Paige," he murmurs, leaving it to hang in the air a second. "Yup," he says with a quick jerk of his head, "suits you."

"Thank God." I clutch my chest. "Now I can save hundreds on the whole name change debacle."

A mere twitch of his lip, he eyes me up and down. "You from around here?"

"No, just got to town tonight. I was worried about Amelia." My head dips and I pick at the label on my drink. "Also kinda hoping I could use her extra room till I get some money saved." I look up to gauge and defend myself from his judgment, but find none.

Rather, his eyes glisten, smile growing. "Ah, so we could be roomies."

"Not likely," I quip, nose scrunching at the idea. "If Amelia lets me stay, I'll be discussing your sleeping arrangements with her first thing."

He shrugs, all cool and easy like. "I'm sure we can work something out." He throws me a flirty wink. "You can wrinkle that lil' nose all you want, but trust me, you'd rather have me sleeping a room away than listening to
their
hourly soundtrack. The artist formerly known as Amelia is a bit of a squealer. No, scratch that, cancel the
bit
part. Not sure what they're into, but your cousin sounds like a baby pig rolling in shit."

Beer spews everywhere and I beat my own chest to stop the choking. Few people ever truly shock me, even less earning a sincere laugh…Vaughn just did both. "Hot, very hot," I manage to get out in a gravelly, respiration-not-fully-restored struggle. "Don't talk all fancy and romantic on account of me, really."

"Paige," he hums under his breath, lightly hitting me on the back a couple times, "if you live, I think we'll get along just fine."

"Can't wait," I wheeze, setting my bottle on the counter. "Any chance you could go get Amelia for me?"

"Sure." He starts off, then pivots. "What kind of job you'd say you were looking for?"

"I didn't. But anything will work. Just need a paycheck."

He chugs the rest of his, then my, beer and tosses the empties in the trashcan. "You scare easily?"

"What? No!" I crept up on your sleeping ass, didn't I?

"I believe ya." He grins, both hands held up in surrender. "There's a truck stop about twenty miles from here that's been looking for some help. They can't keep girls for shit, other than Ole' Viv,
not
a girl." He chuckles to himself. "Anyway, I could put your name in, but…" his eyes skim down my body and back up, slower and more deliberate than the last time, "workin' with all that, you better be tough enough to keep the dogs away. Some of the truckers can be pretty crude. And the others are deviant fuckin' perverts, plain and simple. You think you can handle that?"

It's me grinning now. "Oh yeah, I can handle men. Plenty of practice."

His brow quirks in curiosity before he can stop it, but he's quick on the recovery. "Alright, well then expect a call from a guy named Joe soon. He'll have you starting next week."

"You sound confident." No way would a job just fall in my lap. Nothing ever comes easy for me.

He blatantly ogles my breasts. "Oh, trust me, you'll get the job. Gonna need your number, though." He widens his stance and crosses his arms, a cocky smirk on his face as he…almost…here they come…
now
meets my gaze.

I tilt my head and pout. "Ah, poor thing. Tell ya what, you get me the job, and I'll help you practice asking for a girl's number without all the hoops. Deal?"

A beaming smile is slow to break out on his face, his gaze locked on mine as though he's searching for something. "Whatever you say, Paige." He blinks twice, then clears his throat and steps away. "I'll go get Amelia. Text me your number. She has mine."

I watch as he grabs a shirt from the sofa and some keys from a small table by the door.

"Thank you, Vaughn," I mutter, throwing in some genuine kindness.
It's in there, it just rarely shows itself.
"It was nice meeting you."

He turns his head and winks. "You too, very. And Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Not everything will bounce off ya. Some things stick." And he's gone.

Chapter 2

Turns out Vaughn doesn't just
talk
a big game, he actually backs it up. Consider me slightly impressed.

After finding a parking spot, I grab my bag and sprint inside, right on time for my third shift at Jake's Break, the infamous Route 393 truck stop.

"Finally!" Harlow, whom I suspect is a
very lost
cheerleader, squeaks out a greeting as I shake off the remnants of the freezing ice storm that made an abrupt appearance halfway into my commute.

I tug off my gloves as she's ringing someone up, at high speed and with a brisk smile, obviously ready to punch out. As soon as the customer walks away, Harlow's attention is back on me.

"I've never been happier to see anyone in my entire freaking life." Her usually vibrant eyes are red and glossy and the natural immaculate state of her hair has been demolished by the rats seeming to have built a nest there.

"Rough day?" I ask, shoving my stuff under the counter.

Harlow snorts, arms crossed. "Joe swore that the day shift was slow, something about the drivers being asleep or whatnot. I don't wanna call the man a liar…" she jerks her head around, scanning for stray ears, then whispers, "but I think he may have lied to me."

I can't help myself; a burst of laughter floods out, loud and hearty. This girl belongs in a truck stop like I belong in a congeniality contest. Against Amelia's protests, I'd accepted the night position, but I already know Harlow's day shift is the busiest.

The new, pesky empathy thing that keeps creeping up on me in flashes chooses now to make a surprise visit. Palm itching at the thought, I reach out and pat her shoulder. Yes, it's awkward and probably too hard, but I'm trying
and
hoping my smile's closer to looking believable than uncomfortable.

"Harlow, maybe this isn't your thing. Have you thought about looking for a different job?"

She shrugs, bending to grab her sweater from under the counter while I start to switch out the register drawers.

"I don't know, I should probably answer Oakley's calls or texts or something." She shakes her head, downcast and miserable.

See
?
Precisely
why I don't "reach out." I suck at it. Now she's worse off than before, eyes are all watery, glossed bottom lip quivering as she waits for my obligatory "Who's Oakley?"

I remove her cash drawer and hand it to her, damn near sprinting in the back to get mine, hoping to look occupied and deter her from further bonding. But the second I walk back out, she starts spilling her personal baggage.

"Oakley's my high school boyfriend. My everything. First crush, first dance, first kiss." She looks away wistfully. "First—"

"Got it," I interrupt, slamming the readied drawer shut. I did my best, but drowning in her issues because I made an effort to be friendly seems an unfair trade. "Lots of firsts. Awesome. Totally see why you'd want to give him a call. So you go do that and I'll—"

"He went away to play ball." She sniffles, eyes on me, sad and begging for something I can't offer.

I don't do the whole "bestie, let's open up and share thing." Still, I'm not all-out cruel, when I can help it, so I give a slight nod for her to continue and she dashes through the open door.