Roustabout (The Traveling #3) (22 page)

Stupid, honorable fool.

“You know,” I said conversationally, “I’m kind of pissed at you for only telling me this now. I’d have talked to my dad and told him to leave you alone. We could have avoided all of this,” and I gestured at his battered face and damaged arm. “I keep telling you I’m not a delicate princess—I don’t need to be protected. I’m strong. I can take it.”

Tucker’s eyes were warm and his smile bright.

“I know you don’t need protecting, but it doesn’t stop me wanting to.”

I rolled my eyes. “Such a guy.”

He leaned across so his lips were almost brushing my ear.

“I thought you liked that about me.”

“You have your moments,” I conceded.

He grinned and looked around at the luxurious surroundings.

“So, this is what first class feels like.”

I smiled. “It gets better: wait till they bring the snacks.”

A few minutes later, we were in the air and the stewards immediately offered us a glass of champagne each. Tucker’s eyes widened in surprise, but before he could say anything, I ordered him a soda.

“You’re on pain meds,” I said severely. “You shouldn’t mix them with alcohol.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling at me.

“Okay?” I blinked at him in surprise. “You’re not going to argue with me? That’s a first.”

He shrugged his good shoulder, but his cheeks were slightly flushed.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothin’.”

“It must be something—the infamous Tucker charm never takes no for an answer.”

He glanced at me sideways. “I’m not used to having someone look out for me—other than Kes and the guys, and now Aimee, I guess. I’m not going to argue when you try to do something nice for me. Again.”

I was floored by his sudden honesty. All of the men that I’d been out with before would have argued that black was white just to make a point.

“Don’t be mad at your dad,” he went on, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “He’s just looking out for you, sugar. Can’t blame him for that.”

“No one has the right to brutalize another human being,” I said softly. “No one.”

We locked eyes, but the moment was interrupted by the arrival of our food.

Tucker’s eyes widened at the plate of baked salmon, steamed vegetables and potato au gratin. And then he proceeded to inhale it like a starving man.

“Damn! You weren’t wrong about the food!”

I laughed quietly. “It’s even better when you taste it.”

He gave me a sheepish look. “Yeah, sorry.”

I nudged his good shoulder gently and smiled.

For the next seven hours we chatted easily. Tucker had stopped trying to charm me into bed and/or keep me at a distance with his jokes; and I stopped trying so hard to be the kind of woman he might want.

It also helped that we didn’t discuss anything serious, only talking in general terms.

In other words, we relaxed with each other, but beneath that, the pull of attraction still fizzed silently.

Tucker napped for a while after dinner. He looked worn out. He’d even admitted that after the attack, he’d laid wide awake at the hospital until daylight, thinking about everything that had happened. The second night, he’d gone back to the roach-infested motel.

I watched him sleep, his breathing deep and even, and I wondered again if we could have a future based on more than friendship. But the problems of distance remained . . .

He stirred in his seat, and his eyelids fluttered. He started to stretch and then yelped as he moved his shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

He gave me a wry look. “Sure, except for the whole forgetting my-arm-is-in-a-sling wakeup call.”

He struggled to get out of his seat.

“Can I help?” I offered.

He bent down so he could whisper in my ear.

“Well now, seeing as I’m going to take a piss, I’m not sure what you could do . . . unless you’re offering to hold my dick, in which case . . .”

“Yeah, yeah,” I growled. “Don’t open the wrong door while you’re there—you didn’t pack a parachute, and only angels and birds can fly. You, my friend, are feather-free.”

He grinned at me and made his way along the aisle, exchanging a few words with the attractive brunette stewardess. And those few words certainly ruffled my feathers.

By the time he returned to his seat, I’d made my decision.

“I’ve been thinking . . .”

“Uh oh, sounds dangerous,” he said with a smile.

“Funny . . . not. Why don’t you stay at my place tonight? I have to go to work Thursday and Friday, but on the weekend, I’ll drive you up to the cabin.”

He blinked, looking surprised.

“You don’t have to do that, TC. I can take the bus.”

“Tucker, you’re all banged up and you look like shit. Just . . . let me help you. Friends help friends, right?”

He tilted his head to the side. “Friends?”

“Never been friends with a girl before?”

He chuckled quietly. “Not so much. Unless you count Aimee—and she gets violent on my ass if I leave wet towels in the bathroom.” Then his smile gentled. “If you don’t mind having me around, that sounds pretty great.” And as an afterthought, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The light came on to tell us to buckle our seatbelts—time for landing.

I gripped the armrest tightly, my heart beginning to race.

Tucker gave me an enquiring look. “Are you scared of flying, sugar?”

“Nope, not at all. I’m scared of crashing and dying a horrible, flaming death.”

His frown deepened.

“But you didn’t look worried before?”

“I wasn’t, but when it gets toward the end of a flight I feel like my luck is already used up,” I said plaintively.

“Naw, my girl’s too brave for that,” he said, unclamping my fingers from the armrest and holding my hand, stroking my knuckles soothingly.

My stomach lurched, a feeling totally unconnected with traveling at 500 mph.

I gave him a weak smile and tried to ignore the sinking sensation and the buzzing in my ears. Maybe it was the airplane after all—it was hard to tell.

Finally, we landed, and as we left the plane, the stewards all wished Tucker a speedy recovery. If they noticed me, I couldn’t tell.

We had to wait forever to collect our bags and it was a relief when we could climb into a taxi to take us to my loft apartment in Mission Bay.

“Have you been here before?” I asked.

Tucker smiled. “San Francisco? Yeah, although I was in Berkeley rather than this side.”

“Oh really? Did you know someone who went to school there?”

Tucker’s expression was amused, and I waved my hand dismissively.

“Obviously a woman, in which case I don’t want to know.”

He winked at me then went back to staring out the window.

My smile slipped. Being friends with Tucker would be hard if I felt the stab of jealousy every time he so much as mentioned another woman.

When we arrived at my apartment, Tucker let out a low whistle.

“Nice crib, TC!”

He gazed around, taking in the large living room and balcony patio, with views over the ocean.

I looked at it from his point of view. Nine months of the year he lived in the RV with three other people, sharing 400 square feet. My apartment was just for me, I had over 1100 square feet, and the rent was $3,600 each month. He’d been right about my father subsidizing my lifestyle.

The sense of privilege washed over me and I felt uncomfortable. Even though I’d always been encouraged to work, the family wealth was inherited.

Tucker coughed. “Uh, TC, you only have one bedroom in your apartment.”

My cheeks flushed.

“Um, so, I didn’t exactly think this through,” I said, staring at him in dismay.

“It’s cool,” he said, giving me a brief smile, “I can sleep on the couch. It’s still a hell of a lot better than sleeping in a Greyhound bus—trust me on that one.”

“You can sleep with me,” I blurted out, my cheeks on fire.

Tucker looked at me carefully.

“You sure about that?”

“We don’t have to have sex,” I said quickly.

Tucker gave me a wry smile.

“Yeah, I really don’t think that’s gonna work for me, TC,” he said, shaking his head. “Having you in the bed next to me, all soft and smelling so good, it’ll be pure torture not to be able to touch you. I’ll take the couch.”

“You can touch me,” I said quietly. “I like it when you touch me.”

Tucker swallowed, and I watched as his gaze tracked down my body.

“I thought we were going to give this friendship thing a try?”

I sighed. “Yes, sorry. You’re right. It was a bad idea.”

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear him even though I pretended that I hadn’t.

I sighed remembering all the reasons why sleeping with Tucker again was a bad idea:
manwhore, distance, absentee father, my brother’s best friend.
Repeat ten times.

The mantra echoed in my head. Nope, it wasn’t working.

He was honorable, kind, sweet, funny . . . I still wanted him.

I cleared my throat. “There are some takeout menus in the drawer. Choose something: we’ll order in.”

“Pizza okay?”

“Knock yourself out. I’m going to unpack. The bathroom is through there.”

I dumped my suitcase on the bed and started sorting the contents: laundry basket, drycleaners, back in the closet.

I heard Tucker order the food and then there were several minutes of silence. I wondered what he was doing, but when I looked up, he was leaning against the door watching me.

“Oh my God! You made me jump! Creep much, Tucker?”

“I’m in a woman’s bedroom, it’s like an instinct,” he grinned.

I rolled my eyes. “That makes you sound so appealing.”

He winked at me. “I could use a shower, if that’s cool with you. I won’t mind if you want to creep on me a lil bit . . . or if you want to conserve water.”

“Friends, remember?” I laughed.

“Can’t blame a man for trying.”

I frowned when he left. His flirting was confusing me. Just being around him was hard enough. And it didn’t help that I was flirting back. Hell, I even invited the guy to sleep in my bed—talk about mixed signals.

Belgian chocolates, toast drowning in butter, boxed sets of ‘Sons of Anarchy’—why do we always want what’s bad for us?

I heard the shower running and it made me want to walk inside and watch Tucker getting all hot and wet. No: friends didn’t shower with friends.

To block out the sounds, I plugged in my iPod and blasted out Nate Ruess, but it couldn’t block out the images of my increasingly feverish imagination. I could almost see the water running over his back, his chest, his taut stomach and tight ass, cascading over his hard . . .

I only just managed to hear the door buzzer and had to rush out to the annoyed pizza deliveryman. I was going to tip him double, but the way he looked at my boobs was probably enough of a gratuity.

I snatched the pizzas and stomped back inside, dumping them in the small kitchen.

I heard the shower turn off and a minute later Tucker strolled into my living room wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. His wet hair was slicked back and water was dewing on his chest and arms, lazy drops rolling down the ridges and dips of his abdomen.

But those weren’t the only things that caught my attention: his ribs and back were covered in bruises, fading from purple to yellow.

“Oh, Tucker!” I gasped, my eyes filling with tears.

He looked down at his chest, his expression rueful.

“It looks worse than it feels, sugar,” and he reached into his backpack and pulled out a crumpled shirt to cover up the worst of it.

“I had no idea . . .” I said helplessly.

“I’m fine,” he said, shrugging it off. “I’ve had worse.”

I was having trouble believing him, especially when he put the sling back around his neck and situated his arm with a look of relief.

“I’m so sorry . . . about my father.”

He shrugged. “It’s not your fault, TC.”

“No, but . . . thank you for not reporting him to the police.”

Tucker shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

I felt humbled by his words.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

He smiled briefly, seeming uncomfortable with my gratitude.

“That pizza smells good,” he said, heading for the kitchen.

While we ate, Tucker kept up a steady stream of jokes, mostly aimed at himself, as well as stories about life with the carnival. I knew he was deliberately distracting me, but I let it go. After all, I’d already spoken to my father and doubted it made a shred of difference.

When Tucker finished his pizza, he took a beer out to the balcony and spent several minutes staring into the distance.

I wasn’t used to having someone in my apartment and I kept throwing glances at his unmoving form. It was slightly unnerving.

When I met my friends, we mostly went to bars or clubs. Sharing a takeout meal in my apartment felt almost more intimate than the moment he had me naked beneath him, my body wet and wanting, the second before he pushed inside and made me scream his name.

But maybe takeout pizza was nothing to a practiced player like Tucker who was used to communal living.

Thankfully, he was surprisingly easy to have around, cleaning up after dinner, despite only having one working arm. Aimee had told me he was a slob in his own room, but when you had four adults living in the RV, you had to keep the family areas tidy.

He stretched his good arm over his head then yawned.

“Are you all tuckered out?” I asked drily.

He snorted with amusement. “I haven’t heard that since grade school,” he smiled. “But yeah, I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll call it a night; I just need to ice my shoulder first.”

“Oh, of course!”

I jumped up, annoyed that I’d forgotten he should do that.

“Did you remember to take your pain meds?”

“Yep, sure did. They’re what’s making me sleepy.”

I passed him a bag of ice wrapped in a towel and he eased it onto his shoulder with a sigh, leaning back on the couch, his eyes closed.

“Thanks, Tera.”

I was so used to him calling me ‘TC’, hearing my full name sounded more personal. I wondered if he knew he’d done it.