Spectacular Rascal: A Sexy Flirty Dirty Standalone Romance (7 page)

“They won’t.” I ignore the ache in my balls that gives testimony to how ready I was to do more than kiss Red a few minutes ago.

She clucks her tongue as she shakes her head. “I don’t know. I think we might have already violated that proviso. I’m pretty sure you stole second base, and that level of dirty talk has to count as at least third. Maybe third and a half.”

“Third and a half,” I echo, feigning boredom, not surprised she called me on stealing second.

Of course she did. She might look like a sophisticated princess, but she’s still Red, a fact that makes me happier than it probably should. Red was trouble, and Red all polished, poised, and grown-up is flat-out dangerous.

“Not that I’m complaining.” She holds up her hands in what would be a placating gesture if a shit-eating grin weren’t creeping across her face. “I mean, you clearly made an impression Nico won’t forget, but I don’t want to incur supplemental charges without being aware of it up front. Do you charge extra for the dirty talk and second-base stealing? Is it like per word or per sentence or—”

“Come on, smartass.” I reach for her, fingers closing around her upper arm as I set off down the street.

“Where are we going?” she asks, allowing me to lead her toward the subway.

“To a place where we can talk and I know for damned certain none of Nico’s spies will be able to follow us.”

“Good.” The tension seeps from her arm as her muscles relax. “I was beginning to think there weren’t any more places like that.” She shifts closer, tapping her knuckles lightly against my chest. “So this means you’re helping me. Right, Curve?”

“Aidan,” I correct, deciding the sooner we get back on purely professional ground the better. “Mr. Knight if you’re nasty.”

“Aidan,” she says softly, the sound of my given name on her lips making this feel
more
intimate instead of less, proving my instincts are shit when it comes to this woman. “So you’re helping me? We’re taking care of this together?”

“Yes, we’re taking care of this. Together.” I pause near a halal food stand and turn to face her, hoping the umbrellas shading the area will provide cover from any prying eyes. “But that means no more lies. You tell me the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I need to be prepared for whatever Nico might dish out, and I can’t do that if you’re not honest with me.”

She nods seriously. “The whole truth. I promise. Even though it’s embarrassing. I’ll spill everything as soon as we’re somewhere safe.”

“Good.” I let my fingers trail down her arm to take her hand and give it a squeeze. “And don’t waste time being embarrassed. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”

“Really?” Her head cants to one side. “Even you? Mr. All Honorable, All The Time?”

“You need to make up your mind,” I say, voice low. “Am I honorable? Or am I a sociopath?”

Her lashes sweep down, drawing my attention to her lips, reminding me how fucking good they felt pressed against mine. “I never said you were a sociopath. I said you were two subway stops
away
from being a sociopath. There’s a difference.”

“Give me a break, Cat.”

“Hey, a lot can happen in two subway stops! And even sociopaths can have honor codes,” she insists stubbornly, because she majored in stubborn and minored in being a pain in my ass. “It’s just that their codes don’t necessarily comp to the honor codes of people who are hardwired in a more traditional way.” She rolls her eyes as she waves her free hand breezily through the air. “And who wants to be traditional anyway? Traditional people are boring and predictable and hardly ever have interesting jobs like being a professional spectacular rascal.”

“Seriously, Red. Just take back the shit about me being a sociopath and we can continue about our business.”

“Speaking of business,” she says with a bright smile. “Do you have business cards that say Spectacular Rascal on them? If so, I would love to get one to add to my ‘That Time I was Stalked and Had to Hire a Professional Rascal’ scrapbook I’m working on for my—”

“I’m serious, Catherine.” I squeeze her hand tight enough to let her know I’m not fucking around. “Look at me. Right now.”

She rolls her eyes again before bringing her gaze back to meet mine. “Okay, fine. You’re not a sociopath.”

“Thank you. Now was that so hard?”

“No.” Her lips press into a thoughtful line. “I don’t know why I said that in the first place. It just came out and then I felt like I had to defend it to the death. I’ve always been that way, and it’s only gotten worse after having a job where I basically argue for a living, so…” Her breath rushes out. “So, I’m sorry. You’re not a sociopath. You’re one of the most honorable people I’ve ever met, and I’m incredibly grateful you’re going to take my case.”

“Thank you. Apology accepted.” I study her flushed face, seeing more of the girl I used to know now that she’s relaxed her guard. “And to answer your question, yes, I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Lots of things, and I almost added another one to the list when I said I couldn’t help you.”

“Apology accepted. Thank you.” Her lips curve in a real smile, a warm, sincere, light-up-the-world smile that makes me wish we’d stayed in touch. No one can be more irritating than Red, but no one smiles like her, either.

“Yeah, well,” I say gruffly. “Hopefully you’ll still be thanking me when you get the bill for the extra dirty talk.”

She shrugs. “Whatever. As long as the talk is good, I don’t care if it’s cheap.”

I’m tempted to tell her that this intervention is on the house, but think better of it. This is Bash’s show. Only he can make the call about whether a case should be pro bono, and it’s probably best if we keep money involved. Money will remind me that, for the time being, I am Cat’s employee, not her friend, and certainly not anything more.

But as we hold hands on the steps down into the subway, it doesn’t feel like I’m on the job. It feels like I’m walking back into a wonderful old memory and reconnecting with a girl I never should have left behind.

CHAPTER TEN

Cave Fitness is just a few blocks from my shop and open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, making it perfect for lunch hour lifting or a quick late night workout after I close up.

But even if it were on the far side of Manhattan, the cave would be worth the trip. Its back to basics mentality, combined with a firm commitment to bulking up without chemicals or sketchy supplements, is one that’s hard to find. Add to that a bohemian vibe that welcomes lifters from every walk of life, regardless of sex, gender, color, or creed, and you have a recipe guaranteed to take me to my happy place.

And don’t tell the rest of the hardcore power lifters, but the fact that my gym is right next door to Sweet Vengeance, a bakery specializing in fucked-up sounding cupcakes that are insanely delicious, isn’t something I’m going to complain about—not like the rest of the babies bitching about sugar going to their guts and concealing their cuts. Cuts are all well and good, and I like my gut on the flatter side, but if a post-workout cupcake is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

As Cat and I emerge from the subway, headed for the cave and its spy-unfriendly smoothie lounge, where I’m sure we won’t be disturbed—Cavers welcome all, but no one without a membership, or a member to vouch for them, is getting by Reba at the front desk—I’m tempted to duck into Sweet Vengeance for some sugar therapy first. But thanks to Bash’s slacking behind the scenes and Cat’s less than truthful application, we’re already five steps behind. And with a guy like Nico, I prefer to be ten steps ahead, waiting with something heavy I can use as a weapon if the need arises.

Therefore, I heroically ignore the seductive smells of butter-soaked croissants crisping in the oven, and sugar and flour coming together in mouth-orgasm-inducing combinations, and escort Cat into the cave.

“Heading to the smoothie bar,” I tell Reba, flashing my membership card. “Knight and guest.”

Reba, who resembles a ripped Betty Davis, right down to the smoky eyes and seriously un-fucking-amused pout, gives me a thumbs up, while shooting Red an appraising look. I’ve never brought a woman into the cave before. It’s my refuge from the outside world. I don’t consider dating a stress-inducing activity, but I prefer not to risk running into lovers—current or former—when all I want to do is sweat and unwind.

But Red isn’t my lover, and I doubt she’ll take one look at the cave and want to apply for membership. I appreciate the prison weight room vibe offered by the cinder block walls, concrete floors, and tiny rectangular windows near the ceiling, but most people are looking for something a little more luxurious in a gym.

“I see why you chose this place,” Cat says, raising her voice to be heard over the clattering of weights and the grunts and groans issuing from the bench press section. Her gaze skims the crowd of mostly male lifters, an assessing look in her eyes. “Most of these guys look way scarier than Nico’s thugs.”

“Looks are deceiving in this case. Most of the Cavers are harmless.” I lift a hand to a few familiar faces as we make our way through the weight room to the smoothie and juice bar. “I rarely meet a guy in here who isn’t made of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.”

She laughs. “And old lady face lotion. Can’t forget that.”

“Of course not. That’s the best part.” I wink as I open the door for her, letting her precede me into the Smoothie Dungeon.

Inside, whoever decorated the cave even more fully embraced the prison-chic vibe, complete with bars surrounding the blending professional on duty, painfully bright fluorescent lights, and metal tables bolted to the floor. Red and I place our orders—an extra large Green Monster for me, and a Walnut and Whey Protein Blast for her—and settle in at a table by the wall with a clear view of the door.

Except for the guy manning the blender and two women I’ve seen at the cave before, we’re alone. The blender dude is busy and the women are huddled over their Strawberry Explosions, gossiping in hushed tones about someone from their apartment building. They’re ignoring Red and I completely, and we’ll be the first to see anyone who comes into the bar. We’re in a secure, controlled environment, and there’s no time to waste fucking around. The enemy has been engaged, and we haven’t even started to craft a battle plan. I should dive right in to the gory details.

Instead, I hesitate, a part of me wanting to put off hearing about this man Red used to love before it all went to shit.

Bash may have been sucking at his job since he and Penny split last month—thank God she’s back and things at Magnificent Bastard Consulting will soon return to their anal-retentive state of organization—but his intake form on Cat did contain a few useful pieces of information. Evidently, the feelings between her and Nico weren’t always one-sided. She copped to caring about him and to being “swept up by the intensity” of their relationship.

I remember that was the exact phrase she used, but it’s hard to imagine Cat being swept up by anything.

She isn’t that kind of person. She’s levelheaded and logical, passionate, but a woman who reserves her fire for issues of societal injustice, not interpersonal relationships. In fact, aside from that one night when she seemed as carried away by the chemistry between us as I was, I’ve never seen Red lose control. Get angry, get loud, get feisty—yes. But never lose control.

Even that night in the woods, the lapse in her restraint had been physical, not emotional. She wasn’t in love with me; she’d just wanted to get rid of her virginity with a friend she could trust.

So what happened?

What opened up a practical woman like Cat to the ravages of a dysfunctional kind of love?

“This is kind of weird, isn’t it?” She swirls her straw through her thick shake.

“How so?” I take a deep pull on my drink, approving of the lime to cucumber and kale ratio.

She shrugs, an uncertainty in the gesture that isn’t like the Cat I remember, either. “I mean in some ways we’re old friends, but in other ways we’re strangers. I know what will make you laugh, but until today I didn’t even know your name, let alone anything about your past or what you’ve been up to for the last eleven years.”

“It is kind of strange, I guess. But that’s what makes Dasher clubs so great. You get all the fun of a close group of friends with none of the real life drama.”

“You’re right,” she says, with a wistful smile. “We did have a lot of fun. Maybe I’ll get back into the lifestyle when all of this is over.”

“I run with the Lower Manhattan Dashers. We have a good time.”

She nods, casting her gaze down at her drink. “That’s a little far for me, but I hear the Brooklyn club is good.”

“If you like hipsters in fake retro T-shirts with your alcohol poisoning.”

“And who doesn’t,” she deadpans. “Though I prefer gladiator types in overpriced organic tee shirts.”

I grin. “How could you tell my T-shirt was organic?”

“I’m an Apache scout, remember?” She points two fingers toward her eyes before swiveling them in my direction. “Nothing’s getting past me.” Her smile curdles at the edges. “Except all the things that got past me for the past six months. Like my ex being up to his elbows in dirty money and having mob connections going back five generations.”