The Girl He Needs (6 page)

I bat his hand away. “Keep your mitts to yourself unless you want me to break them. Consider yourself warned.” I’m glad I decided on my heavy Doc Martins, whose sole purpose is to inflect lasting pain when kicking the shit out of someone.

I gesture with the empty pitchers and wait patiently for an order, refusing to engage further. Dumb-dumb continues to leer, his fingers drumming against his leg. Another guy, in what I assume is an attempt to steer the conversation away from me, asks the oaf which draft he thinks they should try. But oaf boy is not so bright.

“How ’bout you let me show you my man skills?” He snakes out his hand, trying to grab my waist, but I quickly side step.

“Are you going to place an order? Because I’m moving on.” I look him square in the eyes. The busboy passes by and I dump the empty pitchers in his bin, freeing my hands.

“Yeah, Rolling Rock, draft,” he says. His lips press into a thin line.

“OK, Sara will have those to you soon and will take your food order then.” I walk one step away and the stupid fuck slaps my ass with a fat hand. He ends the slap with a full-handed cupping of my butt cheek and a squeeze. I swivel on my heel. McRae is glaring and starting to get out of the booth when I catch his eye and wave him off. He hesitates a second before slowly sitting down, his fist clenched at his side.

I plant my hands on the table and lean toward Mr. Grabby. Conversation around us stops. Guys like this lout are the sort of drunk whose creepiness and pervy ways come out the more they drink.

“You think it’s OK to put your hands on me?” I ask. Some people shouldn’t drink. Ever. Yet, I don’t care how much he’s had to drink. Manhandling someone is not OK.

“Honey, you know you wanted it, and you want me to do a whole lot more.” He reaches out, cups my breast between both his hands, and leans toward me, in what I presume is an attempt to place his head in my cleavage. To motorboat.

If I was angry before with the ass cupping, this sends me over the edge. Feeling at the mercy of another person is a button I no longer stomach being pushed. I’ve long since replaced the accustomed
fear with anger and control.

Snatching his hair at the scalp with both my hands, I pull his head up. When he’s looking at me, smirking, I snake my right hand out to grab his left, placing mine over the back of his hand to pull it from my breast. I position my thumb so that I’m pressing his back, resulting in his wrist and thumb being at an awkward angle.

“Stand up,” I say and twist his arm, forcing him to get out of the booth.

“Let go of my hand, you stupid bitch,” he snarls and leans toward me.

Three moves. Ears, head, groin.

“Apologize.” I give him one chance. Three seconds, five max, and this fuck stick will be writhing on the floor.

“I said to let go.” He does a mock lunge toward me and the training I received in Texas kicks in.

In a flash, I drop his hand but grab his ears and twist, bringing his head forward. He cries out in a mixture of surprise and fury, and I use the shock to my advantage as I slam his face into my knee, busting his nose. He calls me a name so vile it’s sheer instinct that drives my foot to connect with his crotch.

All the men in the room groan, reflexively covering their dicks. The jackass is down, on the floor writhing and calling me a stream of names I haven’t ever heard used in mixed company.

I lean forward and whisper, “Want to stick your face in my chest? Perhaps you should ask next time. Touch another woman like that when I’m around and I’ll break your dick.”

When I straighten up my eyes meet McRae’s. He’s half out of his booth ready to be a white knight, my Sir Lancelot, but I ease his duty toward chivalry by squeezing his forearm in silent thanks as I walk by.

Yes, it felt good to take down that clown, but the second after I did it, I was mentally calculating the consequences of my actions. Knowing they could result in a lawsuit for both my employers and myself. I’m well aware that I may just have royally screwed the pooch.

Two things I can’t stop ruminating.

First, how fortunate I was with the bar incident. It was no surprise that the idiot had a prior record for assault, which trumped my actions. So when given the choice, neither of us pressed charges and he walked away with an ice pack on his nose while blubbering and swearing to keep his hands to himself from here on out.

Second, I think I need to return the new cashmere throw I bought. The one I simply had to have even though it was beyond expensive and a luxury I haven’t allowed these last two years and is the exact same color as McRae’s eyes. A lovely shade of freshly sliced avocado and mojito mixed. Every time I look at it, I think of him. I re-experience the zing of pleasure I got when I leaned across him, and I want nothing more than for him to touch me. On all my girly parts. More than once. Until my body is numb from intense satisfaction.

It’s insane how charged the air was between us. The epitome of instant attraction, I suppose. I bury the blanket under the pillows I bought and return to my task. Hoping it’ll provide the distraction I need. Besides, he’d likely show up for sex with schematics and a time limit.

With the Sunday paper spread around me, I sip my coffee and try to ignore my phone. Refreshing my email app will not make one from Will appear. No matter how badly I want one to. We had a good email exchange there for a few days. Mostly me telling him about finding a place in Daytona and getting a job, trying to draw out any tidbit he might give me to indicate where he lives.

Who am I kidding? It was four years of email exchanges before he dropped the Florida hint, so chances are awfully slim I’ll get another clue anytime soon. I’ll be old and gray before I get the chance to reconnect with my brother.

Frustrated with the truth in my thoughts, I push my phone away and peruse the want ads. If I keep thinking like that, it’ll do nothing but bring me down, send me into a wasteland of confusion, anger, and hurt. Instead, I focus on what I can control.

I like my bartending job, but I also like eating and considering tips are what carries my pay and the rent on this apartment is higher than I planned on paying, I’ll be getting a second job. I figure something administrative will help me keep up my computer skills. I spot an ad with bolded letters ADMIN ASSISTANT NEEDED. Like a beacon in the night, it seems this was meant for me. Providing little information other than requiring standard computer and people skills, the ad’s phrase “organizational genius,” a skill I possess in spades, makes me commit the address to memory with a plan to visit first thing tomorrow.

Without giving it further thought, knowing I’d talk myself out of it, I take a chance and email Will to ask if he wants to meet up sometime. I include my new address. One thing I’ve learned, to press him is to shove him away, but I miss my brother desperately. The only way I can live with not ever seeing him again is knowing I tried everything, and I hope the tone of the email is light and non-threatening enough that he doesn’t feel put off. Not that I know what put him off in the first place.

I hit send and toss my phone at the couch. It hurts to know he doesn’t want to see me as much as I do him.

Frustrated, I decide to take Mrs. Cramer up on her offer to use one of her bicycles to explore my new neighborhood and get in some much needed exercise. It’ll help clear my head. The Florida sun, the sea breeze, a day off from the bar, and exercise, it’s the perfect combination. Tomorrow, it’s back to the grind of Internet searching for Will and stopping in about that job.

Under my T-shirt and shorts, I wear my bikini. In the bike’s basket, I pack a bag that includes a paperback, water, sunscreen, a towel, my cell, and granola. The path I’ve plotted makes my trip to the beach a mile, which isn’t much, but today is about relaxing more than making my exercise quota. I start out at a slow pace but that feels like cheating so I step it up. Rising, I pedal fast to a count of thirty before I sit and do another thirty count, rest for fifteen count and start the cycle over.

Palm trees line the landscape to the beach. Of all the places I’ve traveled, this one fills me with a sense of coming home. Maybe it’s the beach lifestyle that I like so much.

I’m standing up, pumping the pedals and counting, when I see the runner coming toward me. I recognize him instantly. McRae. Maybe it’s the way he moves his body, which is solid with his sinewy chest and arms. Or it’s the way my body vibrates when he’s nearby that tips me off. He’s running without a shirt; sweat glistens off his pecs. My mouth goes dry, I lose count, my foot slips, and I sit, pedaling backward while I let out a long, even breath. It’s crazy, but I think my uterus just started pulsing. His shorts fall mid-thigh, and I watch the powerful muscles in his legs contract and relax, all in harmony with my heartbeat.

Ear buds dangle and connect to a band on his upper arm and I can’t stop staring at his form. Just thinking about wrapping myself around him and feeling those arms holding me nearly causes me to crash the bike. When he sees me, he stutters in his stride, pulls the ear buds out by yanking on the cord, and briefly opens his mouth before slamming it shut.

I smile, glad I tied my tank into a knot that rests above my belly button because his eyes wander to my waist and follow the new vines of henna downward. McRae feels it too, this pull, I’m sure of it. Seeing the emotions flash across his face gives me pleasure. Is it as strong for him as it is for me? Is he the positive to my negative? With a flash of clarity, I know what I want. McRae. With muscles hard enough to cut a diamond. I want to experience him unfettered, unchained, with no attachments or obligations. I want it so badly I can barely breathe. For one night, I’d be willing to give his schematics a go.

I’m not overly modest by any stretch of the imagination, not anymore that is. I like sex. I like it a lot. It’s energizing to experience the press of a man’s body against mine, to touch them and learn their shape. When with someone intimately, you learn more about them and see them in ways you never could with an arm’s length between. Like peeking into their soul. I want a glimpse into this guy’s soul. His green eyes, straight nose, and his day-old beard make me want to know him in the biblical way. I’ve never been so fucking attracted to someone in my entire life.

When he’s got a full frontal shot, I stand to pedal once and lean forward to expose my cleavage. It’s a cheap shot, but I’m a girl on a mission now. I cruise the bike slowly past him.

“Hi,” I say as I roll by, coming to stop at the edge of the boardwalk.

“Hey,” he calls from behind me.

I twist, looking at him over my shoulder. He’s stopped running, has turned to face me, and is leaning against a weathered post. One hand rests on his hip, his chest rising and falling with each deep inhalation.

“You live around here?” he asks.

“Yeah, right down that road.” I wave in the direction of Mrs. Cramer’s house. McRae follows my finger, which indicates the area of larger, more stately homes, and looks back, puzzled.

I laugh. “I have an apartment over the garage.”

He pushes off the post before walking toward me, flipping the ear bud cord over his shoulder. “So you’re settling in?”

“For now.” I lower the bike’s kickstand then climb off and meet him half way. “Do you live around here?”

“Yeah, about a mile up the street.” He motions behind me where older, smaller pre-war houses make up the neighborhood.

Wow, knowing he’s close makes my pulse skip excitedly.

“That was pretty bad ass what you did to that guy at the bar.” He leans down and reties his shoe but glances up at me. A car drives by slowly. I never saw or heard it coming until it was upon us. I’m so completely honed in on him.

“You’ve got quick reflexes. Like a Kunoichi.” The admiration in his voice warms me. When he stands, he comes a step closer.

“Ha, I’m hardly a female ninja, but that’s a compliment I’ll take.” I force myself to look at his face and not his chest. The last thing I want to do is openly drool over him.

It’s obvious McRae doesn’t know what to think of me. I’ve seen him watch me, a curious and puzzled look on his face. On the ride to Daytona, I’m pretty sure he was going to kick me out of the truck until he realized I’d saved his ass with the phone call. I get that he’s having a hard time seeing through my exterior, but the quick snapshot of something more he’s had impresses him enough to pique his interest and that pleases me. Usually guys aren’t all that interested in what the inner Josie Woodmere is like. Not that I’d give them a chance to find out.

I don’t give a rat’s ass about the tightly wound types and their haughty opinions but there’s something else about McRae that I like. Maybe it’s the light smattering of chest hair or the way his shoulders are wide but his waist tapers. Or maybe it’s the way he is with his brother or that it bothered him to leave me at a hotel. I lick my lips and look up at him. Without heels, I’m small enough that he could rest his chin on the top of my head comfortably.

I try to stay on topic. “I don’t think I can afford to not have quick reflexes. All women should know a little of what I know.”

“I guess it could come in handy on occasion.” He nods while stretching each arm behind his head. His pecs jump and give in to the long stretch. I meet his gaze and try not to lick my lips.

“Occasionally? Ha, try frequently. It doesn’t matter how a woman dresses or what she’s doing. She could be a target simply by smiling at the wrong person. I work from a premise that I might always be a target, so I’ve prepared myself to know how to handle any situation.”

“You’ve had that happen to you before?”

“Pricks like that are everywhere.” That’s an understatement.

His brows shoot up and I know it’s at my word choice. I’ve seen the type of girl he likes. She’s the type who pretends to not use profanity, but give her a strong drink and a room of her girlfriends and it’s a whole different story.

“You headed to the beach?” he asks, indicating with his head to the water that waits just past the boardwalk.