Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (18 page)

His stomach pitched at the possibility. Not from anxiety, but from the sheer absence of it.

The mere mention of commitment should be enough for him to send Hope packing, but for some goddamn reason, he didn’t want to see her leave. Each Coleson seemed to know exactly how to get to him and here he was, Ash asking him to play for both sides. There was no way he was playing the part of spy, though. If Hope wanted her brother to know what was happening in her life, she could damn well tell him herself. It felt wrong to betray her trust in such a way, even though he owed her zilch. It wasn’t like they were in a relationship. In fact, his loyalty should lie squarely with Ash given their history, and if anything, he should feel like pond scum for lying to the man. The fact that he didn’t proved more to Beck than anything. She was worming her way into his life, finding the tiny crevices in his blackened heart and embedding herself there.

He closed his eyes and counted to ten, wondering when the hell his uncomplicated life had gotten so fucking complicated. And while Beck could hardly believe it himself, he realized there was only one thing on earth he craved more than that unopened bottle of Crown Royal.

And that was Hope fucking Coleson.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

She was dying to know what was up there. At the top of the wood staircase leading to his lair. The suspense was nearly killing her. Conjuring up all sorts of weird and wicked things, from an eighties style waterbed with fake silk sheets and a mirrored headboard, to the sexually intriguing handcuffs, nipple clamps, and floggers. Well, maybe the nipple clamp part wasn’t so intriguing. Or the flogger part, either, now that she thought about it. But, the idea of him restraining her to his bed and doing all sorts of naughty things sounded interesting. Enough to make her insides somersault and her skin flush with heat.

Dear God, she hoped there wasn’t a waterbed up there.

Her stomach growled as she sat on the bottom stair, listening to Bridget gossip in her ear, wondering why she was spending her lazy day off from the club talking about work.

“So this new girl, I guess her name is Renee, is a real frigid bitch,” Bridget said, her bubbly voice unmistakable, even when complaining. “Marcia put her on days and she’s making a huge ruckus with Bubba about it. Wants to be on nights with us. I told her that she can’t just come in here with her little bitty titties and expect to get the prime shifts. Customers want to see more than two mosquito bites on a skinny white girl who’s six feet tall and has no personality.”

“That’s no way to make friends, Bridge,” Hope replied, laughing.

“She’s mean to me, Hope, so I don’t want to be her friend. And,” she whispered, in a genuinely scandalized voice, “I think she used to be a sex worker in Russia.”

Hope snorted. “What? How’s she mean to—”

“She made fun of my hair,” Bridget exclaimed, before Hope could finish her question. “She asked me if I used Clairol or Clorox!” The woman went silent, apparently waiting for Hope to gasp in utter outrage. When all she could muster was a stifled laugh, Bridget gasped loudly enough for the both of them. “I pay a highly trained colorist three hundred bucks a month for this perfect shade of blonde! How dare her, Hope! She’s just a jealous bitch with a bad pixie cut. She’s asking about you, too, which reminds me, we need to practice our choreography for Saturday night a few more times. We’ve got the routine nailed, but when there’s chairs and dry humping involved, things can go wrong.”

“She’s asking about me?” Hope’s brow furrowed, glossing over Bridget’s reminder about their burlesque show taking place on the club’s stage this weekend. The
main
stage. They’d run through the routine so many times, she was bumping and grinding in her sleep. “What does she want to know? I’ve never even met her.” And nobody but Val knew she worked at Club Kitten. And Beck.

Just the thought of him had her glancing over her shoulder and up the stairs, to the darkened rooms beyond. It was almost seven, the sky barely darkening with the summer sunset, and he wasn’t home yet. Since she was usually at work this time of day, she had no idea when he would be, but Hope wanted to continue their interaction from this morning. The part where he had his fingers on her, not the part where he was grilling her about the scary texts.

“She’s asking about your stage experience and what qualifies you to dance. She wants your spot in the show. I told you, she’s a mean girl. Bubba told me to talk to Mom about it,” Meaning Marcia, their house mom, “but she said we should just haze her. Replace her perfume with rubbing alcohol or spurt a bottle of lotion into her shoes. Can you think of anything else, Hope? You know, something dirty that will send an unmistakable message. The only things I’ve come up with would probably get me arrested and I can’t afford bail money.”

Hope’s phone beeped, signaling another call coming in. And her stomach growled again.

“I gotta go, Bridge. Let’s think about some really awful things to do and we’ll figure it all out tomorrow, okay?” She placated Bridget’s hurt feelings with plans for a high school style revenge campaign. “Give her super glue for her false eyelashes instead of the water soluble kind. Maybe talk some male customers into heckling her off the stage.”

Hope would never do anything so terrible to the new girl, no matter how bitchy she was, because it wasn’t all that long ago that she’d been the scared shitless, dry heaving new girl. And since she was pretty sure sweet Bridget was too tenderhearted to do anything beyond talking about being mean, it was all for not.

“And Bridge? Your hair is fantastic. Bye-bye for now.” Hope pulled the phone from her ear, hearing Bridget shout out, “Three-hundred dollars a month!” before disconnecting the call and tapping the other line.

“Val? Jesus, I’m as popular as a head cheerleader and prom queen rolled into one, all of sudden. I’m in very high demand for girl talk.”

“I wish you’d stop referring to me as a girl. I have boy parts. Oh, and I think I pulled a muscle playing badminton this morning.” Val’s voice was indeed one of a man, but as melodramatic as the lead female character in a soap opera. “Now dish out all the juicy details, Ho-ho.” Whispering, he added, “Are you at
his
house? And is
he
there? And if so, what exactly is he wearing?”

She laughed. “Yes, no, and I don’t know, so you don’t have to whisper.
He
,” she emphasized, “can’t hear you.”

Unless he had the placed bugged. Looking around the house for signs of a poorly hidden digital recording device and not seeing any, she wandered into the kitchen. She’d laid out the entire Beckett Smith story for Val last night during her break, only having to chastise him twice when he promptly declared her all kinds of crazy, telling her she was setting herself up for nothing but a boatload of heartbreak.

“And how are the blowjob tryouts going?”

Grumbling her displeasure, she opened the door to Beck’s massive fridge. “Still waiting for my audition.”

The commercial refrigerator held multiple adjustable shelves and convenient storage drawers, but as Hope inspected the contents dejectedly, she discovered it held no food whatsoever. There had to be three dozen bottles of water, along with several jugs of glowing, neon colored energy drinks mixed in, but no food. Not even a crusty ketchup bottle or a piece of moldy cheese wrapped in wrinkled cellophane. Just several empty mesh nets that once held citrus fruit.

“It will happen, Hope, just be patient. He’s a man, after all. And what I didn’t tell you the other night, was that it’s work. They don’t call it a blow
walk-in-the-park
for a reason, little lady.”

Laughing out loud, she closed the refrigerator and started opening random cabinets. Holy hell, the man hadn’t been bullshitting when he said he didn’t cook here. There were a handful of plastic forks in the silverware drawer. A small stack of paper plates and red Solo cups in the upper cabinet next to the sink. But not a single pot, pan, or skillet to be found. It was the saddest set up she’d ever seen. The trunk of her orange Toyota held more cooking gadgets than his tricked out kitchen did. Walking toward the built in pantry and saying a silent prayer that she’d find a sleeve of crackers and a jar of peanut butter in there, she opened the door and found only one item.

A squatty glass bottle with a royal blue label and a sealed gold cap stared at her. Sitting on the middle shelf, it was placed front and center for maximum visibility, looking staged for precise presentation. Staring back at the bottle of amber booze with narrowed eyes, Hope wondered what the man ate to sustain himself.

Val sighed dreamily. “Hey, do you mind if I come over? I’d like to smell him.”

“Yes, I mind.” Unless you bring a bag of groceries with you. At least a candy bar.

“A good friend would spill the details on what it’s like to bed such a hot specimen. I’m not asking for measurements, just technique. And maybe a little tidbit or two on his physique. I need something, Hope, I’m in the middle of a dry spell that could rival a nun.”

Leaning against the open pantry door, she stared at the empty shelves and gave up on the idea of eating anytime soon. “Honestly, Val? When he’s naked, he looks like an Adonis sliding down a vibrantly colored rainbow into a magical pot of liquid sex. In a word, his body is...” She paused for maximum effect. “Jacked.”

Closing the pantry door, she turned. And stared straight at a smirking Beckett Smith as he stood in the doorway from the garage. “Oh shit, gotta go,” she sang out, using her best bubbly Bridget voice to cover her embarrassment, quickly ending the call.

Christ on a cracker, did he hear all of that?

She looked around the kitchen, then back to him as her face flamed. “How much of that did you hear?”

His cocky smirk turned into a devilish grin and Hope’s heart swelled. “Enough that I should probably say thank you.”

“I wasn’t talking about you.” At his raised brow, she added, “I was talking about another guy. That I met at the club last night. Or last week. Or sometime... whenever. I can’t really remember exactly.”

His handsome face darkened and he opened his mouth, but closed it before saying a word.

The tantalizing smell of garlic and tomatoes distracted her and she looked at the white paper bag in his hands, the familiar red logo of an Italian restaurant printed on the front.

“Okay, fine,” she said, dragging the last word out. “I was talking about you.” Pointing to the food, she grinned. “Is that what I think it is? Dinner? For you?”

“For us,” he corrected, surprising her as he set the bag on the large marble island.

Digging into it enthusiastically, she pulled out multiple containers of hot food, moaning at the delicious aroma. Beck stuck his head into the refrigerator, coming out with—surprise, surprise—water.

Setting the bottles on the island next to their dinner, he helped her crack open the plastic lids covering cheese and sauce laden pasta. “It’s water or Gatorade. That’s all I’ve got.”

Water was fine, but she wondered why he didn’t offer her the whiskey. Or at least mention that he had a full bottle standing at attention like a good little soldier on the otherwise barren shelf ten feet away. But once she got a good whiff of buttery garlic bread, the liquor was forgotten and Hope loaded a paper plate with enough food to feed a small family.

Sitting on a padded bar stool tucked close to the island, with her shoulder only inches away from his, she was halfway through her plate of food when she noticed him watching her. His amused eyes tracked her as she ate with gusto.

“What?” Shrugging, she knew what he was thinking. “I’m a girl who eats. Get used to it.”

He laughed out loud and turned back to his own plate, the rusty sound sending a jolt of sexual awareness through her. “I could get real used to it.”

And that innocent comment sent a satisfaction through her that had nothing to do with sex.

It felt very domestic, sitting here with him after he’d been at work all day, enjoying an evening meal. If they were a normal couple—or a couple at all—they might sprawl out on the sofa and catch the latest episode of Scandal before heading to bed, where all sorts of wonderful night time activities would occur while the eleven o’clock news played in the background. Only to start the whole process over again the next day, and the day after that, for fifty years or so. And speaking of work, Hope had no idea where he went or what he did everyday. Unlike her, he hadn’t filled out a detailed personal spreadsheet.

She stopped inhaling baked spaghetti long enough to ask, “So, where do you work?” When he looked at her sideways, like she was asking what color the sky was, she clarified, “What do you do for a job?”

He looked away, taking a few more bites of food before responding, making Hope wonder why he had to think so hard about his answer. “I’m a contractor.”

Oh. Well, that wasn’t so bad. “Like a building contractor?”

It would make sense, given the extensive renovations he’d completed on the bungalow. Only he didn’t dress like a guy who built houses. Yeah, he was wearing scuffed black work boots and sporting a sexy five o’clock shadow, but his faded khaki cargo pants and black t-shirt didn’t have a drop of splattered paint or a flake of sawdust on them. And he just wasn’t giving off a
Bob the Builder
vibe
.

“No,” he said, confirming her observation.

“Like... an independent contractor?” What other kind of contractors were there? And why did finding out the answer feel like pulling teeth?

“Like a private military contractor.”

“What exactly does that mean?” When he stared at her with hesitation in his bottomless green eyes, she jokingly added, “Or is this one of those, if you told me, you’d have to kill me, kind of things?”

“Sort of.”

Hope laughed, covering her mouth with a napkin. “Sort of? What, are you a hit man or something? A soldier of fortune? Whatever Liam Neeson is in Taken?”

“The term hit man is an antiquated one and I’ve yet to amass a fortune.” And he wasn’t laughing. “I have special skills. That can best be utilized in special circumstances.”

Huh? Tossing her napkin down, she pushed her plate away and swiveled on the barstool, turning her body fully toward him. “You’re gonna have to spell this out for me.”