Zero Day Exploit (Bayou’s End #1.5) (11 page)

“Maybe I don’t believe in honesty,” he murmured.

“You don’t believe in what you sell, you don’t believe in getting close to people…so what do you believe in?”

His eyes shuttered and slid away from her, toward the window. “Nothing.”

“I don’t know how you live like that.”

“I don’t know how to live any other way.” He snapped the lid of his laptop shut with a
click
so sharp it made her jump. “Will you be all right?”

It took a moment to even remember what he was talking about. Her stomach turned leaden and cold. “…yeah.” With a groan, she rubbed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Yeah. It’s…that’s Alejandro. Either he’ll get over it or he won’t.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

She shrugged. “I guess we aren’t the kind of friends I thought we were.”

“What kind of friend is that?” That needling gaze turned back to her. “Do you like him?”

“You don’t get to ask me that.”

“If honesty’s so important to you, tell me honestly.”

Between one breath and the next he rounded the table. Rough fingers caught her chin, tipping her face up; her breath seized sharp. He glowered down at her, the forbidding crags of his face dark and ferocious and harsh, pale green eyes sizzling.

“Do. You. Like. Him?” Every word bit off rough and sharp-edged as tumbling gravel.

Zero glared right back at him, her heart hammering, the fury of her blood a wild thunder that tore through her until she saw beyond red and into fucking infrared. “I told you—you don’t get to ask me that.” She barely managed to keep her voice even as she jerked her head to one side, breaking his grip. “And you sure as hell don’t get to manhandle me.”

She stood, snatching up her bag and her shoes. She hadn’t come here for this. They’d gone over the corporate game plan. They were done, and she had no reason to stay if he was going to act like some kind of fucking gorilla who thought she was his personal stomping grounds to get territorial over. It wouldn’t matter if she was so desperately in love with Alejandro she wanted a litter of his babies.

It wasn’t Evan’s business, and it never would be.

She stalked for the door. He made an odd, almost stammering sound, then hurried to catch up with her, angling to half block her path.

“Let me take you shopping,” he blurted.

She froze, just staring at him. “What?”

He looked down at her with his eyes wild and strange, breathing a little too hard. “Ever heard the phrase ‘dress for the job you want?’”

“The job I want isn’t one that cares more about what I wear than what I do.”

“News flash: you have that job.” His throat worked in a rough swallow. He curled his fingers, then let them go slack. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that slick, too-easy shark’s smile was almost apologetic. “Come on. We’ll find you something that isn’t so frumpy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So now I’m frumpy.”

“That’s your word.” He shrugged. “But if you want that promotion, you need to look good, not just good enough.” Pale green eyes raked over her, lingering on her chest. “I’m sure that blouse looks great on your mom.”

Why that fucking—“Why did I even stop?” Hissing, she thrust past him and yanked the door open. “You are such a dick.”

“You haven’t even seen me get started.”

“I’m leaving,” she tossed over her shoulder.

“Suit yourself,” he said—before anything else was cut off as she stalked out and slammed the door behind her.

T
HE DOOR WAS STILL VIBRATING
with the force of her departure when Evan slumped against it with a groan—and thumped his head against it a few times for good measure. Stupid, stupid,
stupid
. God
damn
it. Why could he never
ever
shut his mouth around that woman? It was like the second he saw her his brain-to-mouth filter shut off.

Either that, or it was too busy keeping him from blurting out all the things he wanted to do to her to stop him from being a complete and total
asshole
.

Who was he kidding? He was always an asshole. A professional asshole. He signed his checks
A
.
Hole
,
Esq
. and laughed all the way to the bank.

She was just the first to make him think it might be a problem.

Evan dragged his hand over his scalp and sank down the door, propping his elbows on his knees. God, he was so full of shit. All his lines about not wanting to get close to people, about getting to be himself with her instead of a—what had she called him? A douchenozzle? That sounded about right. Only he’d spent so long being the douchenozzle while telling himself he was something else underneath…that he’d started to believe his own lies.

He raked his fingers over his face. This was not the time for an existential crisis. It just wasn’t. His life had been easy. Simple. He made good money, and he found his pleasures where he needed them. He didn’t need some kind of self-analytical crap about the man under the mask, or some kind of bullshit about personal fulfillment. He wasn’t that kind of guy.

A one-night stand shouldn’t change that.

And neither should this nagging sense of guilt.

He pushed himself away from the door and dragged the mini-bar open. Empty. Right. Well. He’d just have to find his comfort somewhere else, tonight.

A pair of jeans and a half-hour later found him prowling the New York bar scene. Flashing lights and loud music and slinky dresses and skinny jeans; tight asses and perky tits and inviting smiles and God, hair he could just bury his fingers in and
pull
to drag the right girl close for the kind of slow kiss that would end in one hell of a fast night. Any other night he’d have found someone by now. Eye contact across the room, a drink sent to her table, a name he’d forget by the time he was at the next airport gate for his next flight to nowhere.

But tonight every time he looked at smiling, inviting lips, he saw only that sardonic little smile he’d hardly ever managed to earn, and that flash of blue eyes that promised if he came near her again, he’d hurt for it—and it would be worth it. Love like a goddamned bloodsport, and she’d make him fight for it all the way down.

Love. He laughed to himself, bitter and more than a little drunk. He didn’t love. He couldn’t love. And he sure as hell wasn’t falling in love with that acid-spitting little
minx
after one hard fuck and a few days of fighting.

So why the hell was he out here living the high life…and completely miserable?

“Hey.” A woman slid onto the barstool next to him, a tall leggy drink of water with a tumble of hair the color of burnished bronze. Soft voice, softer eyes. Brown. Such a pretty shade of brown, dark and enticing and nothing like Zoraya’s snapping midnight blue. Eyes that smiled at him, wanted him—instead of eyes that accused, that asked what the hell he was doing with his life, that made him want to have an answer worth bothering with.

God, he was just staring at this woman like an idiot. He dredged up a smile that felt like it had been chiseled into his face, blocky and stiff. “Hey.”

“You look pretty miserable over here alone.” She leaned on her arms with a lovely smile that lit up her face. “Like a wet puppy. Thought I’d come over and cheer you up.”

Well if this wasn’t fucking
irony
. “Do I look like I need cheering up that much?”

“Like you’re trying to forget a girl in the bottom of a bottle,” she said dryly, then leaned closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “Here’s a tip: it doesn’t work.”

“I’m picking up on that.” He lingered on her, on the pout of her lips and the cat’s-eye makeup that made those pretty eyes glow. “You got any better suggestions?”

“Time. And distractions. I’d have to say I wouldn’t mind distracting you for a while.”

Any other time he would have responded with the perfect line. He had thousands, and he knew how to play them to get what he wanted. Or what he thought he wanted. A week ago what he wanted would’ve been right here, right now, with an easy diversion and lush lips already primed for a kiss.

For some fucking reason—a reason named Zoraya Blackwell—that wasn’t what he wanted anymore.

He laughed, harsh and short. Her lips curved in a sulking pout and he raised a hand, shaking his head. “No. I’m not laughing at you. I’m sorry. You’re beautiful and any other time, I swear…”

She smiled wryly. “I get it. No, I do. It’s okay.”

“Thank you.” He slid off the seat. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Good luck,” she called after him, but he was already gone, spilling out into the street and into the crisp cold scent of winter snow, the night air cutting into his skin like a fine-honed edge of steel.

He just stood there for a moment, his hands hanging at his sides helplessly. Where did he think he was going? It was nearly ten o’clock at night. Was he just going to show up on Zero’s doorstep?

Hey, don’t slam the door in my face. I know I’m a dick. I know I’m doing this all wrong. I know I can’t figure out how the fuck to talk to you when I’m being myself instead of the slick-talking asshole I pretend to be for a paycheck. But I like you. I like you and I want to know what this can be, if you can ever not hate me, if you can ever forgive me. If you can ever give me enough of a chance to find out what we could be, if I didn’t do everything wrong.

If I didn’t do everything I could to run away.

Yeah. Right. Like she’d believe a word that came out of his mouth.

He didn’t even realize he was moving until he was halfway down the subway steps to the turnstile, and reaching into his pocket for his transit card. He stopped just short of swiping it, staring down at his hands. What was he doing?

Being a fool, that’s what he was doing. Chasing after Zero when she didn’t want him. She hated him. And this wasn’t like him. Nothing he’d done since he’d met her was anything like him.

Or maybe it wasn’t anything like the man he tried to be. A man, he was realizing, he didn’t like very much.

With a groan, Evan swiped his card and pushed through the turnstile, toward the tracks. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. She couldn’t possibly hate him more, so he had nothing to lose by taking a risk except his pride.

Because while what he was thinking wasn’t quite as bad as standing under her window with a boombox blasting Peter Gabriel…it was pretty damned close.

*     *     *

He hadn’t expected her to actually answer the door.

Evan stood in the hallway outside her cozy little apartment, just looking at her framed by the warm golden glow of lamplight—that particular sweet, soft amber luminescence he’d always associated with
home
. He’d come home to that color in his parents’ house every night, before everything had fallen apart: the living room all in shades of liquid honey, his mother reading in the easy chair, his father fussing over his coin collection with weathered hands scarred from handling nets from dawn ‘til dusk. He hadn’t seen that color in over twenty years, save for as faint dots of gold from the safe distance of an airplane window. Yet as he looked at Zero, vivid in her brilliant red tank top against that glowing cinnamon skin, he found himself aching for a place of his own to fill with the golden color of home.

Zero cleared her throat. Evan snapped from his daze, ignoring the odd, tight ache in his chest to look into her eyes. Her lips thinned; one sharp brow rose as she folded her arms over her stomach in a tight, protective shield.

“I’m not talking to you,” she said.

Right. He’d come here for a reason. Might as well dive right in. “Too bad. You still need work clothes. Come on.” He offered a hand. When she only looked at it, he sighed. “I’m not apologizing again. I can say I’m sorry a thousand times, and you’ll still be pissed—and rightfully so. Just get your coat.”

She eyed him. “Are you drunk?”

“Sobered up about halfway here.”

“And you came anyway?”

“Already spent the fare.” He grinned. “Come on. Free clothes. Just look at it as using me. Payback, right?”

“Asshole,” she growled, but snagged her hoodie from the hook behind the door.

“You’re the only girl I’ve ever met who’s mad at me for buying her clothes.”

“Then you probably haven’t been paying enough attention.”

“You’re right.” He pushed his hands into his pockets with a shrug, then blinked when she looked at him oddly. “What? You are.”

She frowned, brows knitting, and shrugged into her hoodie. “Nothing.”

He waited for more. For her to bite his head off, for…something. But she only continued to look at him strangely. He wished he could tell what she was thinking, but he still couldn’t read her nearly as easily as she could read him. He shook his head at himself and turned away, heading for the stairs.

“We don’t have much time.” He stepped out into the foyer and opened the front door for her. “Everything’s going to close soon. We’ll get locked in a department store or something.”

“And it will be your fault.”

“I’m getting used to that refrain.”

“You can’t buy forgiveness.”

“I’m not trying to.” He followed her out into the street, then fell into step at her side. Snowflakes melted on his cheeks like biting little kisses of cold. “Zero, look. I’m leaving once this job is over. I keep sticking my foot in my mouth with you, then trying to fix it, and then you set my temper off and I go fuck it up all over again.” He glanced at her sidelong, but she wasn’t looking at him—instead turning her gaze up to the sky, expression strange and remote. It made it easier, somehow. Easier to speak. “You turn me inside out until I don’t know what I’m doing. And I keep trying to plan, and failing. So I’m not planning anymore. No more manipulation. I’m just doing what feels right. This feels right.”

“Dragging me to a department store in the middle of the night feels right?”

“I never said I had to make sense.”

A reluctant smile cracked the withdrawn mask of her face. “You make it sound like you ever did.”

“I always thought I was pretty straightforward.” With a chuckle, he leaned over to nudge her with his elbow. “Look at it this way. I’m out of your hair soon, but I’m leaving you with nice work clothes that will either make sure you keep your job, or leave you well prepared for the next one.”