Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(23)

Reaching the living room, I shove aside my bad history as good sense prevails, my mind shifting to the box on the bed. And I tell Jason, “You can’t come up—”

“You’re right,” he concurs, heat glimmering in the depths of his eyes. “I can’t or we won’t make it to my tournament.” He glances at the thick brown leather band of his watch. “I’d like to be out of here in the next fifteen minutes.”

Relieved, I am quick to offer an agreeable, “No problem.” In a flash, I move my still warm backside up the second set of stairs to my bedroom, the idea of Red Bull’s touch there again delivering the erotic charge he intended. Dashing inside my room, all too aware that I have no door to shut, I cannot resist pausing and turning to check on Jason. Sure enough, he’s still planted at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me, and the man is so freaking hot I forget everything but the bed behind me. Or really, any bed with him and me in it. And I just stare. And he stares, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been this into a man—which is quite a terrifying thought considering I’m pretty sure he defines the term man slut. And . . . well, I’m not into that at all. But holy hell, maybe I can learn something from him about being removed and guarded, and about hiding in sex and sin, and gambling on life. Yes. He says he’s not a gambler, but he is. I like that about him.

“Hurry, Skye,” he says, and his voice is a soft, seductive command. While I still fully intend him to notch my belt, not the other way around, I am not beyond seeing how easily his allure to women could be what led him to trouble. And now, me to Trouble, but unlike other times in my life, my eyes are wide open.

“The TV remote is on the coffee table,” I say, and as soon as the announcement is made, I have the horrible thought of how humble my home is compared to his, and I feel immediately frustrated. Yet who is he to judge me? He only has the ability to make me feel bad if I give him that kind of power, and I’m done with allowing people to make me feel inferior.

I turn and take several steps, only to stop dead in my tracks as I stare at the box I was worried about in the first place. I can’t leave it anyplace obvious, in case Jason somehow ends up in my bedroom again, which could happen at any moment based on our short track record. Darting forward, I grab it and carry it to my small, rectangular closet, and then, changing my mind, I move it toward my bed, my intention being to cross the room to my equally small bathroom. I stop again, feeling torn. Which place is a hot man more likely to look? If he was here for the night, not that I think he would be, but if he was, he’d go in the bathroom.

I turn back to the closet and set the box on the floor, grabbing the envelope with the note and poker chip from it, along with the storage unit key that I’d also placed in it this morning when I thought I was headed to the police station. I fold the envelope and push to my tip-toes, grabbing my one brand-name purse, which I never carry for reasons I’d prefer not to think about, from the top shelf. I unzip it and stick the envelope inside, returning the purse to its place. Using a combination of my foot and body weight, I shove the box into the corner and pull a few items of clothing off hangers, fold them, and set them on top. Hopefully the box now looks like extra storage for items I don’t have room to hang up.

Task complete, I snag a small overnight bag from the shelf by the purse, the only thing I have for travel, and toss in several outfits. Jeans, a variety of shirts, a pair of black Keds, a black dress just in case I need it, though I’m not sure why I would, and black high heels. I dash to the dresser and add socks, underwear, and a couple of bras, and then make my way to the bathroom. In a matter of minutes my toiletries are packed and I’m done, still managing to keep my bag light. Impressive, since I’ve packed for several days when I’ll be gone one, but a girl needs choices in case something that looked great the day before suddenly makes her feel fat or ugly. I’ll never understand how that happens, but it’s a fact of life.

Sliding my bag to my shoulder, I inhale. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m running off to Vegas with a hot poker player, and with two agendas: Getting naked and finding answers.

Who am I? Deserving, I answer. I deserve this. And besides, the responsible part of me isn’t absent, I assure myself. It’s right here, figuring out how to deal with this storage unit ethically without getting anyone killed. Killed. The word takes the fun and escape out of the weekend. And it’s a reason to talk to Molly before I leave.

Not giving myself a chance to change my mind, I walk through the open archway to the steps and stop dead in my tracks as I find Jason facing me, leaning on the wall between this level and the next. “Anxiously awaiting me?” I call out, starting on the downward path.

He pushes off the wall and gazes at me, more of that effortless sex-and-denim thing that does all kinds of things to my girl parts.

“You know it, baby,” he assures me, reaching for my bag. “I’ve got it,” he says, taking the bag from me. His fingers brush my shoulder, and Lord help me, I feel that touch slide down through me and land heavily between my thighs.

“Thank you,” I manage, hiding my reaction with a quickly diverted look at his broad chest that is just as impressive as the last time I managed to inspect it.

“How long have you lived here?”

My gaze jerks to his, my mind irritatingly going to my barren walls and used furniture, rather than what could simply be his raw curiosity. “Why?”