Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(3)

“You should come over,” he said when the music stopped.

I smiled a little. “Is that right?”

“You’ve been drinking. You shouldn’t be driving.”

My smile grew. “You’re looking out for me.”

He grinned. “I’m lookin’ out for both of us. Come on, I’m a mile down the street. Got a great bottle of whiskey we can get into.” He paused significantly. “And I got some eggs and coffee. For breakfast.”

I stared frankly at him. “I want to tell you something. The two of us won’t ever have breakfast together. Not in the cards.”

His eyes flickered with anger. “Could’ve told me that an hour ago. Waste of time.”

He turned on his heels and headed toward the bar.

I let him get three steps away before I spoke.

“I never said I wouldn’t come over.”

He turned back around in a hurry.





2


I followed him. Loving the night air on me, the feel of leather-clad fingers on the handlebars, the solid force of wind streaming into my chest. I hated riding with windscreens. I needed to feel the wind holding me, steadying. Sometimes I thought my motorcycle was the only place I could feel at peace. I couldn’t tell if it was a scary thought. Or a true one.

He lived in a little Craftsman house in West Oakland. Close to the docks. Close enough that I could hear the freeway traffic, see the Port lights. Massive cranes and stacked shipping containers curtaining the dark, flat water. The orange glow rising vaporously into pale night. The glinting city across the Bay.

I saw his car turn into a driveway but I continued another block before I parked. Locked my helmet to the bike and put my gloves in my purse. Headed back toward the house. He was waiting for me at the front door. “Why didn’t you park in the driveway?”

“I never park in a stranger’s driveway.”

“We won’t be strangers for long.”

“Maybe not.”

His living room was plain. A couple of old armchairs and a black leather couch in front of a television playing ESPN. An Xbox controller on the coffee table along with several unwashed plates. He muted the show, disappeared into the kitchen, came back with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Good whiskey. It was The Famous Grouse. God. What did he think was bad whiskey?

He turned on some rock band that sounded like a cheap knockoff of Metallica, all of the volume but none of the talent. Poured into the glasses and gestured. “Pull up a chair. Don’t be shy.”

I took a sip. “I should slow down before I get drunk.”

“Is getting drunk a bad thing?”

“Depends what happens, I guess.”

“What do you want to happen?”

“You’ll see.”

“My God!” he exclaimed. Somewhere between amused and annoyed. “Talking to you is like cracking code.”

I ignored him. Looking around. Feeling things building together. It was past midnight.

Almost time.

I nodded at a couple of lavender curtains over the window. “Didn’t figure you for a decorator.” There was a picture hanging on the wall above the couch. The man in front of me, his arm around a woman, each smiling and holding a drink. She wore a black dress and he wore a scarlet tie over a maroon shirt. People milled behind them. Holiday office party, maybe, or wedding reception. Something social. The woman in the picture wasn’t especially pretty. She was on the heavy side, with plain features. But she looked happy. Her smile was real.

He followed my eyes to the curtains, embarrassed. “Not me.”

“Roommate? Girlfriend?”

“Call her a roommate, sure.”

“Is she here?”

“No.”

“Coming back tonight?”

“No, but who cares?” He poured more whiskey into his glass. “What does it matter?”

“Guess it doesn’t.”

“Look, I’m not trying to be a dick, but it’s been a long week. I’m talked out. You want another drink, or just head in there?” He nodded toward a half-open door. The bedroom.

“I told you. You’ll know what I want.”

“What’s with the goddamn riddles?” he exclaimed. “I picked you up at a bar. We’re not high-school sweethearts. We know what we want. Why beat around the bush?”

“You have a temper,” I observed.

“I have a hard-on.”

“I’ll have that drink.”

“Sure.” He poured.

I took the glass. Drank. Got up. Took off my jacket. Set it on the chair. Stood there in my black tank and jeans and boots, glass in one hand. “Is that better?”

“Shit,” he said. “You’re a serious ten. And I’m a seriously lucky bastard.”

“Your turn.”

“Now we’re talking.” He drained his drink and rose. He was a big guy. Maybe six foot one, over two hundred pounds, solidly built. He took his T-shirt off, revealing a thatch of black hair across his chest.

“More,” I said.

“Suit yourself. I ain’t never been shy.” He unbuckled his belt. Kicked his shoes off. Pulled his jeans off. Stood there in boxers and socks. He hadn’t been kidding about the hard-on. He sat back down in his chair. Comfortably. “Get over here, girl. We gotta get those boots off you.”