Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(23)
Nothing I’m going to complain about to him.
But all the same, I wonder if that nervous bubble that bursts inside my stomach every time the burner phone rings will ever go away. If I’ll always be on edge, wondering what people know. Wondering if Rodriguez is a guy I can truly trust.
If this is really what I want to be doing with my life.
Rust promised that Rodriguez is trustworthy, that he’ll never name me to the street-level fence he uses. That what I’m experiencing is only virgin jitters and I should always be wary, but soon it’ll feel like just another business call. With two layers between us and the thieves, we’re protected.
I could have turned around and chased Rain down inside her building, after hanging up with Rodriguez, but I make a point of not chasing women.
Maybe it all worked out for the best, anyway. She lives right next door. Too f*cking close. Start up with her and the next thing I know, she’s everywhere. With everything going on right now, I need more space, not less. I can’t believe I didn’t notice her address on her invoice at the garage.
It sucks, though. I kind of like her. She’s gorgeous. She seems smart, and surprisingly nice for a girl who’s “figuring out life” on her daddy’s dime. I find myself already wondering when I’ll run into her again as I step out of the bathroom and into my bedroom . . .
My legs lock up with the view of the lean, practically naked female body across the way.
Rain, standing in the middle of her bedroom.
In next to nothing.
I tighten my grip of the towel wrapped around my waist as I step forward. I’ve rarely noticed the condo in the twin building across from me. From what I remember, the blinds are always drawn. They’re not now, though, and Rain’s busy filling her dresser drawers with folded clothes, wearing nothing but a black lace bra and G-string. The woman is no stranger to the gym, her curves sharp, her muscles carved. Does she know that we live parallel to each other? That my bedroom looks right into hers?
I stand there and watch. I watch as she tosses her empty laundry basket to the floor. I watch as she picks up a book from her dresser and sets it on her bed. I watch her lift a glass of red wine to her lips. And I feel myself react. I adjust my towel accordingly, unable to peel my eyes from her as she dives into her bed, stretching out on her back, book in one hand, glass of wine in the other, her legs long and sleek and bent, one folded over the other.
Is she doing this for my benefit? Because . . . damn . . . it’s working. On impulse, I grab my phone and search out her number, remembering that I had programmed it in there.
I hit “call.”
She reaches back over her head to her nightstand to pick up her phone. With a quick scan at the screen—my name likely won’t show up because it’s blocked—she answers. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Luke.” I step closer to the window, waiting for her to turn her head toward me, to spot me standing here. Basically, to admit to me that she knows I’m here. That she’s known all along and that she’s putting on this show for me.
She doesn’t so much as twitch my way.
“How’s your leg?” Her voice has a certain huskiness that I don’t remember from earlier. One that stirs the blood flow in my body, especially as I continue watching her lying there, unaware of me.
“Fine.” It hurts like hell. The little *’s teeth sunk into muscle. I wouldn’t be surprised if I can’t run tomorrow. “How’s the mutt?”
A throaty laugh escapes, making me smile. “Resting up for his next attack.” She places the book facedown on her bed. Her hand trails up and down her thigh with painstakingly slow passes, stalling on the strap of her panties. Her finger curls under it.
Jesus. I’m not sure that I want her to look over and stop. I’m rather enjoying this show. “Should I be on the lookout tomorrow?”
“I’d highly recommend it.”
“What are you doing?” Besides torturing me.
She lifts up the book, scanning the cover. I’m impressed that she reads actual books. Priscilla has nothing but stacks of fashion magazines and the gossip rags they sell at the supermarket cash registers. “I was going to read a bit, but . . .” Her mouth moves with the yawn in my ear and then she arches her back in a stretch, pushing a nice pair of tits up into the air. “Think I’m calling it a night. I haven’t been sleeping well.” Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her back to me, her waist slender and long, her left shoulder blade decorated in swirls of sexy ink . . .
She reaches back and unclasps her bra with one hand, letting it slip off. And I find myself silently pleading for her to turn around.
She stands up and leans over—giving me a fantastic view of her apple-shaped ass—to hit the wall panel. Her bedroom falls into darkness.
I can’t keep my groan from escaping.
“Luke? You okay?”
“Uh, yeah . . .” I clear my throat, realizing that I’m probably breathing into the phone like a psychopathic stalker. She could be watching me right now, my bedroom lit up. I glance down at the formed tent, wondering what she’d think of this scene. I’m going to have to deal with that before I head out. She just gave me plenty to use while I do.
I don’t like women knowing how much power they really have over me, that they can turn my brain to mush so easily. I’ll lose my upper hand that way. So I punch the light switch on the wall, throwing myself into darkness, too. “What are you doing this weekend?”