Kick (Songs of Perdition #1)(19)

He said nothing. As much as I wanted to scrape his pretty little face off for it, I wanted to prove myself even more.

“You going to hypnotize me again?” I asked.

“If you found it helpful last time.”

“You ever going to take a stand on something you want, Doctor?”

He stood. “Not in this room, no. In this room, you’re the boss.”

Well, if that was how it was going to be, I would take it. I could be the boss of this tiny, half-lit room. I threw myself on the couch. Elliot followed and sat behind me. I heard the rustle of him crossing his legs.

“Counting backward from five,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Five.”

***

His car is huge, and he smells like peppermint. He doesn’t say anything, and my chest winds up with tension. Is this a mistake? He doesn’t look like a serial killer, but maybe he’s not interested in me. Earl is a good enough f*ck in a pinch; that would be better than nothing.

“Got a name?” I ask, trying to get my shirt buttoned.

“Yes.”

“My name’s Fiona.”

“I figured that out.” He turns his head a little. “I’m Deacon.” His eyes drift down to my exposed tits then back to the road.

“Should I bother buttoning up?”

“Yes.”

I shake as I finger the buttons. That wasn’t the answer I expected, and I’m suddenly ashamed. But when he flattens his hand on the wheel and turns it with pressure on the heel, my nipples harden through the white shirt, and the rings piercing them stretch the fabric.

“So,” I say, “where we going?”

“Away from a crowd of paparazzi.” He stops at a light and turns toward me. “How do you live like that? All these people around all the time?”

I shrug. “At first, I got upset when they misunderstood something or printed me kissing a Brent Ogilve when I was dating Gerald. That sucked. But then, Gerald was kind of a dick, so they did me a favor.”

I don’t want to talk about paparazzi. I want this guy. I put my hand on his thigh and slide it between his legs. He’s all muscle. He puts his hand on mine and moves it back to my lap.

“Are you gay?” I ask.

“No.”

“Look, if you don’t want to do it, that’s fine. Just drop me off.”

“Take it easy,” he says, squeezing my hand before he lets it go.

But I’m uncomfortable, unhappy. The car feels too small, and this man expands like a balloon, as if his psychic space crowds me. Suddenly, I don’t want to have sex at all. Not with him, not with anyone. I just want to feel like I have everything under control again.

I open the door enough for the hood light to go on. We’re not going fast, and I know he’ll slow down. But he doesn’t. He stretches over me and pulls the seat belt across my body. His peppermint smell is layered with sandalwood, and I want to fall inside it at the same time as I want out of this f*cking car.

Snap. He clicks the belt. “You’re in the arts district. It’s late, and everyone’s drunk. There’s no need to take unnecessary risks.”

I’m pissed. Really pissed. Because he’s right.

I look at him as he drives a few blocks. I hate him, and I’m attracted to him, and in my rage, I want to f*ck again. I feel the swell between my legs as I remember shit I’m trying to forget—that windshield kiss, and me in the passenger seat inches from a dead girl’s *, and it smells like sex.

I’m not thinking about that.

I am not thinking about that.

Fiona, do you want to stop? You’re crying.

I say something. Something about Pinkerton never failing when Amanda drove. And no, I don’t want to f*cking stop. I want to remember Deacon with this level of clarity and beauty. Something about the way he smells and the texture of his jacket in the lamplight. Something about his hands. The way they’re completely still when he isn’t using them. I’d forgotten that.

I feel Elliot’s fingers on my wrist and hear the soft curtain of his voice.

All right. You’re mixing things up. Amanda Westin died after you met Deacon. You don’t have to think about the accident if you don’t want to. You’re in control.

Deacon turns right then right again onto a cobblestone loading dock. We’re in an unlit alley downtown. He turns on the dome light.

“So,” I say, “what do you want? You going to tie me up and kill me?”

He laughs, and my anger melts off me.

“I’m assuming that wasn’t your boyfriend.”

I shrug. “Just a Thursday night.”

I undo the seatbelt to see if he’ll let me. He makes no move to restrain me again. I turn around and kneel on the warm leather, the small of my back to the dashboard, to get a good look at this guy. Older. Late thirties, early forties maybe. Little beard happening. Strong chin. Dark hair. Eyes blue and lit from within.

I know he can see my tits through my shirt. I go braless pretty often because I’m small, somewhere between an A and a B. I call it A plus. My light pink nipples are standing on end from him looking at me.

“You like what you see?” I ask.

“Yes, quite a bit. Do you always walk around half naked?”

“Only when I chase gorgeous men out of bathrooms.”