Burn It Up(121)

“All the same, maybe work on that before you try to f*ck me again. Sound like a plan?” She wasn’t shouting, but every measured word hit him like a slap. He kinda liked it.

He nodded. “Sure. Sorry.”

“Good.” Her feathers were smoothing, but just this taste of her temper, just the pink staining her throat and cheeks . . . shit. The ache knotted deep in Vince’s belly felt more urgent than ever.

“You still up for a ride, Sunday?”

She blew out a tired breath. “I don’t know. Show up and find out, I guess.”

“Will do.” He took a couple steps back, paused with one foot still on the concrete. “Like I said—sorry.”

She shut the door on him. A lock clicked and the lights came on, but the curtain swept shut before he could steal a peek at Kim’s bed—

Kim. “Kim!” He went to the window, rapping the glass. “It’s Kim, right?”

The curtain swished aside, framing her. She mouthed her muted reply clearly. “Too. Late.”

“Shit.”

She shut him out.

He knew when he’d f*cked his chances, and he also knew the line between flirtation and harassment. But as he started across the lot, blood pumping so much mischief, he couldn’t help himself. He turned on his heel and strode back toward room six, hopped onto the walkway and knocked.

Her shadow darkened the curtain as she passed, and when she opened the door, she kept the chain lock on. “What?”

“So, Kim.” He hooked his finger around the chain, toying. “You’ll tell me when it’s time, right?”

She blinked wearily. “Time?”

“Whenever it’s cool for me to try to f*ck you again.”

Her eyes rolled up. “Go away, Vince.”

He smiled. “Whenever you’re ready, just say the word. Can’t wait for the chance. Till then . . .” He held his palms up, miming deference, and took a step backward.

“Yes, you’ll be needing those,” she returned. “It’s going to be a long wait.”

“See you Sunday. Five a.m.”

“Five a.m.?”

“Sunrise, sweetheart. Dress in layers. No heels. I’ll find you a helmet. Oh and wear that perfume—that shit drives me up a goddamn wall.”

And off he went, giving her no chance to argue. He felt the heat of her glare on his back. It felt as good as a curious hand on his dick, and he smiled to himself. The door thumped shut, and he could hear her voice through the thin wood.

“Son of a bitch.”

The smile became a grin as he aimed himself downtown. “To be continued, sweetheart.”

? ? ?

Kim fell asleep in a foul and frustrated mood, and awoke in a matching one. Vince’s come-on echoed in her memory.

Ask me in.

The nerve. It hadn’t even been a question, had it? More a command.

Fuck him.

And f*ck the part of her that had been half a breath from doing just as he’d suggested.

She packed her camera bag gruffly, stuffing lens wipes and memory cards into the pockets as if they’d insulted her.

Had it been an incidental come-on? Maybe King Roughneck hit on anything with breasts if it stood still long enough, his attention as impersonal as buckshot sprayed in the general vicinity of animate females. Or had he read something in her body language or eye contact, some chemical invitation . . . ? Read the far-too-personal truth in signals lost even to her. That she wanted him. In her body, if not her logical brain.

Kim sighed, no clue which possibility annoyed her more.

She’d slept like crap, restless to the last cell. Coffee was needed. Stat.

At the energetically named Wild Horse Diner, kitty-corner from Benji’s on Station Street, she climbed out of her rental car. The formerly silver Jetta was dusted to the finish of a cinnamon doughnut. It locked with an obedient bloop, and she carried her purse and camera bag through the open front door.

She had her pick of seats, snagging a booth at the end. When the waitress swung by, she ordered an omelet, and coffee was delivered as she was buffing her glasses on a napkin.

“Thank you. God knows I need this.”

“Sightseeing?” the young brunette asked.

“Yeah, you could say that.” Kim smiled, not feeling like soliciting yet another stranger’s opinions about Sunnyside’s casino project, nor indeed feeling as though she were somehow their representative. She’d been grilled not only by Vince, but by the motel’s front desk woman, a drugstore clerk, the gas station attendant. People had questions about the development, probably good ones, but she had zero answers. Sunnyside was as tight-lipped as . . . as . . . as some gross, chauvinistic simile a man like Vince might come up with.

Damn. There she went again, remembering him. Vince . . . Whoever. Gris . . . Grim . . . Grenier? Grossier. He’d probably forgotten her name already. Again. God help her if he actually showed up, the next morning. If he did, she’d go along for the photo ops, solely.

The company was paying her for five days’ work and travel. In truth, way more time than she needed—she’d already have hundreds of usable shots by that evening. But she’d stay the full five, and not only for the money.

She wasn’t in a rush to head home. Fortuity might be rough, the assignment not exactly a gold mine—she’d grossly underbid for it, desperate for a change of scenery, some breathing room—but at least here she didn’t have to confront the awkwardness waiting back home. Her stuff still in Ryan’s apartment, and the man himself. A man whom, on paper, she’d had no good reason to dump. But hearts weren’t made of paper, were they?