Down and Out(22)

His jaw clenches as his eyes squeeze shut even tighter. Gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles bleach with the force.
This is too easy.
I’m grinning like a madwoman as he reaches down and tugs on his jeans, trying to make room for the impossible-to-miss bulge jutting out from his crotch.
“You have no idea what you’ve just done.” His voice is low and hoarse as he looks over at me, giving me a rueful smile. “I’m gonna be a walking hard-on for the rest of my life because of that.”
I bite my lip, trying to tamp down my own smile. “Do you need to go back upstairs and, uh, take care of that?” I ask, pointing down to his lap.
“Only if you join me.”
His response makes me chuckle as I face forward. “Yeah, not gonna happen.”
He laughs and puts the car in gear, slinging his arm over the back of the old-school bench seat as he turns to look behind us. Backing out of the spot, he glances at me. “You’re fun. I like you.”
Declan doesn’t like me, he likes flirting with me. There’s a big difference. But he’s right, it’s fun. I’ve never really taken the time to do it before.
As we pull out of the parking lot, I watch the traffic around us and the storefronts on the busy street, but I feel his eyes on me, observing me, and my skin burns hotter under his scrutiny. “I . . . don’t hate you, either,” I say, stealing a peek at him.
He bites his bottom lip, the small silver hoop on the side glinting in the fading daylight as he tries to crush his smile. “You can’t even admit that you like me?”
That lip ring is taunting me. I didn’t think it was possible for Declan to get any hotter, but somehow that little piece of metal is just icing on top of a very delicious cake. I want to sink my teeth into him and suck that ring into my mouth. “Like is a strong word.” I’m slightly breathless as I say it, and if I were in the right state of mind, I’d be a little embarrassed by that.
Declan clears his throat and looks away, like his mind’s splashing around in the gutter, right next to mine. His voice is lower as he grips the steering wheel. “What am I gonna do with you, Kitten?”
It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer him. But the dirty, sex-starved side of me wants to tell him, “Whatever you want.”





My forearms lean on the bar of the shopping cart as we stop in the middle of the bread aisle. “What’s next?”
Savannah frowns, gnawing on the end of her pen as she goes over her list. She’s still wearing her “Whitmore & Son Gymnasium” t-shirt. Her hair’s pulled over her shoulder in a low, loose ponytail, the long tendrils curling into waves. It’s the only way I’ve seen her wear her hair, but hey, no need to fix what ain’t broken. It makes her look soft and . . . pretty.
Jesus, look at me waxing poetic about this girl’s flippin’ hair.
I clear my throat and try to think of something else, looking instead at the people around us. Savannah’s either really good at ignoring them, or she honestly doesn’t care to be seen with me, because she hasn’t bat an eye at all the stares we’re getting in this fancy-schmancy grocery store.
I’m used to shopping at the Stop ’N Shop by the gym, not places that have sushi trays in their deli sections. But my weird, caveman-like instinct to feed her took over, and in my mind, expensive = better. So, here we are, shopping at a place where soccer moms drive luxury SUVs instead of minivans.
“Do you like fettuccine alfredo?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Okay, then we need heavy whipping cream, parmesan cheese, some nutmeg . . .” She counts the items off on her fingers, looking up toward the sky as she recalls things off an invisible list.
“For the sauce?” I ask. “You know they have that stuff pre-made, right?”
She blanches and looks at like me like I’ve just grown a second head. “No. No, no, no. Stuff made from scratch is always better.”
“Okay. . .” I try not to roll my eyes as I follow her down the aisle. She’s in charge of the cooking, so if she says she wants to make it from scratch instead of heating up the contents of a single jar, who am I to argue?
We round a corner, and suddenly we’re in Little Italy. I have to admit, it’s kinda cool the way they deck out each section of the store with true-to-the-food décor, complete with fake little buildings and everything. Chinatown’s up ahead, and they have a bayou-themed section for Cajun food off to the side.
I watch her peruse the rows of Italian food, and ask her, “So what’s your story?”
Normally people’s eyes get wide when they hear my father’s an alcoholic, or they show some other kind of shocked emotion, but Savannah had remained neutral. Just a simple, “Oh,” like I’d told her my favorite color was blue. It makes me wonder how deep her f*cked-up-ness goes, since she didn’t even bat an eye at mine.
She frowns as she pulls a big container of parmesan cheese off the shelf. “My story?”
“Yeah. What happened in your life that led you . . . here?” I’m careful not to use the word “homeless.” One, I don’t think she’d appreciate it, and two, we are in public, after all. Asking someone how they came to live in their car isn’t exactly a conversation you want to broadcast, but we’re alone enough, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked.
She shoots me a glare and starts to walk away, which is about what I expected. The wheels on the cart squeak as I try to catch up with her.