All Things Pretty
Page 18
She sighs again, reminding me of the kiss we just shared. Making me even more determined. “Why? Why do you want to do this?”
One of the first rules of thumb in maintaining an effective and believable identity is to keep your every fabrication as close to the truth as often as possible, without compromising your alias. So, I’m honest. “I don’t know. I just…want to.”
I see the pearly rectangles of her teeth dig into her lip. Without meaning to, I reach up and tug it free, which leaves it wet and shiny and pink from the pressure of her bite. And that makes me wanna kiss her again. “Just a ride home?”
“Just a ride home,” I repeat softly.
“Fine. Let me in,” she says, slapping the door with the palm of her hand, a curve flirting with her mouth. I feel pretty damn gratified to see it. Other than first thing in the morning, I don’t get to see many real smiles from her. Polite, yes. Pretend, yes. But genuine? Not too many at all.
I hit the remote to unlock the truck door. She turns around and lifts the handle, hiking up her skirt a little and climbing in through the driver’s side. For a few seconds, all I can see is a lot of leg and the bottom curve of her ass, which is every bit as tasty as I remember. The picture of her stretching in through her car window on the side of the highway is indelibly etched into my memory.
I have the sudden urge to lean forward and bite it, like a ripe, juicy apple, but I resist. Instead, I look my fill and wait until she’s across the seat and in the passenger side before I get in behind her. I can’t help looking over at her and grinning as I start the truck.
“What?” she asks with a little frown.
“You’re just too damn sexy,” I admit, shifting into reverse.
She actually grins this time. Not enough to show teeth, but enough to be considered a smile. She leans her head against the headrest and holds my gaze. “Thank you,” is all she says in her velvety voice.
“I’m not sure that was a compliment. Makes this awful damn hard,” I confess.
And it does. It’s hard enough knowing that this little trip to get Travis somehow signifies a next step. Aching to touch her will that we are taking.
Somehow, I get the feeling that this–this trip to take her to get her brother, who she so fervently protects–is a next step. A big one. I think she knows it, too.
We watch each other for a few seconds, both of us likely thinking about what a bad idea this is. Neither of us willing to stop.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN- TOMMI
Sig doesn’t talk on the way to the school. He just whistles along to a country song on the radio called Bottoms Up. That gives me plenty of time to think about what I’m doing, but also about how good it feels to be with Sig. And how it shouldn’t. How badly it could end. Likely will end if it goes any further than this.
I see him glance at me several times, but I stare straight ahead. The one time I let my eyes wander over to him and stay there, he catches me and grins. “What are you thinking about?”
Of course, I lie. It’s one of the few defense mechanisms left in my dwindling arsenal. “How much Travis is going to love this truck.”
Sig smiles wider. “Liar.”
I say nothing. I don’t deny it.
To my surprise, Sig reaches over and laces his fingers with mine. “Eventually, you’ll learn that you can trust me.”
I smile, the same tight, polite smile that Lance gets more often than not. I know Sig is lying, too. There’s a hesitation about the way he says it, like he wishes it were true, but knows it’s not. I’m not shocked by this. Everyone lies. Especially people who work for Lance. It’s a way of life among criminals and their cohorts. That’s why I trust no one. Ever.
Travis is just walking down the concrete steps when we stop at the curb, his Special Needs teacher standing just this side of the door watching him go. He waves to me. I wave back.
Unenthusiastically, my brother makes his way down the sidewalk, his book bag hanging lifelessly off of one shoulder, chin tucked, hat pulled low. Such postures are common to those who suffer from Asperger’s, but in my gut, I know this is more. Something is up. The problem is, when it comes to Travis, in many ways my hands are tied. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. And so is Travis.
I roll down the window. “Travis!”
His head barely moves, but I see his eyes shift upward under the bill of his cap. When he sees me, his gait stutters. I’m sure he’s wondering who I’m with and why.
I get out and open the back half-door to the extended cab. “Cool truck, right?” I ask, nodding.
As Travis gets closer, I see his eyes rake the shiny, black body, the huge, knobby tires, the steps along the side. It’s a pretty tough truck and I know Travis well enough to know he’ll like it.
“Yeah. Pretty bad ass,” he rejoins mildly, which for Travis is the equivalent of enthusiasm. “Who the hell are you?” he asks of Sig as he hops onto the small back bench seat.
“I’m Sig. Who the hell are you?” Sig is using his charming cockeyed grin when he turns in his seat and offers Travis his hand. “Just joking, man. You’re Travis, lover of bad ass trucks.”
Reluctantly, Travis shakes his hand, but just for a second. He lets it go quickly, like the social gesture was physically uncomfortable. Which, to Travis, it might well have been.
“You work with Lance?”
“Yep. Security.”
“Then why are you here? If you’re screwing my sister, he’ll probably have you killed.”
Although I see a small reaction in his eyes, Sig remains otherwise unaffected. “She’s what I’m securing.”
“Why? Is she in danger?” he asks, his eyes widening as they fly to mine and lock on. “Did something happen? Are you in trouble?”
“No, Travis. God, no. Nothing like that. Lance is just insanely paranoid. I had a flat tire on the highway a while back and he flipped because I tried to change it myself.”
“God forbid you break a nail,” he snaps snidely. Travis understands very little about the situation between Lance and me, but obviously he knows the basics.
“That’s kinda what he was thinking. You know how he is about me looking nice.”
“Jeans are the enemy,” he says in a voice that sounds a lot like Lance’s.
I laugh. “That’s actually really good.”
One of the first rules of thumb in maintaining an effective and believable identity is to keep your every fabrication as close to the truth as often as possible, without compromising your alias. So, I’m honest. “I don’t know. I just…want to.”
I see the pearly rectangles of her teeth dig into her lip. Without meaning to, I reach up and tug it free, which leaves it wet and shiny and pink from the pressure of her bite. And that makes me wanna kiss her again. “Just a ride home?”
“Just a ride home,” I repeat softly.
“Fine. Let me in,” she says, slapping the door with the palm of her hand, a curve flirting with her mouth. I feel pretty damn gratified to see it. Other than first thing in the morning, I don’t get to see many real smiles from her. Polite, yes. Pretend, yes. But genuine? Not too many at all.
I hit the remote to unlock the truck door. She turns around and lifts the handle, hiking up her skirt a little and climbing in through the driver’s side. For a few seconds, all I can see is a lot of leg and the bottom curve of her ass, which is every bit as tasty as I remember. The picture of her stretching in through her car window on the side of the highway is indelibly etched into my memory.
I have the sudden urge to lean forward and bite it, like a ripe, juicy apple, but I resist. Instead, I look my fill and wait until she’s across the seat and in the passenger side before I get in behind her. I can’t help looking over at her and grinning as I start the truck.
“What?” she asks with a little frown.
“You’re just too damn sexy,” I admit, shifting into reverse.
She actually grins this time. Not enough to show teeth, but enough to be considered a smile. She leans her head against the headrest and holds my gaze. “Thank you,” is all she says in her velvety voice.
“I’m not sure that was a compliment. Makes this awful damn hard,” I confess.
And it does. It’s hard enough knowing that this little trip to get Travis somehow signifies a next step. Aching to touch her will that we are taking.
Somehow, I get the feeling that this–this trip to take her to get her brother, who she so fervently protects–is a next step. A big one. I think she knows it, too.
We watch each other for a few seconds, both of us likely thinking about what a bad idea this is. Neither of us willing to stop.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN- TOMMI
Sig doesn’t talk on the way to the school. He just whistles along to a country song on the radio called Bottoms Up. That gives me plenty of time to think about what I’m doing, but also about how good it feels to be with Sig. And how it shouldn’t. How badly it could end. Likely will end if it goes any further than this.
I see him glance at me several times, but I stare straight ahead. The one time I let my eyes wander over to him and stay there, he catches me and grins. “What are you thinking about?”
Of course, I lie. It’s one of the few defense mechanisms left in my dwindling arsenal. “How much Travis is going to love this truck.”
Sig smiles wider. “Liar.”
I say nothing. I don’t deny it.
To my surprise, Sig reaches over and laces his fingers with mine. “Eventually, you’ll learn that you can trust me.”
I smile, the same tight, polite smile that Lance gets more often than not. I know Sig is lying, too. There’s a hesitation about the way he says it, like he wishes it were true, but knows it’s not. I’m not shocked by this. Everyone lies. Especially people who work for Lance. It’s a way of life among criminals and their cohorts. That’s why I trust no one. Ever.
Travis is just walking down the concrete steps when we stop at the curb, his Special Needs teacher standing just this side of the door watching him go. He waves to me. I wave back.
Unenthusiastically, my brother makes his way down the sidewalk, his book bag hanging lifelessly off of one shoulder, chin tucked, hat pulled low. Such postures are common to those who suffer from Asperger’s, but in my gut, I know this is more. Something is up. The problem is, when it comes to Travis, in many ways my hands are tied. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. And so is Travis.
I roll down the window. “Travis!”
His head barely moves, but I see his eyes shift upward under the bill of his cap. When he sees me, his gait stutters. I’m sure he’s wondering who I’m with and why.
I get out and open the back half-door to the extended cab. “Cool truck, right?” I ask, nodding.
As Travis gets closer, I see his eyes rake the shiny, black body, the huge, knobby tires, the steps along the side. It’s a pretty tough truck and I know Travis well enough to know he’ll like it.
“Yeah. Pretty bad ass,” he rejoins mildly, which for Travis is the equivalent of enthusiasm. “Who the hell are you?” he asks of Sig as he hops onto the small back bench seat.
“I’m Sig. Who the hell are you?” Sig is using his charming cockeyed grin when he turns in his seat and offers Travis his hand. “Just joking, man. You’re Travis, lover of bad ass trucks.”
Reluctantly, Travis shakes his hand, but just for a second. He lets it go quickly, like the social gesture was physically uncomfortable. Which, to Travis, it might well have been.
“You work with Lance?”
“Yep. Security.”
“Then why are you here? If you’re screwing my sister, he’ll probably have you killed.”
Although I see a small reaction in his eyes, Sig remains otherwise unaffected. “She’s what I’m securing.”
“Why? Is she in danger?” he asks, his eyes widening as they fly to mine and lock on. “Did something happen? Are you in trouble?”
“No, Travis. God, no. Nothing like that. Lance is just insanely paranoid. I had a flat tire on the highway a while back and he flipped because I tried to change it myself.”
“God forbid you break a nail,” he snaps snidely. Travis understands very little about the situation between Lance and me, but obviously he knows the basics.
“That’s kinda what he was thinking. You know how he is about me looking nice.”
“Jeans are the enemy,” he says in a voice that sounds a lot like Lance’s.
I laugh. “That’s actually really good.”
