10. Margaritas in Paradise
My elbows dig into the U-shaped front desk as I lean forward and fiddle one-handed with some of Luke’s junk mail, ripping an envelope into little pieces. Nervousness bursts in my chest like fireworks as the phone rings for the fifth time with no answer. “C’mon, Tommy, pick up,” I say.
Familiar rap music blares out of the speaker as Tommy’s signature voice greeting switches on. “Fuuccckkk, man, it’s Tommy. I’m busy. Shoot me a DM and stop callin’.” Instead of the normal beep that comes before leaving a message, a woman’s voice speaks and informs me that the voicemail of the person I’m trying to reach is full. The line disconnects.
The phone clicks back into its cradle and I check for any missed calls, like Luke taught me. Nothing.
Sitting back in the swivel chair, I twist in my seat and stare out over the empty show floor. Light trickles in from the windows. The evening sky has settled into hues of soft yellow, purple, and pink over the buildings across the street. I bet it’s beautiful at the beach right now.
The familiar pang of loneliness and uncertainty rolls around in my chest. It’s been over a week since my last check-in with Tommy and the interactions with Luke keep ramping up. Guilt eats at me.
After leaving Gloria’s and bouncing around, Tommy and I worked out a loose agreement. Whenever I move to a new place, I check in... somehow... some way, even if it’s an email from a local library. I hated being at home, but with no type of tether, I feel cut off. Isolated. I shiver at the thought of truly being on my own. The image of me as a Jane Doe intrudes on my mind again. And I’m starting to think maybe Tommy doesn’t want to hear from me anymore.
Luke’s cherry-red Trans Am whips into view, sails down the lane, and, I’m assuming, into the back parking lot. I guess, in the most technical sense, I haven’t been alone much at all. The only time I’ve had any quiet in the past week is when Luke steps out to have conversations with an ever-revolving door of people, most of them being of the scary thug-looking variety, or when he goes to make bank deposits. And that one time he got a shipment to the storage building, he threw an absolute fit about how many tires they unloaded. He spent the whole day either on his phone or talking to the men in the black SUVs that pulled into the back lot.
And while I may be curious about why there are so many tires, when Luke doesn’t even sell tires, and who exactly all of these men are, I’m not dumb enough to eavesdrop. Some things are his business and some things are mine. We may share a space, but that doesn’t mean I have to get involved. Especially with a bunch of men who look like actual gangsters instead of Tommy’s stupid petty-criminal friends.
I’d like to say that Luke and I are weird roommates with unspoken agreements now, except that every time I turn around, he’s there with a smile and an offer.
The unintended consequence of getting in Luke’s face the night at the beach is now he believes I’m made for rougher games. If he were any other dude my age, he would have backed off some, taken my warning, or even ghosted me. But no... not Luke. He doubled down.
I thought I’d be able to ward off most of his advances and only participate in “safe activities.” The things that I could do to earn an easy buck yet keep Luke at a distance. But I’m learning there are no safe activities or easy dollars. Occasionally, his propositions come packaged as help or even kindness. I think Luke might be a con man. I also think I might be out of my depth here.
It was sweet when he offered to paint my toenails for me. We were relaxing and listening to one of his playlists. He had ordered pizza and had some cheesy action movie playing on the TV he dragged over to the sofa. It was like a slumber party, all the way down to the toenail polish.
No one had ever offered to do that for me before, so I let him. It wasn’t until his warm hands brushed against the arch of my foot and lightning bolts of arousal shot straight into my clit that I realized this was a mistake.
And when he bent down to blow on the drying paint, I froze, afraid he’d know that every lingering touch was making my head spin and my heart race. In hindsight, I’m convinced all his touches were deliberate as he instigated an intimate tickling match not much later, which left me breathless and giggling as my body tingled all over from his touch. His wandering hands were a bit... overly friendly.
Shaking my head, I stare at the blue countertop. Out of the corner of my eye, a beam of light sweeps the hallway as the back door opens. He’s baaaaack.
The morning after he touched every inch of me that he could get his hands on, he wanted to take pictures of me eating an ice cream cone. I figured it’d be weird, but nothing like the beach night or the... tickle fight.
And I was wrong. It wasn’t weird to eat ice cream in front of Luke. It was the opposite of weird. Flattering, maybe? Seated in his lap, the heat from his body radiated into mine. Strong hands rested on my lower back and high on my thigh while he watched me lick a vanilla and pineapple swirl cone. It was alarmingly sexy.
Between his intense, heated looks at my mouth, my ass tucked against the length of his erection, and the way the smooth, melty ice cream slid across my tongue, I couldn’t help but move against him.
Just a tiny grind, enough to make his nostrils flare as he closed his eyes and tipped his head back.
It wasn’t until he gently fisted his hands in my hair and tipped my head that my mind supplied me with the vision of his lips on mine. My legs clenched at the thought of our tongues mingling.
His mustache tickled against my ear as he whispered he had something else for me to lick and suck.
I abandoned his lap after that, but the ache between my legs didn’t lessen until later—when I had a moment of privacy and came violently to the fantasy of taking Luke into my mouth and running my tongue over the hard ridge of his cock.
Guilt and shame take center stage.
I drum my fingernails against the counter.
Neither will ever happen again because I have a boyfriend. Sort of. I was adjusting myself for a better picture angle. Really.
Groaning, I shake my head. Money makes people do crazy things, right? Except now, I sound like a whore.
Keys jingle and scrape against the countertop as Luke moves around in the kitchen. Cabinet doors bang open and shut. I bite my lip as anxiousness floods me.
The money started appearing on my nightstand that next morning: fives, tens, and twenties. Sometimes, I know what he’s paying me for, and sometimes, I’m not really sure, and it makes me fucking nervous. Luke has a talent for painting the most innocent daily interactions as dirty by slipping me cash.
Desperation claws at me, and I snatch up the phone, calling Tommy for the fifth time today. Please, for the love of God, Tommy, answer the phone.
Luke’s voice calls from the other room, “Hey, Carmella, where are you, my sexy little caramel drop?”
My eyebrows do the best impression of trying to climb off my face as I blow out a breath. Fuck, if Tommy picks up and hears Luke... I slam the phone into the receiver like it’s burning me.
“In here,” I say, smoothing down my frizzy curls.
Luke appears in the hallway looking every inch an old-school sex icon. His black button-down has a sprayed-on neon sunset with the word paradise laid over it. It’s unbuttoned at the top, displaying a collection of gold chains and dark chest hair over his golden tan. He stares at me from behind a set of brown aviator glasses and low whistles, like I’m not wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He smooths his mustache. “Go get that dress you liked so much. We’re having a fucking party tonight.” He sways to some unheard rhythm and dances in place.
I arch my eyebrows. “For real? What for?”
“Fuck yeah, for real. It’s been a long ass week, and we made fucking bank. I think that merits a celebration.”
Luke calls the shots around here schedule-wise, and mostly, I’m pretty cool with that. It’s like Wednesday night, but it’s his store after all. I shrug. “Okay.”
He grins. “Perfect, you won’t be disappointed. After you get changed, come to the kitchen.” Luke dance shuffles backward before spinning and boogying down the hallway, lightly singing. Leaning forward, I watch him do a sliding sidestep into the kitchen.
As my brows pull down into a frown, my head tips to the side and I consider him. Man has got some moves, though.
“Dreamin” by Skynny Dyck pumps through the overhead speaker system, probably streaming from Luke’s phone, and chases away the silence. Bopping along with the music, I duck out of sight of the large glass windows and put on a floral, boho mini dress. We did end up going grocery shopping after the beach incident, but Luke said that I was such a good girl that he was also taking me to a boutique and letting me pick out several new outfits that he ended up paying for.
Rummaging around for a clean pair of underwear, I curse when all I have is a thong. Thongs and breezy, billowy dresses do not mix. It’s asking for trouble, especially with Luke.
Shit, he could probably smell a thong from five miles away.The image of Luke’s head popping up at the mention of a thong, much like a Golden Retriever who heard the mailman, is hilarious. Giggling, I scan the drawer again, praying I overlooked a fresh pair. No such luck. I’ll just have to be extra careful.
I’ve been neglecting laundry since several pairs of panties went missing. They suspiciously got “lost” while Luke was washing clothes in the shop.
Either he has them and will lie or he has them and will tell me why. My desire for that conversation, or to even have them back, is zero.It’s too embarrassing.
When I enter the kitchen, Luke’s thumb is swiping across the screen of his phone, and the music changes to “Juice” by the New Beat Fund.
“You look stunning, baby,” Luke says when he sees me, his mischievous eyes roaming down the dress. “Great legs... what time do they open? I’m up twenty-four seven.” My face heats a little. You’d think by now I’d be immune to this. His lips curl up into a heart-stopping smile that borders on being lecherous.
The phone clicks as he sets it on the counter, and he sings along to the song while pouring ice into a blender. Cut up limes and oranges sit next to a couple bottles of hard liquor. Winking at me, he turns on the blender and loud, icy grinding fills the air.
“Margaritas?” I ask. He nods.
“There are tamales and hot wings on the table. Eat something,” he says over the noise.
“You’re always telling me to eat something.”
“Yes, and you should always listen to me.”
I snort as he grins. Switching the blender off, he fills two margarita glasses. The chair legs scrape against the floor as I pull it out. Folding my arms, I lean against the table and say, “Oh yeah?”
“Well, yeah. I am older, wiser and more experienced in the ways of the world. If you let me, I can share some of that experience with you.” He stands over me, and as he runs the chilly drink up my exposed arm, cold shivers pebble my skin. My nipples tighten as I snatch the drink from his hand and set it on the table.
His laughter wraps around me as he walks back to the makeshift bar, and I fill my plate with goodies. Luke returns a second later with a shot glass full of tequila, a cut-up lime, a saltshaker, and a folded twenty.
There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes as he says, “Hey, caramel drop, you ever done a body shot before?”