Chapter 5
Chapter five
Clay
I don’t trust Louisa Gallo at all, but after ten minutes of lying on my bed, listening to her in my shower, I’m tempted to go downstairs, even though it will leave her free to rifle through my stuff.
Except I have ten million reasons to make sure she’s never alone in here, not to mention the will that left the bar to her and not her cousin tucked safely out of sight behind the bookcase, so I stare at the ceiling and try not to notice that she stopped singing.
The noises coming out of that shower now are as sweet as her voice had been. Sweeter, even, because she’s moaning.
She knows I’m here. I told her I wasn’t leaving until she was out. Either she’s trying to make me uncomfortable by faking pleasuring herself, or she’s trying to tempt me into joining her.
That’s not happening.
My hands are behind my head, fingers interlaced against temptation, but my cock is so hard that even the weight of my pants when I shift my hips feels like a light caress.
Escaping steam already has this too-hot, too-small room smelling soft and lightly floral.
It’s so evocative I could close my eyes and be in the shower with her.
Watching soapy water slide over the swell of her breasts, the narrowing of her waist, and the flare of her hips.
Are her nipples a light pink or a darker, dusky color?
Does she have more tattoos, hidden beneath her clothes?
Is she waxed, trimmed, or full bush? I don’t have preferences about other people’s bodies.
I can’t even remember the last time I was curious.
I shouldn’t be curious about Louisa Gallo. I don’t care about her, and I have no desire to start.
“I’m still here,” I call out after a particularly loud moan makes my cock ache.
Her sigh is audible through the wafer-thin pocket door. “Thanks, you ruined it. I have to start over.”
“Save it for tonight, in the camper. I’ve got better things to do than lie here listening to this.”
“No one asked you to stay,” she counters. “In fact, I specifically asked you to leave.”
There’s a very brief pause before she says, “Are you jerking off?”
“That would be inappropriate, wouldn’t it?” I say hotly. I would never do that to someone without their consent, no matter that she started it, or that the thought of stroking myself to her moans and having her walk into the room in time to see me come is fucking tempting.
Christ, I can’t unravel like this. I don’t want her to know she has any effect on me whatsoever, because she doesn’t. I’m bored, that’s all. So fucking bored.
The shower shuts off. No more moans. Why am I disappointed?
“I’ve already seen your dick,” she calls through the thin door.
With a sigh, I push myself into a sitting position so I can hide my erection when she inevitably swans out of the bathroom. Although, like she said, she’s already seen it.
That was unfortunate. Most people walking in on two people having sex would immediately turn around and leave, mumbling an apology and wishing they’d never opened that door.
Not Louisa Gallo. She stood there, her big, bottomless eyes staring, scrambling my brain so bad I forgot I was inside another woman until Kristen pushed me away.
Nothing felt real until that shot of bourbon hit the back of my throat.
The door opens, and she strides out, wrapped in a towel that barely covers her pussy.
“Close your eyes and turn around,” she says imperiously.
My cock aches at her bossiness, but neither it nor she is in charge here. “Pick one.”
Her chin lifts. “Turn around.”
I turn my back to her and immediately regret it. I should’ve closed my eyes. My muscles are already tightening, feeling exposed, and I’m uncomfortable enough with my cock demanding attention. That situation isn’t likely to change when she’s wearing that tiny towel.
Judging by the noises coming from the other side of the room, she must be rummaging through her boxes. Next time, I’ll insist she pick an outfit before she goes into the shower. And take it into the bathroom with her.
The skin on the back of my neck tingles, and the suspicion that she’s looking at me makes me itch all over.
This is torture.
The soft sound of her towel hitting the floor sends a prickle of electricity up my spine. If I turn around, I could satisfy my curiosity and make sure she’s not rifling through my paltry belongings.
If I turn around, I lose.
I can’t lose. She’ll walk all over me if I give her half a chance, and I’ve got work to do here.
An eternity passes before she calls out, “Okay, you can turn back around.”
I do.
She’s wearing a red-and-white gingham-printed halter top and short black shorts with a high waist, showing off her hourglass figure. Her hair is twisted up in a towel balanced on top of her head. She’s not tall, but the effect gives her the illusion of height. She’s all long-legged and swan-necked.
I snap my fingers. “Ah, sailor’s biceps, right? I’ve seen you on a few.”
Without batting an eyelash, she strikes a pin-up pose, sticking her luscious ass out. “Like this, right?”
That’s one way I could take her from behind.
I evict that thought from my head, along with all the images it conjures. “Do you get all your fashion inspiration from pin-up tattoos?”
“Do you get all yours from Generic Rich Douche Monthly?”
Ouch. Ten million in illegal poker winnings aside, I’m not rich. My look is as carefully curated as hers, and while my clothes have designer labels, they wouldn’t fill more than one box. Her cheaper clothes fill half a dozen boxes.
I give her my best bored look. “It’s a weekly publication.”
“It would be weekly.” She goes back into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
“How long does it take you to get ready?” I can’t take much more of this. “We open in twenty minutes, and I have things to do.”
“Go do them,” is her airy reply. “You cancelled the meat raffle. It’s going to be dead tonight.” There’s a clink, like she set something on the vanity.
“Do not touch any of my products.”
“You may be the only man in the county with hyaluronic acid serum and retinol serum, two kinds of moisturizer, and a foaming facial cleanser with”—she pauses and I imagine she’s holding up the bottle, squinting at it—“essential ceramides.”
“Paws off. And from what I’ve seen of the clientele you attract, I doubt most of the men up here have discovered much beyond soap.” With a few of them, even that is doubtful.
“Yes,” she drawls, and I hear the clink of another bottle. “Slim pickings for the dating pool.”
“Milo is objectively attractive.” I don’t know what makes me say it. I don’t give two shits if she thought she was kissing him when she locked her lips on me.
“Fucks like a dream, too. He’s bi, if you’re interested.”
I’m not. The lumberjack fits well within the wide range of the type of person I’m attracted to, and a tryst with him would probably be intense and sweaty, but all I feel when I think about him is that same apathy. That same been-there, done-that. “Not territorial now?”
She laughs. “For what I want Milo for? You aren’t a threat.”
“How’s that?”
“We’re not exclusive.”
Good to know.
Except it isn’t. I don’t care. “Are you done yet?”
“No. Go down and get ready to open.”
“And leave you alone up here, where you can cut holes in my boxer briefs and mismatch my socks? No.”
“You might appreciate the ventilation.” Her hairdryer starts up, ending our conversation.
“Lou! You’re back!” One of the regulars, a middle-aged man named Ford, cries as he leans across the bar to give Louisa a stretched hug.
He has the same look as a lot of the older men who live around here—silver goatee, trucker hat with a brand that I’m guessing is related to fishing gear, and a graphic T-shirt stretched over his barrel chest. He comes in nearly every day, orders a low-carb lager, and chats with whoever is around.
With me, he often asks odd, overly personal questions, then sits back, waiting for something. Or someone. The way his face lit up when he saw Louisa, it’s likely he was waiting for her.
Every single person who has walked through those doors—barring a couple of vacationers up from the Twin Cities who are here for the first time—has been ecstatic to see her.
And she’s returned each greeting with a warm smile and genuine interest in the ensuing small talk, and a look slid my way that very clearly says my patrons, my bar.
Gallo’s sits off the highway between the small town of Havenwood and the smaller township of Isobel.
It’s a short drive from Happy Lake Lodge and Campground and literally nothing else, which makes the locals somewhat clannish, though they’re friendly toward vacationers.
Not so universally friendly with me. Even before tonight, the locals all had a way of reminding me I’m an outsider. Tonight, Louisa is rubbing it in.
It won’t work. I’ve been an outsider all my life. I neither need nor want their small talk or approval.
“Travis told everyone you agreed to sell the bar before you left town,” Ford says. “That you needed the cash, but that didn’t sound right to me. I can’t see you ever leaving Gallo’s.”
“Turns out Travis sold his half,” Louisa says, her look challenging me to contradict her. “But I’ve still got mine.”
I ignore her. I have no interest in contesting her claim or drawing attention to myself or the bar. If the only thing civil between us is that we don’t call each other’s bluffs, I’ll take it as a win.
Again, I can walk away at any time.
But something uneasy slithers through me every time I think about tossing the money back in my car and leaving. For some inconvenient reason, the little hide-out I’ve made for myself here feels safe. I’m trusting my instincts.