Chapter Eleven
Pacino
Four nights. Four nights, I’ve been with Phoebe, and for three of those nights, she’s faked it. Only that first night was a real orgasm. Even though she’s always ready and soaking wet when I walk into her room, she doesn’t actually cross the finish line.
It might be different if I didn’t know how she feels when she comes. She quickly learned to read my body, and she cries out when she knows I’m close. Pretends I’ve given her what she gave me, and it’s starting to bother me.
Phoebe’s the most sincere person I’ve ever met in my entire life, and it feels like she’s lying to me. And it bothers the shit out of me. Why it bothers me so much isn’t something I care to look into at this moment in time. I don’t feel the need for internal reflection.
But what’s starting to worry me is how she’s slowly becoming someone else. I thought her cheery demeanor was annoying at first. Really fucking annoying, actually, but I also felt drawn to it. Now, I can see her retreating into herself, and I miss the woman who tried to force donuts down my throat.
It’s hard not to question whether my darkness is rubbing off on her. That I’m killing her spirit.
The other option is equally frightening: What if the monsters she claims are dead aren’t. Not really. I don’t know what these monsters are, but I’ve heard the nightmares.
The moment she started talking about staying at her place, I knew I couldn’t just wait her out. Maybe a drink or two will help her relax. And once she is, she can tell me what the fuck is going on in that pretty head of hers.
If I know what’s changed from that first night to now, maybe I can fix it.
I’ve never had a woman fake it with me before. Not that I remember, anyway. I’ve had women not finish. Hell, Queenie doesn’t always. It’s never bothered me before Phoebe.
I could stop fucking her in the middle of the night. It’s an option. Not a favorable one. And one I don’t think I’m actually capable of unless she tells me no.
Now that I’ve had her, it’s like a siren’s call I can’t ignore. The moment the clock strikes one o’clock, I have to have her. I have to walk into her room and take her. Feel her tight heat around my cock and hear her moans.
The craving to have someone—a specific someone—hasn’t happened in over ten years. It’s new and unfamiliar, and frankly, I’m not exactly a big fan of it. But I can’t fight it. I need Phoebe in a way I don’t understand.
Phoebe said nothing as she sat behind me on my bike as we drove to the bar. The smile on her face as we got off twisted something in my chest, and I couldn’t help but smile back.
Yep, the ladies love motorcycles.
Now she sits quietly beside me at the bar. Happily, but quietly. The only time she speaks is if I ask her a question, and she sips the beer I ordered for her.
Sips. So. Fucking. Slowly.
My hopes of getting her buzzed enough to let her guard down and tell me the truth about what’s going on are basically zilch at this rate.
Nancy stands at the other end of the bar and eyes me up. The look feels very judgmental, and I don’t particularly care for it.
“Be right back, Yellow Crayon,” I say.
She just gives me a smile and nods as I walk over to Nancy at the other end of the bar. For the first time all day, Phoebe actually looks happy.
“What’s with the look, Nan?” I ask.
“What’s with trying to ply the sweetest woman in this town with alcohol?” Nancy counters.
Her salt-and-pepper hair has grown out a little longer than she normally wears it, and I like it. It suits her.
“I need her to talk to me. I couldn’t get her to shut up, but now she’s giving me a run for my money when it comes to keeping things locked up tight.”
Her brows lift as she stares at the woman I haven’t stopped thinking about since I met her. And those amazing fucking donuts. The woman who currently does a little dance in her seat as she watches a bowling tournament on the TV in front of her like this is her favorite thing in the world.
Phoebe Phelps can find the good in anything she does, and I envy her for it. And I need to find out if I’m the reason her light seems to be fading.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I found out that I am, though.
“It’s not just to get her into bed, right?” Nancy asks, giving me a hard look when I turn back to face her.
“I’ve already had her,” I say, leaving out the bed part. We haven’t been in bed. Technically. Bed adjacent. “That’s not the problem.”
Stabbing her finger into my chest, she narrows her eyes. “Only for you.”
“What does that mean?”
Nancy walks over to Phoebe and grabs a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. Somehow, she manages to convince Phoebe to take three shots with her, and I’m both shocked and a little scared.
Nancy Charney clearly has skills, and I need to be more diligent around her.
The alcohol looks to have already started kicking in when I walk back to take my seat. “You enjoying yourself, Yellow Crayon?”
“I bet I could make a margarita-inspired cake. I love lime. And salt. My head feels heavy but light. How does that even happen?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “You’re drunk.”
“No! Wait, am I? I’ve never been drunk before.”
“Never?”
Shaking her head, she begins to fall sideways off the chair, and I grab her arm to catch her before she falls hard onto the ground. “Bad things happen when you drink with strangers.”
“You drank with Nan.”
“She’s not a stranger. I’ve talked to her before. And I’m here with you. I trust you. Plus, you’ve already ground my corn, so…”
I snort, thankful she’s actually talking again. “Ground your corn?”
“I grew up in Iowa,” she says and fans her face with her hand. “I’m really hot.”
“You sure are.”
She beams and looks up at me. “That’s so nice of you.”
“Yellow Crayon, you’ve been lying to me.”
Phoebe’s eyes widen, and her smile immediately drops. She looks like she might burst into tears. “About what?”
Damn, I feel guilty now. I’ve never seen someone crestfallen before, but she is. And it’s because of what I said. But I have to know. “When you cry out in the bedroom at night.”
“That’s not lying. I want you to feel good.”
“I’d like to reciprocate. Why aren’t you getting off?”
She purses her lips. “Re-cip-ro-cate. That’s a funny word.” Just when I think this play may have completely backfired on me, she sighs. “When I’m at work during the day, are you going out and screwing your other girl?”
Wait, what? Is she jealous of Queenie? “We’re not a couple, Yellow Crayon. We can see other people. Staying at my house is only temporary.”
Fuck. She’s getting attached. This was a bad idea.
“Everything in my life is only temporary.”
“Baby, I hate to break it to you, but life is temporary.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t have anything that stays.”
Yep, she’s not happy anymore. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve just made everything worse. Whatever’s happening between us has to stop, and I kick myself for it.
I’m the biggest jackass in the world. “Yellow Crayon—”
“I like you, and I’m only temporary. Don’t worry about me. It’s the story of my life. I’m used to it. Excuse me.”
She makes a beeline for the bathroom, and I sigh in exasperation. I really should have expected this.
Nancy locks eyes with me—a very unhappy expression on her face—and says, “I’ll go check on her.”
What the hell am I going to do? This was always supposed to be temporary. And I obviously can’t keep fucking her now that I know she caught feelings. It wouldn’t be right.
Fuck me.
Maybe I should have her stay with Capone. He probably won’t fuck her. Or even try. Just like he knows my past, I know his.
Bowling still plays on the screen in front of me, and I check the time. After ten minutes, I start to worry that I haven’t seen Phoebe or Nancy.
The anxiety that something’s wrong kicks up, and I walk over to check. Pheobe doesn’t drink, but it was only three shots of tequila. That shouldn’t be too bad for her, right?
Nancy steps out of the bathroom and appears in front of me looking like a ghost. If that wasn’t shocking enough, her palm hitting my cheek definitely stuns me.
It also fucking hurts.
“What the fuck was that?” I growl as everyone turns to stare at us.
Whipping around, she glares at the crowd. “Mind your own fucking business!”
She turns back to me with a death glare, pushing me towards a corner to have as much privacy as possible in a crowded bar. It feels like I’m about to be scolded by my mother.
“How can you treat her like that?”
“Like what? And you just broke your own rule. No fighting in the bar, remember?”
“First off, my rules. Means I can break them without consequences. Second, you’re lucky that’s the worst I’m doing to you because I’m fighting the urge to slit your throat right now.”
I gape at her. What the hell did Phoebe tell her? I didn’t think I treated her terribly. In fact, I’m trying to treat her as nicely as I can. It’s not like I’m boyfriend material. Anyone who spends thirty seconds with me can tell that fact.
“What are you talking about?”
“I always thought you were a decent guy, Pacino. A little broody, but decent. I guess I was wrong.”
Okay, I’m not a saint, but I didn’t think I was a shit person. “Nan, what the fuck are you talking about?” I glance toward the restroom where Phoebe still hasn’t come out of. “What did she tell you?”
“She didn’t say a word. Her tattoo did.”
“She has a tattoo?”
I want to see this. I love tats on women. Sexy as hell as long as it’s not some ex’s name. Not that it would really stop me at this point.
And Phoebe does not seem like the tattoo type.
Her arms drop, and her chin juts out as she studies me. “I thought you said you already fucked her.”
“I have. In the dark.” And with her mostly clothed.
She swallows and looks shaken again. “She has a tat just below her right hip bone. I saw it when her shirt rode up taking her sweatshirt off. Before puking. Girl cannot drink.”
“Is it some guy’s name or something? What’s with the violence?”
“It’s a Medusa tattoo, Pacino.”
All air leaves my lungs, and I gape at the door to the restroom. I’m completely frozen.
“No. Not my Yellow Crayon.”