CHAPTER SEVEN
Billboard walked out of O’Shea’s hotel room, following behind her toward the elevator, and… Yeah. He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help watching the sway of her delectable posterior.
That lovely ass…
He didn’t know how things had gone from zero to sixty in such a short time, but he was checking her tail end out, proprietorially; like it was already his. Not his normal modus operandi with women. But…
It was all O’Shea’s fault, because she’d just had her lips on him.
If he hadn’t halted her backward jaunt toward that large, king-sized mattress, he might very well be buried deep inside her right now.
Billboard stifled a groan and hoped the discrete adjustment of his dick wasn’t on some hotel camera feed somewhere, fueling some pimply security guard’s amusement.
Which begged the question, how had this thing between him and O’Shea ramped up so quickly? One minute he’d been acting cordial, maintaining his distance, and the next, he’d innocently put his hand on her back and a bonfire had been lit. Not just conflagrating things physically, but verbally as well.
While he’d been surreptitiously shaking out his oddly electrified palm, she’d taken that small touch, and run with it, like it had given her permission to ask some pretty probing questions.
And he’d answered.
Or grunted.
But those grunts had been actual responses, right?
He’d gone on to tell her a few things that only he and Doctor Ed knew. Not that his mother and his team weren’t aware he had problems, but on his request, none of those people ever confronted him about them.
If he wasn’t careful, O’Shea would have him dropping all his barriers, and he’d end up bawling on her shoulder, revealing all his dirty laundry to her before he knew what happened.
And it was all due to O’Shea’s lips.
After the truncated Q and A, she’d gone in for that simple kiss on his dimple. That’s when his brain had truly short-circuited. He’d wanted to cry uncle at that moment, and give her everything she demanded.
The question was, would he be able to open up and let her in on his secrets, more than the small amount that he already had? He wasn’t stupid. In order to make anything work between them, he’d have to turn all his dark past over to her, because one thing he understood about O’Shea? She never accepted things halfway. It was all-in, or not in at all.
But for now…
“Uh, how do you want to play this fledgling…relationship in front of my team?” he asked. It wasn’t the major thing on his mind by any means. Their newly declared association took that honor. But since they were meeting everyone for dinner in a few minutes, it was the most eminent conundrum.
O’Shea snorted as the elevator doors closed behind them.
“Mizzay, the steel trap, already knows I like you, doesn’t she?” O’Shea’s awareness was, as always, off the charts.
“Correct,” he acknowledged. “Who do you think set it up for Brigid to get called away by a bogus Sarge-emergency so I could pick you up?”
O’Shea laughed, not at all bothered. “I figured it was something like that because Sarge and his toe? Not cutting it. And the Billboard I remember wouldn’t have instigated tonight’s unorthodox meet-and-greet.”
Billboard didn’t know whether to be flattered that O’Shea had his number, or annoyed that she didn’t think he had it in him to orchestrate a liaison. He grunted. “I would have gotten around to showing my interest, eventually,” he grumbled.
“Maybe,” O’Shea allowed. “But I wouldn’t have waited patiently. You know me. I wouldn’t have been able to cool my heels anticipating, for very long. Once it got out there that you weren’t with Peggy anymore, I wouldn’t have been able to hold back from making the first move.”
“You mean like telling me you fantasized about me,” he snickered.
O’Shea chortled. “Ooh! You are not going to let that go, are you?”
“Nope. Not until you spill about the X-rated content involved.”
She got a sly look on her face as they walked from the elevator, out into the lobby.
Shit. Billboard kind of wished he’d waited until they were in the car for “sharing time”. He was a, uh, big boy, down there , and if she got graphic…
Hell, if she started talking about touching herself, or vibrators…
Gah ! Too late.
He swiftly untucked his shirt and covered his zipper. That would have to do.
“First of all,” O’Shea told him, as yet unaware of his problem, “I pictured your chest.” She hummed a sound of appreciation. “I’ve imagined it so many times. Across your as-yet-to-be-explored ink, there’s a smattering of light brown hair which sweeps across your pecs. Not too much, mind you, or we’d have to do some manscaping, but enough to rub my face into its softness, to transmit all your fine pheromones up into my nostrils.”
Billboard almost choked over her graphic description.
“That’s pretty, uh, interesting,” he managed.
Damn . He wanted her tongue on him. And her teeth. He cleared his throat. “To put paid to your speculation, yes, I have some hair, but not a lot.”
A noise of approval emerged from between her lips as they exited the lobby using the revolving door, then ended up on a dusk-lit street.
“Mmm. Good to know,” she purred. “Now, next, I picture you taking off your pants, but you’re facing away from me,” she revealed with some lust in her eyes. “I get my first glimpse of your fine ass, all smooth and muscled. And I walk forward, filling my hands with your cheeks.”
Billboard stopped, and found his feet glued to the sidewalk. Picturing her cradling his ass, his limbs refused all orders.
O’Shea came to a halt and arched a brow. “Uh, Billboard? You okay? Where are you parked?”
Billboard growled. “Yes, I’m okay, but you’re asking an awful lot. I’m not a good multi-tasker, you know,” he admonished hotly, getting his feet moving again. “I can’t think of your hands on my ass, and direct us to my car at the same time.”
O’Shea grinned, then took pity on him. “Fine. No butt-talk then. At least not until we’re in your vehicle,” she added cheekily, raising a brow.
“Right. It’s down that street over there.” He pointed, and they both started walking that way. Him, a little gingerly.
O’Shea thankfully gave up that line of conversation, and looking up, swept a hand at the high-rises around them. “This is actually a very pretty city. How long have you lived here?”
This kind of small-talk, Billboard could do. “I grew up in Cambridge, which isn’t Boston, but close. It’s a direct neighbor, right across the Charles River. My Mom inherited a large house from her mother when she passed, and moved us in after my father died. It was a big old place to bump around in for the two of us, but then I started working construction for my summer jobs during high school and college. I eventually learned enough to take my time and make the place into a duplex, half of which she was able to rent out for some extra income. Then I went into the military for a while…”
Those memories weren’t so great. He brought his mind back around to when he’d returned. “Once I was stateside again, and the current tenant’s lease was up, I moved in, and it’s been great ever since. We both have our privacy, but I can still be there for her if she needs anything.”
“That was an ambitious project at such an early age. And Billboard?” She looked at him as if he was someone special. “It’s very sweet you’re close to your mother.” She stated it with undisguised appreciation in her eyes. “I don’t have that kind of relationship with either of my parents,” she told him pragmatically. “But my brother Cedric and I have always been close. If he hadn’t gotten married, I’d still be sharing a place with him.”
Billboard gave an internal sigh of relief that O’Shea didn’t have a problem with him living next to his mother. Peggy had. She’d thought it was a little weird for him to be such a mama’s boy, even though she put her police-officer-father up on a pedestal and idolized him.
But that was water under the bridge.
“Where does Cedric live?” Billboard asked. He’d never gotten up the guts to ask her any personal questions when he’d known her before.
“Baton Rouge,” she told him. “And I’m going to be an aunt in a couple months.” Her face showed delight. “He and his wife Libby are expecting twins.”
“Congratulations. You’ll make a great aunt.”
And a great mother , Billboard imagined. O’Shea was so passionate about everything, he could see her on the floor playing trucks or dolls, or whatever their kids would want to—
Oh shit. He’d just imagined their kids.
It was not something he’d ever envisioned with any other woman. Ever . He needed to shut this train down; or at least slow its roll. Even though he had a feeling O’Shea was everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, there was no saying whether she—fantasies or not—would want to stick around. He had a truckload of baggage, and none of it was good.
“What just made your face go sour, Billboard?” she asked astutely, stopping to face him.
He sighed. There was no way he’d tell her he’d been thinking about future children with her, or how she’d probably run from him, far and fast if she knew what he’d done in the past. But she deserved to know he was nervous about her not sticking around. “Just thinking about where things between us might fall apart.” He blew out a stream of air from between clenched teeth. “I’ve got…ghosts. And I’m an uncommunicative asshole. You? You’re…open. Those are pretty big differences to overcome. Then there’s where you live. You’re in Louisianna, and I’m in Boston.”
Something suddenly occurred to him. “Hell, I don’t even know how long you plan on staying here.”
She shrugged, but didn’t back away from his probing as they moved forward again. “What if I told you I’m contemplating a move?”
Something lit up inside his chest. “Really?”
Damn. He hoped his voice hadn’t cracked.
“Yeah. I…” Taking one deep breath, she lit into a tirade of how she’d worked so hard for a promotion back in Opeloosa. How she’d finally passed the sergeant’s exam, but then with the whole upheaval of the department, her plans had been derailed when the sergeant’s position had been filled before she’d fully qualified.
“That’s rough,” Billboard commiserated. Down deep, however, he was crossing his mental fingers. “Where…?” He cleared his throat. “Do you, uh, have any thoughts as to where you might want to end up?”
O’Shea turned and stopped dead in her tracks again to face him, all sense of play gone from her visage. “You can’t say anything about this because I don’t want to get Brigid’s hopes up, but I’ve made inquiries with the Police Commissioner’s Office here in Boston. I’m waiting to see if they’ll accept my sergeant’s credentials without too much hassle.”
If Billboard thought he was over the moon before with the whole “O’Shea dreaming about him” thing, this news blew that away.
Okay . Maybe compounded it. Because after all, fantasizing …
He shook himself a little to get back on track.
The thought of O’Shea being in Boston; being close by? Hell, yes. Nothing would make him happier.
Not generally a spontaneous guy, he tossed aside his normal caution and threw his arms around O’Shea, picked her up, and twirled her in circles, a shit-eating grin breaking out over his face.
O’Shea spluttered. “I guess… I’m thinking that news makes you happy?” she squeaked, once she landed back on her feet.
Billboard wasn’t going to beat around the bush. “Yes. It makes me happy. Ecstatic, actually,” he rambled. “I didn’t know how things would work out if we were going to be roughly a dozen states apart, but if you actually move here…”
He trailed off. Right. Things still had to go smoothly between them, and that would all rest on him. O’Shea was nothing but an open book, whereas his leathery and beaten old cover remained closed most of the time.
She seemed to know where his mind had gone, and patted his arm.
“Don’t sweat it, Billboard. We’re a work in progress. We already know we like each other, and,” she became impish, “that we want to suck each other’s face off. The rest will either come to us or not.”
“It’s the ‘or not’ I’m worried about,” he grumped.
“And that, my hopefully-lover-to-be-hot-guy, is up to you. If I’m worth it, you’ll find a way to work through all your crap and open up. If not…” She shrugged and turned, not giving any more power to his doubts. “Now, which ride is yours?”
Billboard shook himself, then pointed proudly to his 1977 Ford Bronco with its original turquoise-green paint, sitting several yards away under a streetlight that had just gone on.
“That sweet thing?” O’Shea asked, breathlessly, her Louisiana accent popping out. “Hello, beautiful.” She turned to him and tugged on his sleeve. “Tell me you have a rag top for it.”
“Yup.” Billboard nodded, pumped that O’Shea had an interest in cars that seemed to align with his. “I’ve got hard, soft, or no top at all.” Tonight, he’d opted for the hard top, even though no rain was predicted for later.
“I love it,” she gushed, running over to peer inside.
Billboard followed closely, and using his key—because remotes hadn’t been around for this model when it was manufactured—he unlocked and opened the door for her, and watched as she slid in.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe next weekend, if the weather cooperates, I’ll take you on a drive down the coast with the top off?” he suggested.
“I’d love that.” She was busy running her hands over his white upholstery with its vertical pleats.
When he closed her door and got into the driver’s side, she was full of questions.
“Is it all original? How long have you had it? Where did you get it?”
Billboard chuckled. She wouldn’t have to pull teeth to get any of that information out of him. This was his special baby.
“It’s all original except for the engine,” he chuckled. “And it’s been in my family since it was new. It belonged to my grandfather, who babied it, but my grandmother was a bit…” How did he put this? “…absent minded.” He’d actually been apprised by his two uncles that Gram had been an airhead, but Billboard’s mom never spoke that way about her mother, and Billboard had been a baby when she’d passed, so what did he know?
Billboard continued. “My grandfather was with some government agency which to this day remains unnamed, but during the year or so when the Iran hostage crisis was going on, he was absent from home, probably undercover in Iran. My grandmother took to driving the Bronco, because, my mother told me, it made her feel closer to him. But unfortunately, she ran it out of oil, and trashed the engine.”
“Oh, no!” O’Shea’s face said she was imagining it, even though it had occurred over forty-five years ago. “What happened then?”
“It got towed into the garage on our property, and once Gramps returned, he never had the heart to fix it. He felt like that might rub things into Gram’s face, the fact that she’d lunched it. So, there it sat until I inherited it.”
Billboard grinned as he turned the key and dropped his baby into gear, waiting for traffic to clear. “It was born with a 302 cubic inch engine, which was good for about 205 horsepower back in the day. But I replaced the busted engine with an after-market block; a 383 with 436 horses.”
She gasped. “That’s a lot of power for a Bronco.”
Billboard smiled and hit the gas. His tires squealed as he launched into the street.
“Eeee!” O’Shea’s excited scream made him want to crow.
Her exhilaration was the cherry on top of the sundae he’d somehow been served up today. And to think, he hadn’t even known, when the day started, that he was in the market for dessert.