3. Chase
3
CHASE
The whiskey burns just right as I pour a third glass. Rick’s going over paperwork at the kitchen table while Zane raids the fridge. Normal night at the Cross house, except I can’t stop thinking about our new employee’s neck.
“You’re quieter than usual,” Rick says without looking up from his papers. “Still nursing that hangover?”
“Fuck off.” I down half the whiskey. “Just thinking about tattoo designs.”
Zane snorts, emerging with leftover pizza. “Sure you are. Nothing to do with the tattoos you spotted on her?”
My fingers itch for a pencil. That vine pattern disappeared under her dress, begging to be continued and expanded. “It’s shit work by an amateur.”
“Right.” Zane drops into the chair beside me. “That’s why you kept staring at it.”
“Some of us actually care about our craft.” But he’s not wrong. I spent most of the interview imagining better designs from outside Rick’s office. Watching the way her skin moved when she talked.
Rick sets down his pen. “Don’t even think about it.”
“About what?” I pour another drink.
“You know what.” He gives me that big-brother look I hate. “She’s off-limits.”
Zane laughs through a mouthful of pizza. “Come on, Rick. You saw how she looked in that dress.”
“I saw a single mother who needs this job.” Rick’s voice has that edge that usually ends arguments. “We’re not doing this again.”
I think about the last office manager—what was her name? Mandy? Sandy? She lasted two months before Zane charmed her into bed. I followed a week later. The consent form for sharing has stayed on Rick’s desk, unused since she quit.
“You’re both impossible.” Rick stands, gathering his papers. “I’m finishing these in my office.”
“More for us then.” I push the whiskey toward Zane after Rick leaves. “You really pissed her off this morning, huh?”
“Who, Evie?” Zane grins. “Nah, that was just fun. You should’ve seen her face when I kicked that mower.”
That’s Zane—everything rolls off him like water. Must be nice, being the baby brother. Never having to worry about living up to Rick or proving yourself better than anyone.
“I’m heading out.” Zane stretches. “Meeting some guys from the club at The Den. I’ll head upstairs to change,” he says, already at the foot of the stairs.
I grunt in response, already pulling my sketchbook from my back pocket. The whiskey’s got my creative juices flowing, and that tattoo of hers won’t leave me alone.
Funny how that works—three brothers, all covered in ink from neck to ankle, all knowing how to work a machine, but I’m the only one who lives for it.
Rick’s got about eighty pieces decorating his skin, Zane’s probably close to seventy-five, and I stopped counting mine after ninety. We’ve all done our share of inking beautiful women—it’s kind of our thing, marking skin that matters to us. But while my brothers see it as part of the lifestyle, I see it as breathing.
I hear footsteps running down the stairs. Zane.
“Don’t wait up!” he yells, heading to the door.
Like I would. Middle children get used to everyone coming and going. We’re the ones who stay put, hold grudges, and remember things others forget.
My pencil moves across the paper, recreating the vine pattern I glimpsed during the interview. It needs work—whoever did it didn’t understand the flow and didn’t see how it could embrace her neck, trail down her shoulder, and bloom across her back.
Her words from the interview replay in my head. Her husband cleaned out their accounts. Left her alone with two kids and ran off with another woman. Now, she’s starting fresh in Wolf Pike.
What kind of man walks away from his family? The question burns worse than the whiskey.
I flip to a clean page, but the designs won’t come. They keep turning into her face instead—the way her lips pressed together when Zane flirted.
“Fuck this.” I slam the sketchbook shut. I need to clear my head before these thoughts get dangerous.
My bedroom’s the biggest after Rick’s—perks of being the most successful artist in the family. But tonight, its walls feel tight, confining. I yank open the curtains, which I rarely do, letting in moonlight.
And I freeze.
Our house sits higher than Evie’s, and my window is perfectly aligned with her second floor. Light spills from what must be her bedroom. My breath catches.
I should close my curtains and give her privacy. Instead, I kill my own lights and watch.
Evie sits on her bed, and her daughter sits between her legs as she runs a brush through the little girl’s hair. The little girl talks nonstop, her hands moving in animated gestures, while her sister dances around them in purple pajamas.
It’s nothing special. Just a mother and her daughters getting ready for bed. But something about it roots me in place. Maybe it’s how different she looks from the woman who walked into our gallery. Her movements are looser, more relaxed, and her expression is soft.
The dancing girl trips over her own feet, and Evie catches her mid-fall. Both girls dissolve into giggles. Their mother’s smile at that moment—fuck, no wonder their dad ran. That kind of beauty terrifies weak men.
I grab my sketchbook without thinking. My fingers move across the paper, capturing quick impressions, such as the curve of Evie’s neck as she bends to kiss one of their foreheads.
Evie leads them out of her bedroom. When she returns minutes later, I’m still here, waiting. I know I should walk away. Go downstairs. Join Zane at The Den. Anything but stay here in the dark, but my feet don’t move.
She approaches the window slowly—too slowly—like she knows someone’s watching. My heart pounds as she reaches for the curtains.
I duck below the windowsill, cursing myself for being a creep. Count to ten. Peek up again.
The curtains are drawn, but they’re sheer enough that I catch her silhouette. And god, she’s definitely putting on a show now. No woman undresses that deliberately by accident. My cock hardens instantly as she starts with her hair, pulling out the clip, letting it tumble down her back.
Her shape through the gauzy fabric burns itself into my memory. She takes her time with each button of her blouse, her fingers trailing down as each one opens. The fabric slides off her shoulders, and I glimpse the outline of a lacy bra that makes my mouth go dry.
When she reaches for her zipper, I should look away. But I’m frozen, watching her shimmy out of her slacks. Behind that thin curtain, her body is all curves and shadows, making my imagination run wild. My jeans grow uncomfortable as she stretches, arching her back like a cat.
She has to know what she’s doing. Every move she makes speaks of invitation—the way she runs her hands through her hair, how she turns to give me her profile.
My sketchbook fills with gesture drawings—quick, rough captures of motion and form. Professional interest, I tell myself. Artistic appreciation. But my body’s reaction isn’t professional at all.
A tap at my door nearly gives me a heart attack.
“Still up?” Rick calls through the wood. “Need your input on these design requests.”
“Yeah…” My voice comes out rough.
My attention returns to the window just as she’s reaching behind her back. The bra slides down her arms, and god, the silhouette of her breasts makes my fingers itch to trace them. She turns, giving me her profile again, and starts pulling down her panties.
“Chase?” Rick’s getting impatient.
“Coming,” I growl, shifting to adjust myself. “Give me a minute.” When I look up one last time, she’s wrapped in a robe, moving away from the window.
Sleep’s going to be a bitch tonight. And every night, with the knowledge that just across this narrow gap between houses, she’ll be there.
Rick’s still waiting in the hallway when I open my door. He takes one look at my face and frowns.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” I shut my bedroom door firmly behind me. “What’d you say you want?”
I know I’m fucked. That window’s going to be nothing but trouble, but I’m already looking forward to tomorrow night.