Chapter 6 #2
“Uhm, I could lose this job?”
“You’re amazingly talented. There will be tons of jobs, babe.”
“This is Marcus fucking Conner. I’d finally have a famous person on my résumé. I could be that much closer to opening my own firm.”
She purses her lips. “Would we call him famous?”
I wave my hand. “He’s famous in the business world. I can focus on Hollywood starlets next. One step at a time.”
“Okay, fine, J. But how often do you find your dream guy?”
“I would hardly classify him as my dream guy. He’s physically my type, yes. But I don’t even know him that well.” I spread my hands on the table and bend closer to her. “He could be a serial killer. Do you know how many have originated in the Pacific Northwest alone?”
Marion stares at me blankly.
“The Spokane Serial Killer, the Green River Killer.” I tick them off on my fingers. “And Ted Bundy and Westley Allan Dodd made their rounds here too!”
“Why the fuck do you know all this?”
I sit back and ignore her question. “Plus, and most importantly, Marcus thinks he’s straight, Marion.
I’m not sure I want to deal with that drama.
” I sigh. “You should have seen him bolt after that blowie—like his pants were on fire. He’s a walking red flag.
” I stare at her in horror. “What if I fall in love with him?”
She gives me a flat look, as if that’s not the scariest shit she’s ever heard. “I still think you should fuck him.”
“You are no help at all,” I grouse.
“Are you sure he’s gay?”
I scoff. “I’m sure he’s queer. The tension between us is thicker than Tristan’s gran’s oatmeal.”
Marion grimaces. “Don’t remind me. Worst cure for a hangover ever.”
I stand and reach for my messenger bag. “I need to get home to feed T. He’s going to be mouthy.”
Marion downs the rest of her drink and nods, standing as well. We walk through the bar and out the door. I lean in and kiss her cheek. “Say hi to the ball and chain for me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure. Have a good night, J.”
I shoulder my bag and turn the other direction, heading back to my apartment. When I get there, I stop, staring at the man on my doorstep.
Marcus sits there, nervously tapping his thigh with his pointer finger. My stomach does a weird flip.
“Marcus?” I say slowly as I approach.
His head snaps up, dark hair falling over his eyes. “Hey,” he rumbles awkwardly, climbing to his feet. I watch as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out my work phone. “You left this.”
I pat my pocket, realizing it’s not there.
“Oh, thanks, it’s nice of you to bring it back.
I probably didn’t need it over the weekend.
” I take the phone from his outstretched hand, and this time when our fingers brush, he doesn’t flinch.
I peer up at him, studying his soft brown eyes. “Is everything okay?”
“I, uhm, actually . . .” His face reddens. “You know what? It’s cool. Never mind.” He starts to move past me, but I grab his wrist.
“What’s going on, Marcus?”
He stares at where our skin connects, licks his lips, and looks up.
“I have an . . . issue at my condo, and I need to lie low for a few hours.” He shifts from foot to foot.
I’m pretty sure he’s lying. “Tristan has his gran and her cribbage buddies over at his place tonight, so I can’t go there, and I didn’t know who else to call.
And when I called you, your phone rang in the pub, and I realized you’d left it, so then I wanted to return it to you, and . . . here I am.”
He looks all kinds of uncomfortable, and I hide a smile.
“You can come in.” I fiddle with the key in the lock and step out of the way, allowing him to enter the narrow hallway.
He pauses in confusion, and I realize that I should have gone first. I squeeze past him, my front brushing his back.
He shivers and plasters himself against the wall so I can get by. I smirk and lead the way.
I stop and Marcus runs directly into my back. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He’s so endearingly clumsy. He stays close behind me, eyeing the hot dog mat like it might bite him.
“This place is interesting.” His voice has a snobby undertone.
“Sorry it’s not a fancy condo. Some of us have to live like peasants.”
“That’s not what I meant, Jeremy.” Marcus sighs. “Remember our talk about stereotypes? Can you give it a rest? Please?”
I nod tightly, my shoulders still tense because he totally started it with his tone. I walk inside, dropping my bag by the table and my keys in the bowl. Toothless scampers into the room with a sassy meow, and Marcus takes a step back.
“What the fuck is that?”
I raise an eyebrow. “It’s a cat. You do know what a cat is, right?”
“A cat. Right. It’s dark in here. Y-you have a cat?”
“Obviously.”
He drops to one knee and sticks out his hand. T eyes him cautiously before sniffing his fingers and tentatively rubbing his head against Marcus’s outstretched palm.
“Wow, he likes you. T doesn’t like anyone.”
“T?”
“Short for Toothless.”
“He doesn’t have teeth?” Marcus looks up at me in horror, and I burst out laughing.
“You haven’t seen How to Train Your Dragon?”
He shakes his head, his eyes softening as T starts to purr while Marcus scratches under his chin. “Is that a kids show?”
“Well, it’s a cartoon. A movie. It’s one of my favorites.”
I almost expect a snarky comment about having a favorite cartoon, but he just nods and continues to pet my traitorous cat. “It looks like my sister’s cat. She was all black too. She was named Anakin.”
“I didn’t know you have a sister.”
Except I actually do, and I’ve met her before. But I’m not about to tell Marcus that. Or that I’ve had a threesome with his sister’s boyfriends. I don’t think that’d go over well.
Marcus stands and walks ahead of me into my living room. “Yeah, younger stepsister.” He sits down on the couch and flicks on the lamp.
Like the rest of the room, my couch is part of a misfit collection—mismatched curtains, bookshelves of differing heights and styles, a soft green shag carpet.
I hardly ever buy anything new, but it’s not just because I’m frugal.
I’m careful about what I’ve curated over the years.
I like to think of my style as eighties meets grandma chic.
I carry a lot of emotional baggage that bleeds into everything I own.
After my parents died, I spent a year in the foster system before my aunt took legal custody of me.
At first, I thought I got lucky. My foster parents seemed nice.
But I quickly learned that having me around was just a show of kindness to fatten their social reputations.
I was largely ignored and spent hours every day in their basement.
The only bright side was that they had a VCR and let me watch old movies, including The Brave Little Toaster.
I cried every time I watched it because how could you not?
The plot is pretty much Toy Story meets Homeward Bound.
And I swore to always save used, discarded items because I didn’t want them to feel sad anymore.
I knew what it was like to feel unwanted.
I walk to the kitchen and pick up T’s bowl while he continues to cry, each meow more pathetic than the last. “You would think I starve him from the way he acts.”
Marcus chuckles, and the sound lights me up inside. I pour T’s food and put the bag away, suddenly wondering what the heck I’m doing.
Marcus is in my apartment. He’s in my apartment. How long is he going to stay? Do I have anything for him to eat or drink? What if I need to use the bathroom? The walls are paper-thin. Oh my God. He’s going to hear me pee.
My hands tremble as I take a deep breath, close the cupboard, and turn, running directly into Marcus’s hard chest. My breath catches in surprise as I take a step back and stare into his chocolate eyes, unable to blink or breathe.
I want to scrape my fingers across his stubbled jaw. He smells like the woods.
“Sorry,” he rumbles. I swear his voice penetrates my body all the way down to my dick, which immediately takes notice. “I was just getting a cup of water.”
“Normal guests just ask,” I whisper.
“Right. I-I didn’t want to inconvenience you while you fed your cat.”
“The cups are next to the sink.” Why is my voice so hoarse?
My hand drops to my hip. I really want to touch the scar, but the waist of my jeans is in the way. I rub the spot anyway, feeling some relief from the pressure of my finger.
Marcus nods but doesn’t move, and his gaze follows the movement of my hand. I freeze, my fingers trembling.
“Are you okay?” He frowns, reaching for my forearm, but he stops before we touch.
“I . . .” I stare at his mouth.
I want to kiss you. I want to wrap my legs around your waist as you lift me onto the counter and rut against me like we’re starring in a porno.
“I’m fine,” I squeak and slide aside, cocking my head at the cabinet. “Like I said, glasses are there next to the sink.”
“Right, yeah.” Marcus moves past me and grabs a glass, then walks to the sink and fills it from the tap like a psycho.
“There’s filtered water on the fridge door, you know.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “I didn’t realize you were such a priss.”
“Tap water is gross. Period. Me being a priss has nothing to do with it.”
“So you admit you’re a priss?”
I narrow my eyes at him. Others have called me high maintenance, but I’m not about to admit that to Marcus Conner.
He shrugs and takes a long drink, and I shudder, but still watch his Adam’s apple with interest as he swallows.
I grab my water bottle from the sink, fill it from the fridge, and walk back to the living room, dropping onto the couch.
Marcus finishes his glass and then follows, sitting down next to me.
His thigh touches mine, and I never realized how small my couch was until this beast of a man sat on it with me.
I clear my throat. “So what’s going on at your apartment?”
Marcus rubs the back of his neck. “There was a flood.”
“A flood?”
“Yeah, I don’t get along with my washing machine.”
“Don’t you have, like, a butler or someone who does your laundry for you?” I’m only half joking.
He gives me a flat stare. “I’m rich, Jeremy, not Batman.”
“That’s a bummer. A vigilante alter ego would make up for some of your personality flaws.”
“What personality flaws?”
I press my lips together to hide a smile. “Too many to list, but if you must know a few, you’re bossy, you wear too much flannel, and your cologne is a lot.”
His jaw ticks. “You don’t like my flannel?”
“I mean, I know you’re going for, like, a rugged, uber-straight Pacific Northwest look, but wearing it every day is a little on the nose, don’t you think?” I smirk. “I bet you wear cargo shorts in the summer.”
I don’t really know why I’m teasing him so much. I think I just like the feral look that fills his eyes the more I run my mouth. He’s just so easy to rile up.
But before I can process what happens next, Marcus’s hand is around my throat—again—pushing me into the couch as he looms over me. The smell of pine and mint fills my nose as he exhales in frustration. “And here we are again. I thought I told you to stop being a brat.”
My water bottle crashes to the floor, making a horrible clang, and I wince because the old lady in the basement suite hates loud noises.
My insides churn with anticipation, and I can feel the calluses on Marcus’s fingers scraping my skin.
My dick thickens against my zipper, and I let out an involuntary whine.
I’m kind of a small person, so I’m used to dominant guys; his aggression doesn’t faze me.
It’s hot.
“Did I hit a nerve?”
Marcus grits his teeth and his grip on my neck tightens. He drops his forehead to my throat like he’s fighting something.
I should ask him to let me go.
I should ask him to leave.
There are a lot of things I should do. Instead, I push my crotch against his and hear his needy whimper as his resolve starts to teeter.