After Eve disappeared into her bathroom, I threw on my clothes and went to the tiny kitchen in her duplex. This place must’ve been built in the seventies with its original avocado green gas stove and refrigerator. There’s a small table that seats four with mismatching chairs and well-worn lacquer. I don’t know Eve that well, but something about the funky way her place is decorated suits her.
The sun is already up over the mountains. June days in Vegas are pretty long, and sunrise comes earlier than I’d like. Especially this morning. It’s been so long since I’ve held a woman in bed. And even on the rare occasion where I have, it’s never felt like that. Her soft curves fit against me as if she were built to be there. If I didn’t have to go to work, I never would’ve let her go.
I splash cold water on my face and run wet hands through my hair. Searching for a paper towel, I find what looks like a month’s worth of mail stacked on the counter. Patting my face with a dishtowel, I finger through the envelopes. Bills, bills, and . . . bills. Credit cards, utilities, department stores, and many of them have the telltale past due pink paper flashing through the address window.
I squint and study the typed name on every bill. “Yvette W. Dawson. Huh . . .” That’s quite a grown-up name for such a young and vibrant girl.
My phone vibrates with a new text. I check it and punch out a quick reply to Ryder, telling him I’ll see him at dinner. I have three missed calls from D’lilah and no messages. Fuck. I should call her back, but chances are she just needs an ear, and I can give her that later.
“I’m ready!” Eve comes into the kitchen with her head down and her hands in a purse. “Lip gloss . . . where the hell . . .”
She says more, but I’m not paying attention. My eyes are glued to her toned legs showcased in cutoff denim shorts and a pair of those sandals women wear that make them six inches taller. She’s poured into a tiny tank top that enhances her breasts, and my dick is wide awake and aching to get at her.
“. . . at Paris, Paris.”
“I’m sorry.” I clear the rumble from my throat. “What did you say?”
Her eyes narrow. “Where were you just now?”
“Buried between your tits.” Shit!
Her breath catches. Good job. Think before you speak, asshole. I want to smack my forehead, but I’m fixed on her wide eyes and pink cheeks.
“Sorry, I . . .” Have brain damage.
“It’s okay.” She adjusts her purse on her shoulder and flashes a genuine smile. “I appreciate your honesty.”
Subject change or we’re getting naked. “I’m driving. You ready?”
She nods and grabs her keys to lock up. We’re out the door and moving to the truck when I hear her footsteps fade to a stop behind me.
I turn around and she’s standing there staring. “What?”
“That’s yours?” She points to the pick-up that she’s looking at as if we’re about to board Cinderella’s pumpkin.
“My granddad’s, but he can’t drive anymore.”
Her expression softens. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s happy it’s being used. Now move it. I’m starving.”
She steps to the hood and runs her hand along the bright red paint. “What is it?”
“’69 Ford F100.”
Her head turns from side to side. “Wow, Raven would shit if she saw this.”
“Yeah?” I unlock her door.
She slides in. “She’s a sucker for classic cars.”
I move to the driver’s side and fire up the truck, and the cab fills with the familiar sound of Hank Williams.
“From a Maserati to an old pick up playing country music.” She slides on a pair of sunglasses. “I gotta say, very few people shock me anymore.”
“Maserati’s for work. Fast, efficient—”
“Hot.”
I peer at her from the corner of my eye. “If you say so . . .”
“So the truck is for . . . ?”
“Taking things slow. Lounging.”
“Huh.” She nods. “Makes perfect sense to me. And the music? You don’t strike me as a honky-tonk guy.”
“My granddad loved country music, and after I got the truck, it never occurred to me to change the station.”
She slides her shoes off and puts her feet on the dashboard. Her soft tan legs on display are tipped with bright pink toenails that are cute as hell and dangerously distracting. “I like it.”
“Some of the country shit isn’t too bad.”
She giggles and allows a few seconds of comfortable silence settle between us. “So where are we going?”
“I know a great dive. Coffee’s for shit, but it does the job.”
We cruise to the café in silence. I’m sure there’s something that needs to be said, but I can’t figure out what that is. Fact is I’m not entirely sure I know what the fuck I’m doing. I want to see her again. I don’t have the time to invest in dating, but she seems okay with what happened last night. Ideally, I’d like her to be available when I need her. Does that constitute as an open relationship? Will she fuck other guys? ’Cause there’s no way in hell I’m okay with that. Is that something we need to talk about?
The silence in the cab trails along, and I scrape for a conversation subject.
“Slade tells me you’re best friends with his wife?”
“Yeah, Rave and I were inseparable all through high school and after, until she hooked up with Jonah.” There’s a sadness in her voice.