She shrugs. “I hear things.”
“I see.” I take in her bare breasts again, gently devouring them with my eyes, then grasp the sides of her bra and carefully pull it back into place, snapping the clasp. “Will you be safe if you go back home?”
“What? You mean my father?” She scoffs. “How is he going to know where I was?”
“You know it wouldn’t exactly make him happy to know you just did the nasty with me.”
“I know.” She actually turns a bit serious. “Yeah, I know that. Which is why I’m going to go home.” She strokes a hand down my chest. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“This doesn’t happen to me very often.”
“What? Getting fucked over a kitchen counter?”
“Getting fucked at all. Pop is, shall we say, not much in favor of my stepping out and about.”
“Unsurprising.” I wonder at her near-virginal tightness combined with her eagerness. This was by no means her first time, I could tell, but for someone who doesn’t indulge often, she’s hella enthusiastic. Or maybe that’s why she’s enthusiastic. “Especially since you’re hot as fuck in bed.”
She laughs. “How would you know? We never made it to the bed.”
“Okay, then you’re hot as fuck over a kitchen counter.” I’m reluctant to move away from her, reluctant to let her go. “Look...you sure you don’t want to stay the night?”
“I’m sure.” She pushes me, both hands right in the middle of my chest. “I really do need to go. This has been nice—more than nice—but I don’t want Pop getting any ideas about removing all your intestines and making some kind of macramé basket out of them.”
I wince at the image. She doesn’t mince words a bit, does she? “Yeah, I can’t imagine that would be pleasant.”
“So...we can’t do this again, all right?”
It’s not all right. Usually I’m the one gently pushing away the girl, giving her some goddamn excuse why I can’t see her again. “Give me your number.”
“Nope.” Stepping away from me, she starts scanning the room for her shirt. Finds it, slips it back on, and sorts out the buttons. “I’m going home.” She pauses then, giving me a cursory look. “You might want to slap a couple Band-Aids on.”
The smile I give her this time is wry. I could use a few Band-Aids, that’s for sure. “All right.”
With one more smile, she blows me a kiss then heads out the door.
#
I have a real problem with the sun when it comes pounding in through the curtains in my bedroom. Another seventeen hours of sleep would be helpful, but I’m not going to get it. Not even another two hours. I sit up and stare at the opposite wall.
The events of yesterday roll through my head. The fight, the fuck-up, Jessica Spada with her legs splayed open on my kitchen counter. Frowning, I rub my arm. I’m sore. My dick is trying to convince me I shortchanged it last night by not giving it enough of a release. I tell it to shut up and head for the shower. I have a bad feeling about today. It’s one of those feelings you have when you’re damn sure your luck has just taken a drastic turn for the worse.
Sure enough, when I get out of the shower there’s a message in the voice mail on my cell. “McAllister, you’re in deep shit. I want you here today at ten to talk about why you fucked up yesterday.”
Spada doesn’t even bother to identify himself. No niceties, no, “Hi, Cain, how’s the body holding up?” Because he doesn’t care. As long as I’m flinging myself out there, making him money, he doesn’t give a shit what kind of condition I’m in. That’s just a straight-up fact.
So I make sure the buttons on my shirt are straight, comb my hair back so it’s not sticking out anywhere, and head for the Spada residence.
It’s not far, but in reality it’s a world away. Gated neighborhood, multimillion-dollar homes with big, manicured lawns that offer a middle finger to the current California drought conditions. Standing in front of the mansion’s wide front doors, I wonder if I’ll walk back out again. It’s a legitimate question.
One of Spada’s lickspittles—Nick, I think it is—meets me at the door and gives me one of those grand half-bowing gestures to welcome me inside. I don’t like the look he’s giving me. It’s got too much smirk in it, and I kind of want to slap it off his face. That’s not going to get me anywhere though.
“Mr. Spada is expecting you,” Nick says, waving toward the hallway that I know leads to Spada’s office.