Chapter 23
1492words
With deft flicks of my wrists, I guide the paintbrush in short strokes, blending shades of blue and yellow across the canvas. I took up painting simply as a means to relieve stress, hoping to channel my tension into colors and shapes.
I dragged out my easel again tonight, telling myself that between painting myself to exhaustion and finishing the bottle of red I just opened, I'll get some decent sleep tonight.
Or die trying.
For the fourth night in a row, I can't sleep. Not a single wink. Because I can't stop thinking about him.
That last phone call shifted something between us. It was as though an unspoken pact had been formed, with some part of me expecting Zade to call every night to share the unfolding events of his life.
But he hasn't. Not for a week now. Not since that phone call.
I tell myself it's because his line of work is dangerous and I just need to know that he's safe, not because I miss talking to him.
'Why would I fucking miss him? He's just a criminal," I mutter, swiping my brush against the blue background in a satisfying streak of bold red paint.
'He's probably even forgotten I exist. I'm sure he's busy gorging up on women like the damned brunette on the plane who all but devoured him with her eyes. And let's not forget the hundreds of ‘women he fucks,'damsels in distress he rescues who eagerly fall into bed and have wild sex with the big bad mafia guy."
Or maybe he got hurt. Like seriously hurt. A knife wound. A bullet in a vital organ. Shit. The thought of that twists my gut.
Before I can stop myself, I grab my phone and scroll again. I can't call him—he rang me from an unknown number—I just want to see the call log again because, well, I'm pathetic.
I stop scrolling on that call from last week and stare at the call details. It was at 1:14 AM. Lasted 22 min 56 secs.
I really, really loved that phone call. He talked, and I listened. Then I told him my fears, things I'd never told anyone else, and he listened.
And I must be the biggest idiot alive, mooning over a man that, frankly, I should be ecstatic if he never shows up again. I angrily swipe away until my eyes snag on Mags. I check the time on my phone to see it's nearly midnight. Harmony is two hours behind Chicago so it's not too late to call Mags.
She answers almost immediately, 'Took you long enough, Sparrow," Mags accuses.
'It's not even been a month, Mags, I protest.
'Well, I suppose I can't blame you. If I had me a man as hot as yours, I'd be choking so good on him it'd take me a while to come up for air too—with Razor's permission, of course."
'Mags! Geez… first of all, eww. I think I threw up a little bit in my mouth."
Too late, I realize that was the wrong thing to say when Mags starts to cackle. 'Well, isn't that the whole point of gagging?"
'Seriously, Mags, I'm hanging up," I warn.
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. 'Oh, you're no fun at all, Sparrow. Sometimes I wonder about you."
Even though Mags is only two years my senior, her wisdom, experience, sexual liberation, and sheer embodiment of bad bitch-ness make her seem ages ahead. And the sort of things she and Razor get up to makes me blush to my ears thinking about them.
'Anyway, Saphs, how are you? Why did you leave in such a huff with the mafia guy?"
'He's not—"
'Shush, you think Phoenix wouldn't look into him the moment he stepped into the clubhouse? And at Rafe's burial, no less?"
'He was my date. I'm allowed to bring one of those."
'Yes, but not one who shows up wearing signet rings that scream 'cult' and acts like the Prez and Veep are his men-at-arms! I don't know if you've taken a look at the bikers in Reaper Druids MC, but those men are as scary as fuck. They make grown men piss in their pants. And make grown women simply… piss."
'Jesus, Mags!"
She chortles, 'Anyway, you know what I mean."
It's true. My dad, at fifty-two, is two hundred pounds of solid muscle and has almost more tattoos than skin.
'So what's the deal with him? You two were hot and heavy the night before, and the morning after, it was like the Arctic."
I take a large sip of the red wine and then go back to peering at my easel. It started out as an abstract of calm emotions, but somehow, it's become a cocktail of reds and yellows and a rare periwinkle blue that accurately captures Zade's eye color. I don't even recall mixing that shade of blue. I would blame it on the wine, except this is still my first glass.
'Mags, it's complicated."
'No, I think it's pretty simple. How does he make you feel?"
I shake my head, take another sip of wine, and paint.
A memory flashes in my head. It was one of the club's charity car washes. I remember the classic black Mustang that Rafe stole later that night, and I'd tagged along just to experience the heady rush of adrenaline that driving a stolen car gives.
I'd told Mags all about it the next day. She was eighteen at the time and was still a club hopeful who hung around Razor and the other bikers. Mags was the big sister I never had, and we'd kicked up a friendship.
'Remember the Mustang Rafe stole that summer you came to us?"
'Yeah, of course."
'Being with Zade reminds me of that day."
'Hmm, so you're just doing it for the thrill? It's just sex, right?"
That's a good question since I haven't even slept with the man. 'It's not—" I begin, but the sound of knocking cuts me short. 'Uh, hang on, Mags. There's someone at the door… I think it's Cade."
'Good, put him on. He owes me a call, too."
Cade has shown up at my door late at night between undercover jobs and crashed on my couch more times than I can count. Nevertheless, wise woman that I am, I reach for my knife as I go to the front door and peer into the peephole.
Only, it's not Cade standing on my front porch. It's Zade. My heart pounds as I blink and look again just to be sure—not at all because I want another look at him.
'Um, Mags, I'll, uh, have to call you back okay?"
'Shit, it's him, isn't it?" Mags guesses right, probably from the tremor in my voice, but I don't respond. I simply disconnect the call.
'What are you doing here?" I ask through the door, trying to ignore the heat surging through my body and my suddenly drenched panties.
Wow. I've become Pavlov's dog. How fucking great is that?
It's only been one week since he was last in my office. One week since the damned phone call I can't forget.
He just stands there waiting with his jaw clenched, looking like the poster boy for angry sex and sin and everything I shouldn't want.
So, of course, I step back and open the door because it seems my self-restraint has puddled somewhere around my toes.
The light above the front porch shines down on him, highlighting his chiseled cheekbones and the hard set of his jaw.
I open my mouth to say something—though I have no idea what—but I don't get the chance.
'I haven't had sex in a month," he says, his brow furrowed like this is a very serious problem.
I give him a thorough once-over, from tousled dark hair to the broad expanse of his shoulders down to the slender lines of his hips. 'What, have you been living under a rock?" The question slips out before I can stop it. 'Because that's the only scenario I can imagine where you'd struggle to get laid."
He laughs, but there's no humor in it, then he steps past me and into my home.
Okay, well, do come in. I wasn't having an indulgent night of painting and pining—really.
I close the door as he looks around.
'You've been drinking," he says as his gaze takes in the wine bottle and half-full glass on the coffee table. And painting."
I chuckle. 'Your observation skills are as keen as ever."
'Are you drunk?" he asks as his brow furrows again.
I consider the question for a moment, then shake my head. A full glass of wine might mess with my restraint and brain-mouth filter, but I've not had even that, so my faculties are all there. 'I'm sober enough to know this isn't a good idea."
'For who?"
