I muted the phone and sent my tire iron crashing through the pipe underneath my kitchen sink.
“I have a leak in my kitchen,” I replied.
She paused. “Do you have a leak in your kitchen or your brain? Because I’m suspecting you’re trying to make a certain badass mountain man jealous by having a certain ex-Special Forces-turned-bartender who wants in your pants.” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Because that would make a great Pay-Per-View, but I feel like even you don’t want that kind of drama.”
“Do you have the number or not?” I asked, feeling impatient. I didn’t like she was reading me so well and caring about how my decisions might affect me negatively. I didn’t need that shit.
She sighed and rattled off the number. “You’re playing with fire, Mags.”
“And do you think I haven’t been burned before?”
“Wow, looks liked someone came in here with a crowbar,” Deacon said, head underneath my sink.
I cradled my glass against my chest.
The chest that looked damn fine, was moisturized, tanned, and highlighted within an inch of its life. As was the rest of me. I had on a tight, short, tee-shirt dress that hugged every part of my perfect body, bare feet because that seemed more intimate, and hair tumbling around my face in curls that looked effortless but took an hour to do.
Ditto with the makeup.
I knew I looked like sex on a stick, plus the dress and the lowered heat made it clear I wasn’t wearing a bra.
It wasn’t the normal routine for me. I didn’t seduce men. I didn’t need to, even before all this. I’d always been pretty. Good genes, my mom said. But when I got boobs at thirteen, hips and full lips—yeah, I was sexy. There was a darkness that even an idiotic teenage boy was interested in, if not infatuated by.
I’d never wanted to seduce anyone. What was the point?
But I had a point with Deacon.
Was it to make Saint jealous?
No. A man like Saint wasn’t apt to get jealous. He wanted me or he didn’t. If he wanted me, he’d make it known. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here. Which he wasn’t. Magazines and HBO wanted to make it complicated but it really was that simple. If a man wanted you, no mind games, he’d be with you.
Women did the mind games.
“Ah, well, who knows what happens with household things,” I replied. “Maybe I have an intruder.”
He raised his brow. “An intruder that comes in only to smash your kitchen pipe, take nothing, do no other damage, and disappear?”
I shrugged. “People are weird.”
He nodded, standing and wiping his hands on a rag that was tucked into the back of his jeans. “You’re not wrong.” He glanced down. “When you called and said it was the kitchen, I bought some stuff I knew would work. Lucky for you, this pipe smasher has terrible aim. Nothing serious hit. Easy fix.”
I was pissed at the fact he thought I had terrible aim. I had great aim. I did it terribly for a reason. Which was not at all the point. “I would offer you a beer as a thank you, but I don’t drink beer. Don’t keep it in the house.”
He grinned. Again, easy. Uncomplicated. “As expected. I bought whisky.” He nodded to the toolbox that had a bottle sticking out of it. I hadn’t noticed that before. I was usually good with details.
“You came when I called, fixed my sink and brought whisky?” I asked, moving to get glasses. “You really aren’t pissed at me.”
He sat at the kitchen table, not making any illusions about the fact he was checking me out. No games.
It was satisfying, I’d give him that. I’d never gained satisfaction from a man finding me attractive. I got it from them respecting me. My intelligence.
Though, I had to value their opinion before it meant something to me.
But I was satisfied that Deacon wanted to fuck me. I wanted to fuck him too.
“No, I’m not pissed at you,” he said, taking the glass from me.
Our fingers brushed. I did it on purpose.
No electrifying sparks. No fireworks. But attraction.
I sat at the table.
“You study people,” he continued. “For your own reasons. I know it ’cause, reading your books, it’s pretty fucking clear you know humans. You know where they’re different. And where they’re the same. You know monsters. And no other way would you get that ability, without dissecting people.” He shrugged.
It hit me harder than I expected, what he said. But then again, I never expected him to say anything like that, to be so intuitive.
It was something along the lines of an emotional orgasm, having someone recognize me.
“I guess I do dissect people,” I said, my neck itching with the need to write. To start.
I drained the glass.
It hit the table with a thump.
He watched me stand, round the table. He moved, slightly, so his chair was out and his legs splayed open.
An invitation.
I took it, stepping between his legs and placing one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his shoulder. This was not slow. I was done with the bullshit, the games. I wanted to see what his mouth tasted like.
Whisky.
Mint.
Pleasant.
He was a good kisser too. I thought he was going to be aggressive. Rough. But he was slow. Taking his time. Showing off.
He was a really good kisser.
So much so, that I found myself in his lap, grinding myself against his hard crotch within moments.
It lasted long enough for me to feel ready to orgasm from just the friction.
We were standing quickly. I didn’t know if his was because he had been planning on ripping my clothes off or not, but he kissed me. I had been kissing him, in control of this whole thing. He was making a point.
“You’re using me,” he said, pulling back.
“Yeah,” I replied, not moving. There was using a guy, and there was lying about it. I was always honest about what a garbage person I was. “But I think you’re using me a little too.”
He glared at me, with true disgust and anger. A violent amount. With malice. Because I was calling him out or because I’d read him really freaking well. But he didn’t speak, didn’t punch me in the face. He considered my statement. Sighed. Ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“You’re not over her.”
He didn’t answer because it wasn’t a question. What he did do was step back from me, like I was poison. Which I guessed I was.
“Did you kill her?”
I got the real rage then.
“What the fuck?” he clipped.
“It’s a reasonable question,” I said. “You were in love with her, she didn’t feel the same way, she was fucking someone else.”
His eyes bulged. “You know what? I knew you were selfish, rude, and too into yourself to respect other people, but you were honest about it. I liked that. It attracted me to you. No bullshit. But now I know you’re ugly. Not on the outside. You make sure to do everything in your power to hide your true self. I see it now.”
He glared at me with true hatred, then walked off, slamming my door.
I realized after a few beats that he had not answered the question.
I stewed over Deacon’s exit for longer than I needed to. Or not long enough. Who could tell. I didn’t have experience stewing over a man…ever. But I did stew. Stared at the window with a glass of whisky. Not at the lake, but the spot where Emily died. What I didn’t do was write. I had snatches of paragraphs scattered all over a Word document, like a shredded, mismatched tapestry.