He’s jabbing his finger at the lady, shaking his head in disgust. A big man in a suit stands behind him, hands folded over his front, looking sort of shifty. The lady has rollers in her hair and—I shit you not—she is casually filing her nails as Angelo continues to rant at her. She literally does not give a rat’s ass. I’m thinking about how awesome that is, until I hear what Angelo’s problem is.
“You could’ve killed someone!” I hear as I get closer. “You can’t be on your cell phone when you’re driving. What is wrong with you?”
They don’t even see us approaching. I’m annoyed with myself about how glad I am he’s berating her for being on her phone. If it’s true, it does deserve a tongue-lashing.
But at the same time, it’s a bit of a jerk move as well, so I’m torn. And why should I be glad that he is the one in the right? He’s nothing to me. Just a half-forgotten dream, a one-time thing stamped with Burn After Reading, a foray into a self-contained universe that imploded the moment I left that room in the nightclub.
But, as shook as I am after that call with Wyatt, I can practically taste the beer on his finger, feel his cock probing between my legs.
I know why: because he’s an escape from my problems.
In that room, with his beer-soaked fingers on my tongue, nothing else existed but the pursuit of pleasure. I came for it; he gave it to me. There were no ODs, no drugs, no tearstained seventeen year olds crying outside of hospital rooms.
There was just pure sex.
I shake my head to dislodge the unwelcome thoughts that are crowding in. Yet I can’t help but listen to the rest of Angelo and Mom-mobile’s exchange.
“I’m so bored of this. I wasn’t on my cell phone. So leave me alone, freak.”
That really sets him off, because he takes a big breath like he is about to read this lady the riot act. But then he glances over and sees me, and his entire demeanor shifts. He straightens up, cracks his neck, and walks the dozen yards to where I’m standing, rooted in place with emotions that I thought I’d left behind two nights ago.
“Well,” he says wryly when he’s close enough for me to smell his blood and cologne mingling together, “it seems fate really has brought us together.”
I can’t help but smile for half a beat, because I was just thinking that. What do I say next? I’m glad it did? I wish it didn’t? Please take me again? Please leave me the hell alone? All those options are wrong for various reasons.
But I don’t get the chance to pick between them. “Wait,” Ricky interrupts, looking between us. “Do you two know each other?”
Angelo shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Then why … I’m sorry, sir, but why did you make that comment about fate?”
Angelo points at his head. “I’m bleeding. I must be concussed.”
Ricky narrows his eyes at me. I think he suspects something, but it’s better than him outright knowing. Not that I care about his opinion. What I do is my choice, and mine alone. It really is just a matter of saving myself eight hours of lame hookup jokes.
“I’ll handle the lady,” he says. “Make sure Mr. Fate doesn’t have a concussion, yeah?”
“This way, sir,” I say carefully. I lead Angelo over to the rear of the ambulance and gesture for him to sit.
I try not to make eye contact as I begin to examine him. “I feel a little dizzy,” he says in a hushed voice a moment later. “I think …” And now his deep eyes get a hungry glint in them. “I think I might need to lie down. Oh, and I’m cold.” He’s barely holding back laughter. “Will you … hold me?”
I can’t help it. I laugh so loud that Ricky’s gaze snaps around, and he smiles like he’s just found the final piece of the puzzle.
Then I’m pissed, because this isn’t exactly professional behavior. So maybe I’m a little rougher than I need to be as I clean up Angelo’s forehead wound. But he doesn’t show any signs of pain. He’s stoic, unflinching, and I imagine it would take a lot more than some disinfectant and prodding to make him wince.
He glances at Ricky and the lady, at the big man at the edge of the road, and then turns back to me when he sees we’re alone. “They’re not looking, are they?” he asks. I ignore him, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing. “So tell me, then—what’s stopping me from parting your legs in the back of this ambulance? From burying my face between your thighs? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His hand is straying towards my hip.
I try to laugh it off, but it comes out strangled and awkward. I imagine splaying my hand against the glass, letting out a scream because, fuck it, the pleasure is too intense and I don’t care who hears. I imagine climbing on top of him and straddling his face as I take his cock in my mouth, consuming each other to mutual climax.
I shake my head. “Shut it,” I hiss.
He sees the effect he’s having on me. Out of sight of everybody else, he strokes his hand lightly down my arm, and then down my belly and then—oh, fuck—around my waist.
I know he wants to bend me over and tear away the fabric of my pants to bare me to his touch, then fuck me ravenously as I feel every hot, wet inch of him.
Or maybe I’m projecting. Maybe that’s my fantasy.
“I’d make it last long,” he whispers. “I’d bring you to the edge again and again, but then pull back, making your release seem like a faraway dream. And only when you stopped believing it will ever come, only then would I let you have it.”
That’s it. Far too much. I grab his hand, pushing it firmly away. It takes more willpower than I care to admit. “I’m working,” I snap. “Now, sir, please stop this completely unacceptable behavior.”
“Of course, miss. Thank you so much for your help.” After a moment, he furrows his eyebrow. “Is that lady okay?”
I laugh bitterly. “Do you care? You seemed to have more than a few choice words for her.”
I have to work hard to return to casual banter after the filthy fantasies that just poured from Angelo’s mouth like shadows. It’s like stepping from a sauna into an ice bath. But I kind of like the contrast, as though any second we could return to the burning heat. It keeps me on my toes.
He shrugs. “She had her phone in her hand right after she rear-ended us. I saw it in the rear-view. But sometimes I let my anger get the better of me.”
“Maybe you should see a therapist.”
He snorts. “When pigs fly; when hell freezes over. Perhaps then I’ll see a therapist.”
I’m about to laugh again—thinking about how easy this feels, how natural, and how dangerous because even now I can see how this could become something more than casual—when I feel Ricky standing behind us.
“You all set?” he asks.
I nod, moving away from the car. “Have a safe night, sir,” I say.
Angelo tosses me a knowing nod as he rises to his feet. “Thank you, miss. Don’t get into any trouble.”
Then he’s gone.
We clamber back in the cab of the ambulance. As soon as we’re back in, Ricky looks at me and asks, “So, you gonna tell me what that was all about? Did you know that guy?”