A French Whipping (2 page)

She refused to let Roland and the others leave her tips. They’d gotten her this job, they’d helped her find an apartment—she wasn’t about to take their money. Lifting the tray easily with one hand, she carried the drinks to a table crowded with regulars—mostly businessmen from the offices nearby. They cheered again when they saw her.

“Perfect timing, as always.”

She smiled wryly. “It’s not that hard. Don’t let the bottom of the glass show before there’s another drink on the table.”

“That’s right,” they agreed, nodding cheerfully. They were mostly young men, faces flushed with drink and the excitement of the game. Handsome enough, but to her eyes—which were admittedly older than her thirty-two years would indicate—they seemed very young indeed. But then, she’d been young. Young and stupid and willing to give her love and trust to any man who said he needed her. She was no one to judge.

With a bright smile that nevertheless meant business, she deposited the full pints on the table and gathered up the empties, strategically avoiding the dark-haired kid with the cruel mouth. He’d never been rude, but there was a look in his eyes that she didn’t like—especially after a few pints—and she’d gone down that road enough to be wary.

“All right, boys.” She hefted the tray full of empties. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

They watched her leave—most men did, but now she paid them no mind. There was only one man who interested her this evening, and he was currently scowling at her. He was usually scowling at her, which was why she felt safe picking him for her plan.

His dark blond hair was getting long again and starting to curl at the ends where the sun bleached natural highlights. She knew he’d get it cut before the end of next week—in all the years she’d known him, he’d never liked his hair long enough to curl.

He wasn’t conventionally handsome. His face was triangular in shape, with a high forehead, a slight widow’s peak, and a crooked nose. But his eyes were almost turquoise blue, like pictures she’d seen of the ocean in the tropics, and a dimple dented the right corner of his mouth when he smiled. She didn’t see the dimple often, which was why she liked to tease him. Sometimes, if she tried hard enough, she could get him to smile fully, and the dimple would flash. When it did, it always made her catch her breath, astonished by the beauty of him.

He didn’t like to express emotion, though. Her Nick preferred to be calm and in control, with a routine that he followed most days. Up at four for a run every morning, and some kind of physical training in the evenings. The man had more discipline in his little finger than she had in her whole body. He ran marathons for fun, for God’s sake. Who did that?

Still—she licked her lips absently—surely that meant he had endurance for all kinds of things. Why hadn’t she ever thought about Nick this way before? Did he think about her? She wasn’t sure. Sometimes it seemed like he did. She would look over and catch him watching her with a dark and intense interest in his gaze, but then the look would be gone, and he’d be treating her with the same calm big-brother-esque attitude as always.

A wicked smile curved her lips, but she dragged it under control before he caught her. He knew she was up to something and it was unsettling him. Good; the only way she could get a genuine emotional response from him was when he was unsettled. And she’d decided that she wanted an emotional response from Nick. She wanted him, though she’d only realized it recently.

Back when they’d first met at the bar near MIT, Nick had seemed like a kid to her. He’d been quiet, a little brooding—not like Roland or Milton, who were both charmers, though in completely different ways. He’d never flirted with her, or told her she was beautiful, like all the rest of the college guys, and he’d certainly never made a move on her. But he’d always been around, looking out for her, and had tried to defend her once, when Keenan had shown up at the bar after her shift.

She felt her shoulders tighten at the memory and shuddered just a little. She never thought of Keenan Shy without a sickening feeling of wrong invading her stomach. She’d been so weak for so many years.

Well, no more. She wasn’t going to get involved with any more abusers. She wasn’t going to get involved in a relationship, period. She was going to take things slow, as her therapist suggested, and find someone she could relax with, and rebuild her confidence after the damage Phillip had done. She had always enjoyed sex before, and she wanted to enjoy it again. Nick, with his calm control and hot eyes, was the perfect person to help her. There was no one she trusted more than her friends, but he was the only one she was attracted to.

Chin jutting out, she loaded up yet another tray. She was going to reclaim her sexuality, her confidence, and her life, and Nick Cord was going to help her, whether he liked it or not.

2

NICK WAITED SILENTLY
across the street as Blake helped close the Hairy Lemon with the other waitresses and the owner. The streets of Faneuil Hall were empting out—the shops and kiosks long since closed—and he was the only person outside within several blocks. He couldn’t see inside the bar—the two small windows at street level were made of rectangular panes of thick yellowish glass that showed only shadows moving back and forth—but he imagined that she’d removed the apron from around her waist and changed into the motorcycle boots that she said made her feel invincible. The cold winter was hanging on despite it being nearly mid-March, though it was supposed to warm up this weekend.

He should have been cold. His wool coat wasn’t particularly warm and the air was humid enough that his hair and clothes felt damp, but he was good at ignoring discomfort—a gift from his childhood—and he didn’t let it bother him. When his father would go out on fishing trips, he was often left to fend for himself to find clothes or pay the heating bill. He’d learned the hard way that he could survive most deprivations, though he hadn’t had to worry as much once Professor Sherman Jensen had moved into the apartment next door. A retired professor from MIT, Dr. Jensen would feed him and teach him how to program computers.

Without the professor, he never would have gone to MIT and met Roland and Milton, or Blake, for that matter. One night during their sophomore year, Roland had dragged him and Milton out to meet Keenan and a friend from Watertown, or Wattatown, as the locals called it, an ethnically diverse neighborhood on Boston’s east side. He’d told them Blake had gotten a job near campus, and she’d told him to come by for a free round of drinks. When they’d arrived at the bar, she’d been bent over a jukebox, her ass on perfect display in a pair of tight jeans, and wearing a pair of black stilettos. Nick had stopped in his tracks and Milton plowed into the back of him. Roland had nimbly sidestepped.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Roland had called out from behind his friends.

She’d straightened and turned, her eyes flashing briefly at someone in the corner, but then she recognized Roland and her shoulders relaxed. She’d smiled, a warm, bright smile that had affected Nick like the line going taut on his fishing pole. He’d tensed, and every part of him had focused on her, on the pretty girl with the generous smile.

“Roland,” she’d said with a chuckle, “about time you got here. Keenan’s been waiting.”

Nick remembered that he couldn’t move, that he’d been unable to look away from her face, from the green eyes, and her full, pouting mouth. Mischief had danced in her expression, making her seem approachable in spite of her beauty.

For Nick, she was a complicated knot that he wanted to figure out, a construction of grace and beauty that was meant for some purpose he’d yet to understand or define. Nick studied knots, their various uses and forms, a habit that had started when he was a kid, and which he’d carried with him into adulthood and into his studies of computers and mechanics. To him, the perfect knot could solve almost anything.

Keenan had approached then, spreading his arms as if he were lord and ruler and welcoming them into his castle. At first, the handsome young man with the lean face and high forehead had seemed like a rougher, but still charming, version of Roland. He’d laughed and clapped Nick on the back and said, “Isn’t she beautiful?” He’d nodded at Blake with a satisfied, possessive smile.

Nick had frowned, not sure whether to agree or not. She was beautiful, but she’d been standing right in front of them, and Keenan spoke of her like she was a ship or a new car he’d just won in a card game. Nick had met beautiful women before; his father had attracted women easily and had just as easily driven them away, but he’d never looked at them the way Keenan looked at Blake, as if she were utterly and completely his possession.

“You are very beautiful,” Nick had said to her directly, his tone calm and lacking in any hint of flirtation.

Blake had sent another quick glance at Keenan and said, “Thanks,” but when Keenan turned away, she’d given him a real smile, thanking him silently.

It wasn’t until later, when they’d all had a few drinks, that Keenan had pulled Nick aside and said, “She will never be yours, you know.” Even the friendly tone he’d used hadn’t disguised the menace that lurked in the tight lines at the corners of his eyes or the cruel twist to his mouth.

Nick realized that he’d grown tense again, his own face tightening in rage, and he deliberately relaxed as he continued to wait for Blake. He’d taken to making sure she got home safely for the past year. At first he’d just shown up, but she’d insisted that she didn’t need a guardian, that she could take care of herself, so Nick had stayed hidden, watching from a distance to make sure no one bothered her.

Every time he thought about giving her the space she requested, he’d flash back to how she’d been hurt by Phillip: black eyes, cracked ribs, and lacerations across her chest, belly, and thighs. She’d been raped, and she’d cried in her sleep while he sat in the chair in her hospital room, red-eyed and livid with a rage that seemed to seep into his bones. If he hadn’t made sure she was okay each night, he would never be able to sleep at all.

The door to the bar opened and Blake stepped out. She’d let her hair down and put on her jacket.

“Night, everyone,” she called back inside, and stepped onto the sidewalk. The entrance to the upper floors of the squat three-story building where she lived was around the side in an alley, up a flight of stairs. There was a light installed above the entrance that gave off a dim yellow glow.

Giving no indication that she saw him standing in the shadows across the street, she shoved her hands in her pockets and removed the key to her door, walking briskly around the corner and up the short steps.

However, when she reached the door she stopped, frozen, and he could see nothing but the shape of her silhouette against the light. She was too still, like she’d heard or seen something that scared her. His instincts kicked in. Something was wrong.

He didn’t think, he just moved, gliding across the street, weaving between cars as he made his way over to her with single-minded ferocity. When he reached the bottom of the steps, she turned suddenly and put one hand on her hip.

“I knew it,” she said in her low voice, but she didn’t sound angry. If anything, she seemed resigned, even a little amused.

Nick stopped where he was and eyed her warily. “What do you know?”

“I knew you were still following me.” She turned away from him to unlock the door and disappeared into her apartment. He waited, but the door didn’t shut behind her—she’d left it open in unspoken invitation.

He hesitated. He made it a personal rule to avoid situations that hinted at strong emotions. She didn’t seem irritated with him, but she could be tricky that way. One minute as calm as a glassy sea, the next a tempest.

“You’re letting all the cold air in,” she called from inside the apartment, her damaged voice straining a little to be heard.

He immediately went inside and closed the door firmly behind him, locking it and jiggling the knob to make sure it was secure. She also had a chain and a separate internal-only dead bolt. He made sure to engage both. He would make sure she made a habit of it as well. This wasn’t a bad part of town, but that didn’t mean much anymore.

He glanced around the small entryway, noting the small narrow table she’d put along one wall with a mirror above it. A hat rack stood next to it. She’d hung up her coat and scarf. He did the same, though it was cold in the apartment, studiously avoiding looking in the mirror. He was afraid he’d see the lust that lurked beneath the surface of his control. If he had any sense of self-preservation he would leave now, but curiosity, the one emotion that had the power to make him act irrationally, drove him to continue into her living room. The apartment wasn’t big—he’d been in it once with Roland while she was still in the hospital, checking to make sure that all the appliances worked, the plumbing was sound, and the windows and doors were secure. They’d chosen it because it was close to their offices and because it was a place she would accept. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t live in any of the high-rise penthouses they would have happily ensconced her in. She insisted they were her friends, not her sugar daddies.

The living room and half bath took up most of the left side of the apartment, with windows looking down onto the street in front of the Hairy Lemon. To his right was a wall—on the opposite side of which was her bedroom, but beyond it was the kitchen. She’d added curtains to one small window that looked out to another building, an alley below. Heat emanated from an old-fashioned steam radiator below the windowsill.

She was nowhere to be seen, so he assumed she’d gone into her bedroom to change. He tried not to think about that—tried not to think about how she would look as she stripped off her black uniform, bare skin gleaming, full breasts swaying as she moved.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and wandered deliberately into the living room. Her furniture was a mismatched collection of antiques and more modern pieces. All of it looked clean, but worn. She’d thrown a colorful afghan over a gold velvet couch that had managed to survive since the seventies. Modern end tables flanked each side, and an overstuffed armchair in deep green sat at a conversational angle nearby. Too agitated to sit, he wandered over to the windows.

Her blinds were open, the curtains drawn to the side. Stepping close to the window, he looked down at the street below.
She needs to shut these blinds,
he thought.
Anyone can look in and see her walking through the apartment.

Shoving the thought aside, he checked the locks on all the windows and lowered the blinds.

“I like them open,” she said from behind him.

He turned and blinked when he saw she was wearing her favorite sweatshirt, an old one of his from MIT, pajama pants, and striped wool socks. For some reason, he’d expected her to put on something silky and revealing—or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part.

“I know,” he replied, wanting to irritate her a little. Maybe she’d tell him what she was up to if he annoyed her enough. Their friendship, while long-lasting, had never had the friendly back-and-forth of the one she shared with Roland or Milton. They’d never lectured her when she’d gotten involved with yet another abusive asshole, or grown so frustrated with her choices that they’d refused to speak to her, as he had on numerous occasions.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you do. Want some tea?”

Nick felt his jaw tighten and deliberately breathed out in an attempt to relax. Whatever she was up to, he wasn’t going to get annoyed and yell at her. Not this time.

“All right,” he agreed.

She looked at him for a moment, her green eyes studying his face. He held still beneath her gaze.

She touched the scar on her neck self-consciously and turned away from him, walking toward the kitchen. “Hmm.”

What did that mean?

Wary, he followed her into the kitchen, taking a seat at a small two-person dining table decorated with a blue vase and a bunch of daises.

He watched her slow, graceful movements from his seat as she filled an electric kettle with water from the tap. Her hands were long-fingered and elegant as she reached for two teacups—mismatched, but colorful—with white saucers. He found himself fascinated by what seemed to be a ritual as she placed tea bags on each saucer.

“Sugar and cream?” she asked him, and he heard her words as though she’d spoken through water, blinking at the almost ethereal beauty of her as she stood in the warm light of the small chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen.

“No, thank you.”

She nodded, and for a moment there was nothing but the sibilant sound of the water heating in the kettle and the soft whoosh as she opened the refrigerator and removed milk for herself.

Why wasn’t she talking? It seemed like she was always talking, making people feel comfortable, included. She had a knack for it. But she was making no effort now. She even kept her head angled away from him slightly, like she didn’t want him to see her face.

“I think it’s great . . . you going back to school.” He tapped his fingers on the table. His voice sounded rusty.

She shrugged. “It’s about time, really. Waitressing, selling perfume, and working in an office aren’t what I want to do with my life. I’d like to help people.” She considered it. “And throw parties.”

Hoping she’d say more, he waited patiently, silently. Silence bothered people. They always talked eventually.

She didn’t seem inclined. Instead she added milk and sugar to her cup with the precision of a longtime bartender before she put the milk away again.

The water in the kettle came to a boil with a low rumbling sound and a hiss of steam. She removed it with a quick jerk of her wrist.

“You mentioned wanting to work for charities. Is there anything else?”

Pausing as she moved back toward the teacups, she sent him a wry glance. “You always were too perceptive for your own good.”