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Authors: Melinda Di Lorenzo
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didn’t shriek as her seat belt flew open and she shot sideways, her bottom sliding across the centre console. To my own credit, I didn’t react as her dress flew up and half of her soft, perfectly formed ass landed in my lap. I only exhaled a little sharply as she lifted herself away, exposing the curve of her underwear.
“Make it quick,” I commanded. “And trust me when I say this is the last place you want to be stranded.”
I nodded at the dry expanse of sandy horizon. It was too dark to see much, but I knew it was dotted here and there with a few bushy plants and not much more.
“Tarantulas,” I whispered.
Polly gave me a dirty look. She didn’t comment as she let herself out of the Mustang. Her emphatic door slam said it all.
I turned away politely as her head dipped out of view, then grabbed my cell phone from the glovebox. I typed in a quick text to Cohen Blue.
En route. J. Duncan in hand.
There was a delay as the message took its time going through, then came the reply that made me grind my teeth.
Good work.
He sounded like he was patting a schoolboy on the head. Next, he’d be handing me a gold star and smacking my hand with a smiley-face stamp.
I flipped through the radio stations, irrationally frustrated that I couldn’t find a good song. I glanced out the window in Polly’s general direction. I could just see the top of her hair.
Why is she taking so long?
I strummed my fingers on the dashboard in time with a tune I didn’t know. When it ended and Polly still didn’t come back to the car, my impatience got the better of me. I swung open my door and hopped out.
“Pull up your underwear! I’m coming over there!”
I stalked to the other side of the Mustang just in time to see Polly stand up, stumble backward, and land on her backside with an “oomph”. She stared at me, guilt and worry mingling on her face.
What the hell?
She scooted away from my puzzled gaze. As she moved, a cell phone clattered across the ground. Her expression immediately made more sense. She reached for the phone, but I was faster.
In two quick steps my booted foot was on top of it. In one more I was crushing it.
“No!”
I whipped back to Polly. Her voice was full of pain, and so was her face. I ignored the tug on my heart when I spied unshed tears in her eyes.
“What did you tell them?”
“What did I tell who?”
I yanked her to her feet.
“The fucking cops!” I yelled.
“I didn’t call the police.”
“Right.”
She looked me straight in the face and shook her head. It annoyed me that I wanted to believe her. I broke eye contact first.
“If you hadn’t stomped on my phone, you could’ve checked,” she pointed out after a moment.
“Why didn’t you call them?”
“It didn’t seem important.”
I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Who did you call then?”
“If you hadn’t stomped on my phone,” she said again, this time with a raised eyebrow. “You could’ve checked that, too.”
I grabbed her by the wrist, and when she tried to pull away, I held on even tighter. I could feel her pulse racing through her arteries and throbbing against my fingers. She looked down at my hands. They were rough, calloused and tanned, and they stood out from her starkly fair skin. I rolled her arm over so I could stroke the tender spot between her palm and her wrist. She didn’t move, except to gasp when a trail of goosebumps followed my thumb along the line of her arm.
At the sound of air leaving her mouth, my eyes jerked up to take in the sight of her parted lips. They were still red from the make-up she’d worn during her performance.
What colour is under that deep, unnatural hue? It was too dark last night to tell for sure.
I had to know.
A compulsion.
It was the first time I’d ever been able to put an actual, physical sensation to the word.
It was almost overwhelming.
I took a step forward, closing the gap between us. Almost became must , and I reached up with my free hand. I
“Make it quick,” I commanded. “And trust me when I say this is the last place you want to be stranded.”
I nodded at the dry expanse of sandy horizon. It was too dark to see much, but I knew it was dotted here and there with a few bushy plants and not much more.
“Tarantulas,” I whispered.
Polly gave me a dirty look. She didn’t comment as she let herself out of the Mustang. Her emphatic door slam said it all.
I turned away politely as her head dipped out of view, then grabbed my cell phone from the glovebox. I typed in a quick text to Cohen Blue.
En route. J. Duncan in hand.
There was a delay as the message took its time going through, then came the reply that made me grind my teeth.
Good work.
He sounded like he was patting a schoolboy on the head. Next, he’d be handing me a gold star and smacking my hand with a smiley-face stamp.
I flipped through the radio stations, irrationally frustrated that I couldn’t find a good song. I glanced out the window in Polly’s general direction. I could just see the top of her hair.
Why is she taking so long?
I strummed my fingers on the dashboard in time with a tune I didn’t know. When it ended and Polly still didn’t come back to the car, my impatience got the better of me. I swung open my door and hopped out.
“Pull up your underwear! I’m coming over there!”
I stalked to the other side of the Mustang just in time to see Polly stand up, stumble backward, and land on her backside with an “oomph”. She stared at me, guilt and worry mingling on her face.
What the hell?
She scooted away from my puzzled gaze. As she moved, a cell phone clattered across the ground. Her expression immediately made more sense. She reached for the phone, but I was faster.
In two quick steps my booted foot was on top of it. In one more I was crushing it.
“No!”
I whipped back to Polly. Her voice was full of pain, and so was her face. I ignored the tug on my heart when I spied unshed tears in her eyes.
“What did you tell them?”
“What did I tell who?”
I yanked her to her feet.
“The fucking cops!” I yelled.
“I didn’t call the police.”
“Right.”
She looked me straight in the face and shook her head. It annoyed me that I wanted to believe her. I broke eye contact first.
“If you hadn’t stomped on my phone, you could’ve checked,” she pointed out after a moment.
“Why didn’t you call them?”
“It didn’t seem important.”
I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Who did you call then?”
“If you hadn’t stomped on my phone,” she said again, this time with a raised eyebrow. “You could’ve checked that, too.”
I grabbed her by the wrist, and when she tried to pull away, I held on even tighter. I could feel her pulse racing through her arteries and throbbing against my fingers. She looked down at my hands. They were rough, calloused and tanned, and they stood out from her starkly fair skin. I rolled her arm over so I could stroke the tender spot between her palm and her wrist. She didn’t move, except to gasp when a trail of goosebumps followed my thumb along the line of her arm.
At the sound of air leaving her mouth, my eyes jerked up to take in the sight of her parted lips. They were still red from the make-up she’d worn during her performance.
What colour is under that deep, unnatural hue? It was too dark last night to tell for sure.
I had to know.
A compulsion.
It was the first time I’d ever been able to put an actual, physical sensation to the word.
It was almost overwhelming.
I took a step forward, closing the gap between us. Almost became must , and I reached up with my free hand. I
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