Convict: A Bad Boy Romance (35 page)

T
essa shoots
me another glare and then walks off, head high, shoulders straight. I follow her with my eyes for longer than I should, just watching the way her dress moves around her legs as she walks.

I really,
really
shouldn’t have caught her, but what else was I supposed to do? Just let her fall in front of everyone?

But now she knows my face. She can identify me later. Even if I’m not the one who actually kidnaps her, she can identify me.

Fuck
.

I turn back to the group I’ve been talking to, a couple of white guys in their thirties and forties.

“So then,” says the guy to my left, “Jim tells me that we were wrong about that hole — it’s par
three
, not par two! Can you believe it?”

The other three men laugh uproariously, so I laugh along with them even though I have no idea what’s so funny. I’ve never even played mini-golf.

“That Jim is a card,” says the guy who was telling the story.

“No kidding,” says another guy.

Yeah, sounds like a real loco motherfucker
, I think. But I just nod along, until one of them nods at me.

“You golf, Brent?” he asks.

I’m looking past the men at the hallway that Tessa disappeared into. It takes me split second to hear him, and then to remember that right now,
I’m
Brent.

“Hardly,” I say. “Who has the time anymore?”

I shrug, figuring they’ll fill in the rest. Each man nods in total understanding.

“Last year, I told the missus I was going on a business trip for a couple days, but me and the boys went out to Palm Springs and hit the links every day,” another one says. “It was heaven.”

The others act like it’s the baddest thing they’ve ever heard. I drain the last of my Scotch, the ice cubes sliding against my lip.

“I gotta grab a refill,” I say, putting the glass on the cocktail table. “Nice meeting you fellas.”

“See you around, Brent!” one says, holding up a glass like he’s toasting me, but I’m not paying attention anymore. I’m watching the edges of the room for a girl with auburn hair and a long black one-shouldered dress.

Drug her now
, I think.

I’m already making my way toward the open bar. The line’s finally gotten shorter, and I know this is my chance.

Do it now and she probably won’t remember you,
I tell myself.
Get her a drink to say you’re sorry for being a dick, roofie her,
escort her out to the car, then you can come back here and have some fun
.

It’s obviously the best plan, and probably the only way I’m going to keep from fucking this up
massively
.

So why the fuck don’t I want to do it?

Was it the way she
looked
at me like she was challenging me? The way she argued back?

The line moves forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I see what I’ve been looking for: deep red and a swish of black.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, the very picture of politeness.

I scan the bottles one last time.

“Ardbeg on the rocks, please,” I say. There’s a mirror behind the bar and I sneak a peek at myself.

James fucking Bond
, I think.

Bond wouldn’t fuck up his mission, though.

Fine.

“Could I also get an Old Fashioned?” I say, as he puts my drink in front of me.

He nods, and a minute later, hands over the second drink. I take them and turn away from the bar, heading to an empty cocktail table in the corner.

The vial’s heavy in my pocket, and I have this sense of
dread
. I put the drinks down, take a sip of mine, and reach into my pocket, looking around.

I spot Tessa. She’s not far away, alone at another cocktail table, looking at her phone.

I stare for too long, looking at the curve of her neck and thinking about the noise she’d make if I put my lips there.

The vial rolls between my fingers, small but heavy.

You have one job
, I remind myself.
One. Fucking. Job.

I know what happens when Manny’s disappointed, and it’s not pretty. La Carretera has plenty of guys who are missing their pinky fingers. Manny’s got an outbuilding on his property in Malibu set up
just
for that, with drains and everything.

I’ve been there. I’ve seen it in action. I
like
having all my fingers.

Tessa looks up from her phone and around the room and I think
again
about those goddamn perfect lips, her tongue sliding along my cock, and I think of what a shame it would be to drug her.

I don’t fuck girls who can’t say — no,
scream
— yes. That’s a hard line.

I let the vial slips through my fingers and I take my hand out of my pocket, pick up both drinks, and walk over to Tessa.

I can still kidnap her if she’s not drugged,
I tell myself.

She looks up as I slide the Old Fashioned toward her, then down at the drink. Her phone goes back into her bag without another glance from her.

“For me?” she asks. Her green eyes are skeptical, and she doesn’t touch the glass yet.

“I don’t see anybody else at this table,” I say.

“What is it?”

“It’s a drink.”

“You don’t have to be a smartass,” she says, but there’s a smile creeping onto her face, starting in her eyes.

“It’s an Old Fashioned. A serious drink for a serious drinker,” I say.

I know I shouldn’t try to press her buttons, but god
damn
I can’t help it.

It works. She flicks me an irritated glance.

“It’s none of your business how much I drink,” she says, her voice going brittle again, the smile disappearing. “And a more suspicious person might wonder
why
you’re suddenly bringing me drinks.”

I laugh.

“It’s an open bar, tiger,” I say, and I swear I watch her shoulders rise an inch. “They’re free.”

She still hasn’t taken a sip, and now she’s watching the drink like someone might have spit in it.

I laugh.

“You think I’m trying to roofie you?” I ask.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, getting defensive.

I reach out for her drink, thanking all the saints that I
didn’t
doctor it, and take a sip. Then I put it back in front of her.

“You think I’d roofie you to get you to sleep with me?” I ask, my voice going low and dangerous. I’m just messing with her, but she doesn’t know that.

Tessa’s bright red. She opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off.

“If I wanted to sleep with you, you’d already be up against the wall in the elevator,” I say. “I don’t need drugs.”

She stares at me for another moment, mouth open.

Then her eyebrows go up, and she starts
laughing
.

“You’re a cocky motherfucker, I’ll give you that,” she says.

She really has
no
idea.

“Are you like this with all the single girls at weddings?” she asks, and lifts the drink to her lips.

“Only the ones drunk enough to fall into my arms,” I say.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now.

“That lady stepped on my dress. You watched her apologize.”

“You sure you weren’t making a last-ditch leap at the final glass of champagne?”

She looks over one shoulder for a moment, then back at me. That challenging look is back in her eyes, like she’s about to dare me to do something.

“If I’d thought it would work, I might have,” she says. “There’s only so long I can listen to rich bitches go on about the
perfect
spot for a vacation house.”

“I was going for the champagne too,” I admit, feeling confessional.

“
Now
the truth comes out,” she says. Her green eyes are practically sparkling. “Let me guess, you were escaping a dick-measuring contest over who’s got the best car?”

“I
wish
it had been a dick-measuring contest,” I say, grinning.

“Don’t get saucy,” she says. “I’m a nice girl, and we’ve already established that you’re not going to get me to sleep with you.”

The Old Fashioned is taking effect.

“
Did
we establish that?” I ask.

I take a sip of my Scotch, letting it slide down my throat.

“Well, I’m not currently, what was it, up against a wall in an elevator? So I believe we did,” she says.

I try not to imagine it, but it’s impossible: my body against hers, the cool metal wall behind her, her legs wrapped around me. Her heat against my cock as the floors tick upward.

My cock stiffens.
Fuck
. I look away and think about Manny, with his fat fingers and Hawaiian shirts.

“It could be arranged,” I say.

Socks with sandals,
I think
.

She laughs again, but it’s not derisive. It’s like she’s
daring
me to get her into that elevator, and holy
fuck
it’s hot.

Plaid shorts
, I tell myself.

“I’m not really the ‘fucking in the elevator’ type,” she says, taking the last swallow of her drink. “Historically, I’m more ‘missionary under the covers with the lights off.’”

Now I raise
my
eyebrows, and she turns red again, like she let the drink get the better of her for a minute.

“I’ll get you another drink if you tell me more about missionary with the lights off,” I say.

“I think I’ll hold off for now,” she says. “You never even told me your name.”

“I’m,” I say, and very nearly say
Alex
. “Brent.”

“Tessa,” she says, holding out her right hand. She squeezes mine hard and looks me dead in the eye as she does.

“You know,” I say slowly, “I don’t think
you’re
the missionary-in-the-dark type.”

“I
promise
I am,” she says, leaning her elbows on the table. “Grade-A, one hundred percent prude, right here.”

I also lean forward on my elbows. Now our faces are even closer, less than a foot apart.

“I think you’re fucking the wrong people,” I say.

She doesn’t back down, just looks me dead in the eye.

“You’re not wrong about that,” she says.

“How long were you with your last boyfriend?” I ask.

“Nosy,” she says.

“I already know how you like to fuck,” I tease.

She laughs.

“Three years,” she says.

“I bet
you
showed up in bed with a vibrator and handcuffs a couple of times,” I say.

She doesn’t answer right away, so I go on, ignoring the raging hard-on I’m getting at the thought of Tessa, naked and standing next to a bed, handcuffs dangling off one finger as she grins.

“And
he’s
the one who looked at that, reached over, and turned out the lights.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s trying to think of what to say, and I know I’m right.

A young woman in a server’s outfit steps up to us, saving her for a moment.

“Dinner will be served shortly,” she says. “We’re moving everyone into the ballroom.”

“Thanks,” Tessa says, and I nod, then look around. Most everyone else is already in the other room, seated at their tables. I was so focused on
her
that I didn’t even notice.

“What table are you at?” she asks, pulling her own place card out of her bag.

I fish mine out of my pocket.

Brent Parker, Table 8,
it says. The real Brent Parker is a low-level finance guy who owes Manny a
lot
of money. Manny
inspired
him to give up his seat at this wedding.

“Eight,” I say.

She holds up her card.

Tessa Fulbright, Table 8
.

“Guess you’re not rid of me just yet,” I say.

“You’ll have to wait until
after
dinner to find someone to fuck in the elevators,” she says, but she’s laughing.

Then she turns and walks into the ballroom and I follow, the sway of her hips almost hypnotic.

I have no fucking idea how I’m going to pull this kidnapping off. Every second I go without drugging her makes it harder, but I
can’t
bring myself to slip the stuff into her drink.

Jesus Christ, I think I’m fucked.

T
able eight only has two
seats left, on opposite sides, and I have no idea how I feel about that. It’s some kind of way, for sure, but I’m half relieved and half disappointed.

On one hand, the hottest man I’ve ever met can’t keep teasing me about my sex life, at least for another hour or so.

But on the other hand, the hottest man I’ve ever met can’t keep teasing me about my sex life for another hour.

It’s complicated, is what I’m saying.

I sit down and say hello to the people next to me. They look very,
very
vaguely familiar, so we chat until we figure out that we took the same art history class sophomore year.

In the middle of the table is a massive flower arrangement. Even standing in four-inch heels, it’s taller than me.

Brent’s exactly opposite, and all I can see of him is the tips of his shoulders and sometimes his hands. He’s sitting next to a girl I don’t know, so I’m surreptitiously watching
her
instead.

Trying to figure out if the guy next to her is her boyfriend or what.

Wondering if
she’s
the kind of girl who’d be down for a quick elevator fuck. I’m managing to make polite conversation with Brittany, the woman next to me, but I’m distracted as hell.

I wasn’t lying when I said I was a missionary-in-the-dark kind of girl — but Brent wasn’t exactly wrong, either. Nick, my ex, had his bright spots but he sure as
hell
wasn’t lighting anything on fire in the bedroom.

Honestly, I didn’t think I minded. I figured I wasn’t that sexual of a person anyway.

I’m starting to think I may have been wrong about that.

I try to sneak another glance at Brent, but he’s behind the flowers, so I nod at Brittany again, wishing like hell I could hear what he’s talking about across the table.

It seems like ages before the band leader steps up to the microphone and announces Mr. and Mrs. Hazeltine, and finally Karen and Eddie come in through the huge double doors. She looks so happy and utterly
radiant
that I instantly forget her awkward vows and the lost veil, and in that moment, I’m
so
glad I came to her wedding.

She and Eddie head onto the dance floor. Karen’s gone starry-eyed and she’s walking like she’s in a dream. Everyone stands from their tables and gathers around the floor as the band starts playing.

“For their first dance,” the band leader says over the opening chords, “The brand new Mr. and Mrs. Hazeltine will dance to
Crash Into Me
, by the Dave Matthews Band.”

I frown, just a little. I don’t know the song that well, but I wasn’t sure it was a
love
song.

The guitar starts, and then Karen and Eddie are swirling around the dance floor, looking at each other like the rest of the world doesn’t even exist.

I tear up. It’s only a little, but I do.

It’s for Karen, and because deep down I’m really kind of a sap, and because I really thought I’d be doing this with Nick someday, at least before he turned out to be a douche.

It’s a sweet moment. My friend got married to the love of her life. I can fucking shed a tear.

Then someone steps close to me, and before I can move away,
he’s
whispering in my ear.

“Your tag’s out,” Brent says.

His lips
almost
brush my ear and a shiver sweeps down my spine.

“Want me to fix it?”

“Thanks,” I say, and then his hand is on my bare skin. Apparently the tag is very complicated, because his hand lingers there, his fingers hot against my back.

Not that I mind.

I lean back and turn my head, and he bends down so he can hear me.

“This song’s a little racy for a wedding,” I murmur.

“Tied up and twisted?” he says, every word another spike to my core. “That’s more your style, tiger.”

“Don’t call me tiger,” I say.

“But you’re
feisty
,” he says. Karen and Eddie are still on the dance floor and my eyes are glued to them.

My
mind
is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dirty and getting dirtier.

“It’s a nickname you’d give a little kid,” I say. People around us are starting to glance over, and I’m rigidly pretending that I don’t notice.

“I disagree,” he says.

Then he leans even closer and I swear to God I can feel other people
staring
.

“Grrrrrr,” he growls, right into my ear.

It’s totally ludicrous, and worse, it
works
.

I’m heated up like lava is flowing through me. I can’t think of a single thing except what it would feel like to be pressed face-first against the wall of an elevator, Brent’s hands up my skirt, his mouth on my neck...

The song ends. Thank Christ, the song ends. People clap, and I clap along, doing my best to pretend that a super sexy total stranger didn’t just
growl
into my ear.

I also try to ignore him and pretend I didn’t like it.

Maybe I did. A little.

I turn around and drift back toward my table. Brent got separated in the crowd, somewhere, but just before I take my seat I feel his hand on my bare shoulder.

“Save me a dance if you’re still on your feet by then,” he says.

“You won’t be balls-deep in an elevator?” I ask.

My grin matches his and I know I’m
taunting
him, which is not a thing that nice girls do to men they’ve just met.

It’s not like
he’s
nice, though, so I don’t care.

“You make it sound like I’m going to fuck the elevator,” he says.

“I don’t know your life,” I shoot back. “People are into all kinds of things.”

“You’d know, tiger,” he says.

His blue eyes are
glinting
and he walks around the table and takes his seat where I can’t see his face any more. I can only see his hands as he talks to the woman next to him.

Somehow, I make conversation with Brittany and her husband, as well as the middle-aged couple on my other side. It feels like the world’s slowest dinner: first there’s salad for about twelve hours, then a day of an amuse-bouche, then a week-long main course.

Brittany tells me about decorating her living room. The middle-aged man on my other side is talking about his consulting business, and I’m being polite as hell, using the right fork, sitting up straight, and not paying them the tiniest bit of attention.

I’m just watching his hands. Sometimes his shoulders. Every so often I can hear his
laugh
from across the table, and one time it stops me mid-sentence as I wonder who he’s laughing
with
.

I don’t touch my glass of wine. I think I’m going to need my wits about me.

What’s left of them, anyway.