Miah (Lane Brothers #2) (31 page)

“You’re drunk,” he says derisively, pulling me closer to sway to the eerily mournful music.

“Tipsy,” I purr, spreading my fingers over the breadth of his muscled chest.

Everything inside me clenches, turning my wobbly bones to liquid when he brings our hips flush and grinds himself into me.

“Blotto,” he murmurs back, making me gasp when his slow rubbing hits me exactly where I need it. “I like it.”

I do too. With the alcohol streaming though my blood I feel invincible, untouchable, and more importantly, unbreakable.

“You only like what you can’t have,” I mutter, staring at his button hole with one eye to still the jumping circle. “Or, more accurately, you only want the thrill of the challenge. Or is that chase? Whatever.”

To say that I’d lost the leash to my tongue somewhere between the second glass of wine and the tequila is an understatement. Here I am, drunk—yes, I’m blotto—and taunting a breed of very dangerous animal, just to see him react.

“Oh well, no hard feelings,” I mumble airily, rubbing his chest in slow circles. “I should have taken blonde hottie up on his offer. I think it’s most definitely time to stop sulking and move on.”

I’m not even talking to him at this point. Strange fact, when I get drunk I have a disgusting habit of talking to myself and answering as if no one’s there. One time I’d spent half of a New Year’s party holding an enthralling conversation about global warming.

How do I know? Bee’s friend Jack still has the video he’d taken of the whole mess. A hot mess, but a mess nevertheless.

“I really should. I mean, I almost had a breakdown when they told me about the baby. And what for? Just because the thought of a baby smashes my pathetic heart to pieces doesn’t mean nobody else deserves happiness. And you know what else?”

Okay, here’s the part where I get really sloppy drunk and start saying things that I’ll cringe about later.

“What?” he prompts when I fall silent, my mind whirling sickeningly.

I swallow and blink rapidly, refocusing on his quietly amused face.

“Oh, yeah. I really think I should stop talking to Marty about loving you and just get back on the horse, you know? I mean, it’s so sad to still have those dreams about you all these months later. Yeah,” I say, more decidedly than my sloshing brain should be able to handle right now.

“I think I should definitely do that. Okay, thanks for the dance,” I chirp merrily, pulling away to skip off toward the brightly shining head of blonde hair I see ducking through the main doorway.

I feel so good suddenly that I even smile at Beau and blow him a kiss when I skip by, already unbuttoning the top button of my jacket in an effort to show more cleavage.

“Yo, Jason! What up, man.”

Okay, let’s pause here so I can explain something else. Apparently when I get shitfaced drunk I also start talking like a rapper wannabe. I don’t know why, because FYI, though I’d been caught on video at that New Year’s party and one time had talked to a tree for like half an hour, this is definitely the drunkest I’ve ever been.

“Whatsup, hottie!” he yells back, turning with a lascivious smile. “You change your mind about trying the Jason?”

I’m about to answer with a slick drawl that ‘yes indeed, I do wanna bump all up over that shit’, when a steely hand clamps down over my shoulder, halting my forward progression, which by the way, had a lot of swagger for someone as drunk as I am.

“Fuck off, you wanker.”

“Hey dude—”

“I said fuck off.”

And just like that I lose my new fuck buddy before he’s even had the chance to prove his worth.

“Heeeeyy! What the freak?” I yell, ripping myself away to turn and glare at my new arch nemesis. “I was about to get my groove on.”

Nobody should ever say anything, I mean
anything
, that cheesy, but hell, when you’re drunk every intelligent word sort of just vanishes.

When I stop swaying, a feat of accomplishment in these heels, in my state, I level a nasty, slightly lopsided scowl at Vincent and shove a finger into his chest.

“What’s your deal, man?”

“What’s my deal?” he sneers, grabbing me roughly and towing me into a storage closet. “My deal is the fact that my wife is throwing herself at a little shite that doesn’t know his dick from his elbow!”

That’s when every last—two—brain cell I have left flies right out the window, and I attack him like a sex-starved lunatic. Not my proudest moment, not by a long shot, but he’d revved my motor on that dance floor and now, after his Neanderthal tactics, wrecked my only chance at relieving this emptiness.

I kiss him, crawling up his front, wrapping myself around him like a vine. When he kisses me back it feels like a homecoming, and I moan, opening myself to the insistent thrust of his tongue and the urgent fumble of hands seeking zippers.

It takes less than a minute for him to divest me of my pants and panties, and then he’s pushing his own pants around his knees and thrusting home.

We’re wild, kissing and going at each other like animals, and I love every second of this uncontrolled seduction. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that angry sex isn’t great, because, honey, I’m testifying that it’s awesome!

He thrusts up and does a grinding motion with his hips, hitting me so deep my body explodes without so much as a wind up, leaving me screaming silently as he groans and pushes deeper, stilling, breathing harshly into my mouth as I feel the heat of his release bursting deep inside me.

“Jesus, dove…I’ve missed this so much,” he groans into the heated skin at my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

I’m still drunk—I’m not a walking miracle who has the ability to sober up instantly—but even through my booze-soaked stupor and the afterglow I hear what he says, and more importantly what he doesn’t say.

He missed
this
, specifically sex, not me.

I don’t say anything, waiting instead for him to move and pull out before yanking my bottoms back on and shoving my feet into my heels. What’s there to say? Oh, thank you so much for ruining a great lay?

I’m honest enough to admit to myself what a colossal idiot I am, because seriously, who the hell lets her ex-husband, a man she’s divorced for a good reason, fuck her against the wall of a supply closet?

Me, apparently. The ditzy blonde idiot who can’t get over him. The stupid fool who’d come to the wedding stag while he’s brought a date.

“Dove?” he asks, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You okay?”

No! I’m a sap! A lovesick loser who can’t get over you long enough to keep her legs closed.

I feel so ashamed of myself I want to slap him a hundred times before kicking him in the balls just to share an iota of the pain I’m feeling. But I’m my mama’s daughter, and no amount of pain or humiliation can change that, so instead of breaking down and becoming a blubbering, drunken mess, I smile and shrug good-humoredly.

“If you’d excuse me, I think I can still catch the Jason.”

“What do you mean it’s all gone? We haven’t even had an opening!” I yell into the phone, feeling my nerves go on high alert.

According to Vern, every one of my paintings had sold before they’d even hit the walls, something that many an artist would be thrilled about under normal circumstances.

Not me. This means that instead of having a little relaxation, Vern’s gonna be on my ass for the next month, asking me when he can expect some new pieces.

I love my work, really I do, but if I have to paint another brushstroke right now, especially when I’d caught myself eying the blacks and purples again—I’ve just managed to get out of that horrid gloom fest! —I’ll have a nervous freaking breakdown.

Plus, I really don’t freaking feel well, and all I want is a few weeks of daytime television and vegging on my sofa. Oh, and a chance to further my newest plan to get a pellet gun and take out Marty.

I’ve been brainstorming since the night after Parker’s wedding, after recovering from a major hangover only to find myself hanging out of the window at a precarious angle, desperate to pour out my woes to the scraggly feline.

Enough is enough. No sane person treats a stray cat as if it’s her own personal therapist, and I damn well know it. Marty has to go before I crack and start buying cans of tuna as a lure.

Every time I have the urge to go to the window at three in the morning, I remember Meryl Streep in that
Into the Woods
movie and I reaffirm my resolve not to end up looking like that with a stray cat perched on my shoulder.

“Sissy, you know I can’t reveal the buyers if they request it.” He sighs again, making my teeth ache in protest when I bite down hard.

“I’m not doing another series for at least the next three months. I already gave you everything I had by finishing the last one so quickly. I’m exhausted.”

“I know, darling. Take some time off and regroup. Anyway, a little time won’t make any difference; it will only increase your demand. I’ve already had pre-orders for anything of yours that comes out next.”

“Good. Look, I gotta go, my call waiting is going nuts.”

“Hello?”

Nothing. Not a sound reaches my ears across the line, and I pull the receiver away, checking the connection to make sure I haven’t mistakenly dropped it again, something I do when I’m not paying attention.

The little screen shows a live connection, so I put it back to my ear again, pulling a face at myself.

“Hello? Parker? Is that you?”

He’s been calling me every day—thank God Jules likes me enough not to be jealous—just to check up on me and make sure I’m not holed up in my apartment twenty four seven.

“Hello?”

The line clicks, going dead, and for the first time in months I feel the stirrings of fear creep back up. It can’t—

I cut the thought off and go back to cleaning my work area, something that’s easier now that I’ve moved my things into the apartment and convinced Park that I don’t need a whole separate space just to paint.

First of all, I’m way too lazy to trudge next door every time I wake up in the wee hours just to get an early start—I snort, because that’s a total ball of crap. I paint because sleeping is impossible at times. Another reason I’ve moved my stuff in here is because I miss the contact high I get from living with paint fumes.

Juuust kidding.

With an effort, I shake the uneasiness away and pack everything neatly, using my time to organize and make a list of things I’m running short on and just generally puttering around.

The calls keep coming on the hour though, so by the time seven rolls around and the phone rings again I’m so edgy I can’t control my temper.

“Listen, asshole, stop fucking calling me! If you’re that gung ho to kill me, just do it already!” I yell, breathing so heavily I feel my stomach contract in a wave of bile-inducing nausea.

I sprint to the bathroom and drop, forgetting the phone and everything else as my stomach heaves and spews forth everything I’ve eaten in the last what feels like months.

It doesn’t stop until I’m wrung out and struggling to keep my face out of the puke-infested water, and I flop to the floor, only remembering the phone when my elbow hits it with a thunk.

“Shit! Hello?”

Dial tone blares into my ear, and I punch the disconnect with a groan, deeply regretting my words when a million pictures of Eric’s capabilities start playing on a never-ending loop that makes me break out in a colder sweat than the puking caused.

Crap. Yelling dares at your stalker is not the brightest idea I’ve ever had, and I know it. Though technically he’s not my stalker anymore, since it’s been months since he’s bothered me.

I stay right there, savoring the feel of the blessedly cool tiles until I feel well enough to roll back to my feet and patter into the kitchen, peering into the fridge with a lackluster effort at convincing myself to eat.

Maybe I should go away somewhere, take a vacation on a tropical island far enough away that I won’t get decent cell reception the whole time. Somewhere sunny, where I can sip cocktails and forget about the stupid men in my life.

I need to, because, honest to God, I think the stress of the wedding and now the phone calls is really starting to get to me. Yeah, I think, grabbing a jar of mixed peanut butter and jelly and a spoon before plopping down on the sofa. I should just drop everything I’m doing right now and treat myself to some sunshine and happy solitude.

Who am I kidding? I don’t want solitude, thanks to the last months spent talking to the walls, myself, and a cat. I want…it doesn’t matter, right now I’ll settle for some distance and a little bought safety from these phone calls and the very real fear that if I don’t do something soon, I’m gonna die.

I am so not scared of that asshole, I assure myself, licking a glob of peanutty goodness off the spoon. I’m just tired. Think of something else.

So wrapped up in a vision of sandy white beaches and nude sunbathing am I that when a loud, insistent pounding booms around me it takes a minute to understand that it’s coming from my own door.

That sends shards of pure terror through me, and I almost laugh at my silly convictions. Who am I kidding? I’m freaking terrified.

Creeping on tip toe to the door and its cleverly conceal peephole, I breathe out a sigh of heartfelt relief and open the door, regretting my stupidity immediately when Vincent grabs hold of me, lifts me into his arms, and kicks the door shut with a resounding bang that reverberates through me.

His eyes are moss green, giving me my first hint that he’s pissed and ready for a fight. The second comes when he lean his head down and kisses me hard enough to rattle our teeth together.

“What the bleedin’ ‘ell is goin’ on?”

Gone is the cultured elegance of his accent as he practically shakes my brain from its moorings and glares down at me heatedly.

“What?”

“I said, what the hell is going on?” he roars at me, breathing heavily, though he’s recovered enough to enunciate every word with a crisp bite of fury. “Who were you screaming at on the phone? Are you sick?”

No, just terminally stupid enough to be ecstatically happy to see you again. And why the hell can’t I seem to stop the fizzing in my blood just because you’re here?

It’s ludicrous to be this happy suddenly, really it is, but as he pushes me away and starts that infernal pacing of his I feel so giddy I can hardly draw a decent breath.

“No, I—it was nothing. Just a crank caller that got me a little worked up is all. It was silly. No one can get in here without—wait, how did you get up here?”

His snide remark makes my cheeks burn, and yes, I feel more than a tiny kernel of fear to know that he’d simply walked straight into the building and gotten to my door with nothing more than a sneer in the doorman’s direction.

Shit.

“You’re coming home with me right this minute. No. Do not argue with me right now. I’m in a decidedly violent mood after listening to your fear and the resultant sickness. Go pack a bloody bag before I call your parents!”

I gasp and splutter out a very unladylike curse at his gall, pushing my fear away with a force of will that is borne of anger and the remembrance of that episode in the supply closet at Park’s wedding.

It would be so easy to forget every rotten thing he’s done to me and just accept the crumbs he’s willing to throw my way…something I can’t do and keep my bruised pride intact.

So instead of bowing to his wishes as usual, I snort and walk to the door, opening it with a steely-eyed stare that makes me feel wretchedly powerful.

“Leave.”

“Dove—”

“I am not your wife or girlfriend to boss around whenever the need arises. I divorced your lying ass for a reason, Vincent Blake. I want you to get out of my life and stay out. And so help me God, if you call Mama and Beau and blab to them when they’ve just recovered from his health scare, I will never forgive you!”

Not that that’s gonna make any difference to him, I think cynically, but whatever.

“Keep your bloody doors locked.”

When he’s gone I can do nothing else but sag against the closed door and stare dry-eyed at the darkened windows and the even darker night beyond.