On Every Street (The Artists Trilogy #0)

On Every Street (The Artists Trilogy #0) Page 13

Javier came back with a glass of cool water, raising the cup to my lips. He coaxed me to put out my tongue and explained he was giving me some ibuprofen for the pain and swelling which was to follow.

“How long am I going to be sore for?” I asked after swallowing them down.

He shrugged lightly and smiled. “I don’t have too much experience in this, believe it or not. But I suggest you refrain from bike riding over the next couple of days.”

I rolled my eyes at that. Yeah, no kidding. He reached into the drawer of his bedside table and brought out a small towel. He poured a bit of water on it and brought it down to my legs.

“I’m just going to clean you up.”

I shriveled up, feeling embarrassed. “How much of a mess did I make?”

The towel was cold on my skin but his touch was more than gentle. “Not much, I’m afraid. You are a virgin, right?”

I could tell he was teasing me, so I said, “Not anymore.” I was glad I didn’t bleed too much. I always thought I’d lose my virginity and there would be blood splattered all over the walls like an episode of Dexter, but I guess years of tampon use and masturbation took some of the edge off.

When he was done he told me to roll onto my back and he continued cleaning me, making sure he was wiping every crevice clean. He then folded up the towel and got to his feet. He was still completely naked, and though his cock wasn’t as hard as before, I couldn’t help marveling at it. That had been inside me. He was my first. And, as I felt my heart clenching uncomfortably, I had the guts to wish he wouldn’t be my last.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Some days I felt like Eden White. Other days I felt like Ellie Watt. But most days, I only knew one thing: I was a horrible con artist. And, against my better judgement, I was making peace with that.

After Javier deflowered me, which sounded far more delicate than what actually happened, the next couple of weeks were a blur of sex and work. If I wasn’t working my shift at Hogan’s Heroes, I was getting rammed by Javier in the bedroom. Fucked sideways on the porch. Riding him in Jose. Thrust against the wall in the grimy stairwell of my apartment building. Reverse cowgirl on the couch. We were both insatiable, our physical need for each other overpowering everything we did. It was the catalyst for our thoughts, for our actions. We gave each other our bodies as if we’d die otherwise.

It reminded me of being on the Florida coast as a child, when we lived (briefly) at a gypsy-like trailer park. The ocean on the coast was rough at times and I was attracted to the waves. They held danger and mystery, even death, and my parents were too occupied to tell me any better. I’d jump into the surf, far away from the lifeguard stations, and time and time again, when I was trying to leave the water, the waves would break over my head. I tumbled, feeling the sand scrape my body, not knowing which way was up. And by the time I reached the surface, another wave would crash and I would repeat the turmoil all over again. I was tumbling in my new life—my new lie. I tried to come up for air, to think straight, to remember my plan, my goal, my revenge. But the heat in my belly that used to drive me forward had been replaced by the heat between my legs. It disappeared with every thrust Javier took, it melted when we came together. My body was his and it was just a matter of time before he had my heart. When that happened, I knew I’d take in water. I knew I would drown. Any love that starts under a lie is bound to kill you.

I didn’t really realize how deep I’d gone in, the power he had over me, until he picked me up after work one day. I was late doing the close down thanks to a last minute rush, so when he got tired of waiting he came inside and pulled up a barstool.

“I won’t be much longer,” I told him.

“Can I help?” he asked sincerely. He looked especially dashing tonight: black suit, skinny tie, white shirt. Sometimes I wondered what he did during my shifts—where he went, who he talked to. But I didn’t dare ask. I was afraid to ask. To ask would be to pop the sex-filled bubble I’d been living, and I’d been a virgin for too long to give that up.

“No, just sit there and look pretty.”

As I worked, quickly wiping down the counters like I was on fast forward, I kept glancing at his beautiful eyes. They watched me as they always watched me—attentive and involved. And horny as hell.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I admonished him, trying to de-smudge the eyeliner that had gathered under my eyes.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like you want a good taste.”

He grinned, satisfied and secure. He gave me a short nod. “You know me so well already.”

That wasn’t quite true but I smiled back anyway.

“Can you wipe down the counter?” he asked, getting out of his seat. “I think you missed a spot.”

I gave him an odd look but did as I was told.

“No, do it with your ass.”

I snorted. “With my ass.”

He patted the counter with a few smacks of his palm. “Up, up.”

Curious, I threw the towel in the sink and hopped up on the counter. I wrapped my legs around him while my eyes darted over to the door.

“I locked it as I came in,” he said, reaching up and pulling my shirt over my head. “You really should lock it as you work. I don’t want any criminals coming in and feeling you up.”

My breath caught in my throat but he didn’t notice. His eyes blazed into mine as if he wasn’t a criminal himself. And as he took off my bra and pulled off my jeans and thong, I wondered just what kind of person I’d become. I was ignoring what he was and focusing on what he was to me. I was drowning again. And I was naked, sitting on the bar where I served drinks to customers.

I reached forward for his tie but he pulled back, wagging his finger back and forth.

“Nuh uh. You have been serving all day. Now it’s time for me to serve you.”

He made me lie down on my back, the counter still wet from the wipe down and sticking to my spine. He came behind the bar and I heard the rattle of ice cubes in a glass.

I turned my head to look at him, feeling like I was in a fucked up version of a doctor’s examination. “Feeling thirsty?”

“Only for you, my sweet.” He put an ice cube in his mouth and rolled it around with his tongue. He came up to me, dipping his fingers into the ice and sliding them over my hipbones until I shivered. He gently spread my legs, then got up on the bar with me, kneeling between them. He popped another ice cube in his mouth then proceeded to go down on me.

I flinched from his icy lips on my warm ones. The sensation was new but not unpleasurable, and just as I was getting used to the contrast in temperature, I felt him press the ice cube into me using only his tongue.

I gasped, gripping the edge of the counter while the ice started to melt away, constricted by my muscles and tempered by my inner heat.

“I could drink you all day,” he murmured into me, his hands stroking the sides of my thighs, his trimmed nails raking downward. But despite his threat, he got me off in seconds flat and I hoped my cries wouldn’t attract the attention of any passerby outside.

Afterward, I tried to return the favor but he just smiled and handed me my clothes.

“Why are you so good to me?” I asked him, surprised to hear the sincerity in my voice.

He cocked his head, studying me for a moment, before he placed his hands behind my head and brought my face to his so only our noses were touching. Up this close, I could count the number of golden flecks in his green eyes—twelve in the left and ten in the right—the color variation made his eyes take on that unusual hue. His eyelashes were dark as night and unbearably long and pretty, something else that was really quite unfair.

“Why am I good to you?” he repeated, his lips brushing against mine as he spoke. “Because I can see you are broken. And I want nothing more than to put you back together.”

I was drowning again. In his words. In his promises that he never said but I knew he kept.

“I’d like that,” I told him, ignoring that pinch in my heart, the one that told me that he could never put the real me back together. He could never fix Ellie Watt because he had no idea who she was.

My lips found his and I kissed him like he was the blood that pumped in my heart. We lost each other then found each other over and over again, tumbling in the depths.

Until a loud knock at the door rattled it on its hinges and broke us apart with a start.

“Shit,” I swore, jumping off the counter and slipping on my clothes as fast as I could. “I bet it’s Steve. You shouldn’t be here.”

He knitted his brows together. “Why not? I’m your boyfriend.”

My brain stopped on that very phrase—boyfriend—for one brief and happy moment before it went back to fretting that I only had my pants done up.

I slipped on my bra, twisting it around me. “You are my boyfriend. But I don’t think I’m supposed to have people here with me after hours.” For reasons that included the thing we just did on the counter.

The pounding continued. Javier took a step toward the door, determination righting his posture. “If it’s Steve, why isn’t he using his key?”

“Javier, please,” I told him as I pulled down my shirt and tried to make myself look presentable. “Go wait in the back and don’t come out till I tell you to.”

He didn’t move; his eyes were locked on the door. I wished I could see out the nearby window but there was an entrance blocking my view. I gave him a little push. “Go.”

He did so reluctantly, and I waited until he was out of sight, hiding in the hallway where the washrooms were, until I approached the door.

“Steve?” I asked. My hand went for the handle which was jumping with each knock. “Julie?”

I eyed the chain lock and decided to err on the side of caution and slide it across. Better safe than sorry. Then I opened the door.

There was an explosion of sound, of splintering wood and breaking metal. The door came off its hinges and hit me right in the face, slamming me into the ground. Before I could figure out what had happened, that someone had kicked the door open breaking the chain and the hinges, I was being hauled to my feet by the big brute whom I’d gotten kicked out. Tom had come back and his fingers were digging into my arms as he shook me.

“Where’s your messiah now, huh?” he cried out, face red, spit flying. He was even drunker than he was that day, and I turned my head to see three men behind him, all in their early twenties and jacked up as anything. These were not his frat buddies from before—he had brought reinforcements, men meant to fuck me up.

I tried to hide my fear hoping that Javier was dialing the cops from his hiding place. As good as he was at breaking noses, he wouldn’t stand a chance with these guys. They were out for blood…mine.

“Please let go of me,” I said, wondering if I could plead my way out of it. He responded by putting one hand at my mouth and squeezing it together. I cried out in pain and he leaned in close. “No one refuses me,” he snarled, and I wondered if knew what dangerous ground he was playing on. Like hell I wouldn’t press charges on him for assaulting me.