I blame my brother Duncan for most of what’s happened. After all,I’mnot the one who drained his trust fund and made a series of tremendously flawed judgment calls that landed the family in these dire financial straits. If he’d only bother to pull his head out of his ass and affix it firmly between his shoulders, where it belongs, perhaps I wouldn’t have spent my evening letting the boys in blue take my fingerprints along with a series of unflattering mugshots of me dressed in something more akin to a slutty Halloween outfit than an actual work uniform. (Frankly the sallow yellow lighting in this precinct is even less flattering than an accidental front-camera selfie snapped by asmartphone.)
If not for Duncan’s idiocy, I wouldn’t have been forced to sell off my favorite Prada clutch purse for rent money, or be facing eviction from my chic apartment in Beacon Hill, or have taken on the ridiculous job that got me arrested wearing this damn getup in the firstplace.
Alas, there’s nothing I can do aboutthatnow.
No use crying overspilledmilk.
What’s doneisdone.
Queserasera.
I’m out of pithy anecdotes, but you gettheidea.
Jail is the least of my problems. Somehow, the fact that I don’t know how to do my own laundry and am about to run out of clean underwear seems far more dire than a criminal record. Add to that my roommate problems — as in, I need to find one to split rent with byyesterdayif I don’t want to end up living on the streets — plus my relationship problems — ones stemming almost entirely from the man en route to rescue me — and Destiny starts looking so put together, a Stepford wife would bejealous.
Speaking of Destiny, she’s still giving averyvisual play-by-play of her favorite BJ techniques. Thankfully, before I’m forced to fathom a reasonable response about her rather unorthodox use of certain citrus fruits, Officer McDreamy clanks his baton against the bars of our cell,startlingme.
“Sinclair, you made bail.Moveit.”
I jolt to my feet, casting a guilty look at my cellmate. I have a feeling she’s going to be here awhile.
“Don’t you worry about me, girl.” Destiny winks and crosses one leg over the other, making her micro-short pleather skirt ride up to scandalous heights. Her plastic platform pumps swing cheerily over the concrete floor. “I’ll bejustfine.”
“It was nice meeting you,” I sayweakly.
“Give the grapefruit a try, you won’t regret it.” Her sultry gaze slides to Officer McSexMachine. “Maybe he can be your first testsubject.”
The officer coughs roughly. I follow Destiny’s stare and can’t help but notice that, while his expression is disapproving as ever, there’s a hint of red creeping up his collar as he unlocks the cell door and holds it openforme.
“Sinclair, I mean it — let’smove. Unless you’d rather stay here allnight.”
I suppress a grin as I make my way out into the hall, waving goodbye to Destiny before she disappears from view. The smile falls straight off my lips when I follow the officer around a corner into the waiting room, and find myself face to facewithLuca.
Damn, helooksgood.
Evenat3AM.
Maybe especiallyat3AM.
Bad Lila!Down,girl.
With a day’s worth of stubble covering his chiseled jaw and a nose that’s been broken too many times to count, he lends new meaning to the phraseruggedly handsome. Which, frankly, is not the type of man who typically revs my engines, if you catch my drift. In the past, I’ve always gone for the guys in tailored suits, preppy and perfectly styled, their hair as immaculate as the pressed corner squares in their jacketpockets.
Corporate dream boats, I oncechristenedthem.
Corporate control freaks, Phoebe amended with aneyeroll.
I’m relatively certain that Luca doesn’t even own a suit. He may not even own jeans, for god’s sake. His fighter aesthetic leans more toward low-riding gray sweatpants that leave very little to the imagination and white t-shirts that show off his broad chest and corded bicepmuscles.
Like I said — notmytype.
Atall.
So… I can’t really explain why my mouth goes dry at just the sight of him standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his ever-intent eyes sweeping me from top to toe with the same intensity I use to examine the new line of Prada purses each fall. I can’t understand why my stomach suddenly feels like it’s made of stone, or my tongue seems to swell to twice its normal size, or my lungs seem to seize up inside my chest, until just pulling breath in and out is achore.
“Delilah.”
It’s more a growl than agreeting.