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AFTER I FALL: CHAPTER 6
Eli
As much as my cock is highly pissed at me, fucking that woman would have been the wrong thing to do. My dick isn’t speaking to me right now because of my moral standing on these types of situations. Morals don’t get a guy laid.
And I’ve made plenty of the wrong choices in my life. I don’t need to add to my list of regrets.
So why the hell am I still thinking about her? Especially when I’ve been up for six hours and have already had three cups of coffee and two meetings with distributors. I should be thinking about work, not how her skin tasted.
Christ, why didn’t I take her up on the offer? She was so fucking primed it wasn’t even funny. She’d melted the minute I touched her and I hadn’t even really got started. One touch of my lips on her throat and she’d practically started purring.
My life has gotten too damn serious these days. For a guy who runs a bar, I’m depressingly celibate.
Eighteen hours later and I’m still wired for sound after that stunt in the alley. I’ve got nothing to do with the pent-up need throbbing in my balls. Which means I’m strung out from too much coffee and not nearly enough sex.
Maybe I should take an hour before I head into the bar. Detour upstairs to my apartment over the bar and spend some private time with a bottle of lotion and some creative and filthy thoughts.
Jesus, I’m like a twelve-year-old with a walking hard-on and no self-control.
To spite myself, I’m not going upstairs. I’m going to be an adult.
I arrive at my building—irritated from fighting traffic on I-40—in time to find someone has parked their fucking Mercedes in my parking spot.
I sit there for a minute, staring at the sleek silver car that’s sitting in the parking spot that I pay five hundred dollars a month to reserve.
I don’t have time to be riding around looking for a place to park. Not as a resident or as a business owner.
Ignoring how much of a tool it makes me feel like, I block them in. Someone will get the message soon enough. Hell, I pay the city enough damn money for that spot. And it’s meant specifically for days like this when I can’t afford to be running around looking for somewhere to fucking park.
Which makes me really fucking cranky as I walk into the bar. Deacon is already there, bright-eyed and far too bushy-tailed, cleaning the chalkboard behind the bar and prepping it for the day’s drink specials.
Deacon has more ink—and more scar tissue—than I will ever have but he’s magic behind the bar.
“The Pale Horse Brewery was already here,” he says by way of greeting. “I took the delivery and left the paperwork on your desk.”
I clap him on the shoulder as I lean down and pull an iced coffee from the micro fridge beneath the bar. Because more coffee is exactly what I need right now. I’m lucky I’m not pissing pure caffeine at this point. “You are clearly on your way to sainthood.”
I count myself lucky every single day that I was able to lure Deacon away from the big money he was making up in New York City. I still don’t honestly know what made him make the change. He said he was ready to leave the city behind. I don’t think that’s the entire story, but I learned a long time ago that when guys are ready to talk, they’ll talk.
And he may never be ready.
But I’ll be here if he ever is.
I don’t ask, though. I’d hate for him to get buyer’s remorse and go back to the big city he’s left behind to come work for me.
I head into the office and start tallying receipts. I already dropped the deposit at the bank, since it’s like asking to get robbed to keep anything over fifty bucks on the premises. Durham is a weird town undergoing rapid gentrification. On this block there are houses going for a quarter of a million dollars; two blocks over, you still have rabid poverty.
There’s a distant shout from the bar area. I usually don’t get involved in those unless I have to—my bartenders can generally handle themselves.
But the noise is coming closer.
“Who the hell blocked me in?”
I frown at the angry female voice. It’s not a voice that’s attached to any of the women I have working for me.
“My boss.” Deacon sounds perfectly reasonable. Ms. Mercedes, however, sounds just this side of irate, hissing kitten. “You’re in his spot.”
And then said kitten is standing in my office.
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest. The universe is fucking with me. I must have kicked a puppy in a previous life. Or at least stepped on a snail. Christ, I don’t need this right now.
Of-fucking-course it’s the woman from last night. Because my life is a goddamned cliché.
She’s wearing white designer jeans that are damn near painted on her tight ass. To be honest, I give myself high marks for not staring at those exquisite curves, the curves that just last night filled my hands.
Yeah, I’m working toward my own canonization. It’s a herculean effort to drag my eyes off her body and focus on the irritation looking back at me.
Because that’s helping get my one-track mind out of the gutter.
Everything about her screams Old Money, from the expensive wedge espadrilles to the fine stitching on the pale peasant blouse that does nothing to disguise her perfect body.
She looks like she belongs on a yacht in Bar Harbor, not slumming in my bar in downtown Durham.
And yet here she is.
I’m not prepared for the force of my own reaction. My cock doesn’t normally have a mind of his own, but he’s damn sure stood up and taken notice now that she’s stormed into my office, her heels clicking on the polished concrete floor.
I’m definitely not into rich girls. I got that out of my system last year when I discovered just how high maintenance they could be.
Which means I’m being a dick. Still.
It smarts that last night I was only good enough for her to fuck to piss off Daddy or whoever.
I finally break the silence. “Is there a problem?”
She’s going to have to make the first move. I might be highly pissed off right now, but if she’d rather pretend that last night didn’t happen, I’m fine with that.
It’s no sweat off my sac if she sets the pace. It’s powerful, letting a woman have control.
I bet she doesn’t even know how to let go. She’s probably always in charge of everything. That’s the way money works. Always has.
“Yeah, you’ve blocked me in.”
“I think Deacon already told you. You’re in my spot.”
She rotates her jaw in a way that reminds me of my younger sister when she’s in her most pissy mood. “And you blocking me in gets you your spot back how?”
I fight the urge to smirk at her. She’s pissed off enough. “It doesn’t. But it does make you—or whoever—have to come in and ask me to move. At which time I can point out that I pay the city of Durham a very pretty penny for this private parking space for my employees.”
“Your employees?” There is a level of disdain in her voice that I haven’t heard since I told my father and stepmother I wasn’t a virgin and—oh, the humanity—had gotten my first tattoo when I’d come back from Iraq the first time.
I lift one eyebrow. “Yes, my employees.”
“You’re…the owner?” Angry Kitten Parking Space Stealer has consumed my attention from the moment she walked into the office, so I notice when all the color flushes from her face. It could be comical if she weren’t so seriously pissed about the car.
“You could try sounding a little less shocked, honey.”
“Sorry.” She clears her throat and sniffs, then shifts her stance. It’s an almost physical change in her. “But I was here for a meeting with the owner of The Pint.”
“Which is why you parked in his spot?” I ask. Yes, it’s weird that I’m talking about myself in the third person, but she’s got me all twisted up right now. I’m lucky I’m even able to form a conscious thought.
She finally flushes, and it is fucking adorable. “So…yeah…could we possibly move beyond the parking spot?”
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my desk. I’m enjoying myself tremendously for no apparent reason. And my dick clearly has an opinion about how we feel about that. I haven’t had a Thayer Dragon in a long, long time but I’m about to embarrass myself like a nineteen-year-old cadet getting called to the boards.
Which means I’m not getting my happy ass out of this chair for anything short of a nuclear apocalypse.
But I can still enjoy this moment. “Maybe if you say sorry.”
“It’s just a parking space.” She sighs and folds her arms over her chest, mirroring my stance. And quite literally digs in her heels. “Fine. Is this about last night?”
Parker
I did not mean to bring that up. I honestly was hoping to forget the whole damn incident. But oh no, I have a pathological inability to keep my mouth shut.
And seeing him sitting there, looking smug and sexy and quite possibly undressing me with his eyes, I’m pretty sure there’s no way out of this situation while still retaining my panties.
And I’m okay with that. After last night, I’m pretty sure they’ve disintegrated just by being in the same room as him.
If only my reality was as erotic as my imagination.
This whole situation just went sideways. Because now, instead of a brief moment of insanity against a cold, damp brick wall, I’ve now got to choke down a giant helping of crow and ask him for a job.
Jesus, you can’t make this shit up.
“What about last night?” he asks mildly.
I’m reasonably certain his lips are quirked at the edges. And sweet baby Jesus his mouth is ridiculously full beneath that beard.
I never thought beards were sexy before but in this moment, I’m ready to head to the great North Woods and molest an LL Bean catalog.
“Well, ah…” Oh god this is awkward. It’s one of those moments when you hope the earth will open up and swallow you whole. ’Course that never happens, so I guess I need to start digging my way out of the massive cavern I’ve managed to dig into because I decided to try something new that backfired in an epic and unforgettable way.
Guess there’s only one way through this massive wall of man who is determined to make me squirm and not in any way that I’d like to be squirming.
“Thank you.”
Both of those dark brows shoot up, then down into a scowl. His lips are parted, just a little, pulled into a thoughtful line. “For what? Not sexually assaulting you?”
Holy crap he’s not making this easy. “I was perfectly willing to participate in whatever might have happened in that alley last night.”
“Okay. Then what are you thanking me for, if that’s what you wanted and that’s not what you got?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can feel him waiting, like a feral cat stalking its prey. Patient, oh so patient.
I shift my purse to my other shoulder. My sleeve shifts with it and his eyes are drawn to something I’d rather forget.
“Those don’t look any better in the full light of day.” His voice is soft. There is an edge to his voice now, a latent energy that hadn’t been there a moment before.
“Yeah, well, I suck at makeup.” Bad attempt at joke. He doesn’t even crack a half-smile.
He scrubs his hand over his mouth and makes a noise deep in his chest. “Are you safe? Are you away from whoever did this?”
The simplicity of that question strikes me, hard, in the chest. My lungs tighten and I suddenly can’t take a full breath.
All because he just asked a question that was one hundred percent about me, just me.
And he doesn’t even know me.
“I am.” A statement that is mostly true. “Look, last night I was hurting. And I wanted you to…distract me from that hurt. I’m not sure I wouldn’t have woken up with a fist full of regrets this morning. So thank you. For being one of the good ones.”
“I’m no saint,” he says quietly. Again—simple words laced with layers of meaning. There is so much more to this man than the beard and the tattoos.
“I don’t think you are. But every single guy I know would have fucked me six ways from Sunday last night and left me with the regrets.” I breathe out hard, because this is a terrible conversation to have when you’re sober. It would be so much better if I was having this conversation with one of Kelsey’s drinks in hand. What did she call them? Breakup Sex. And just like that, I’m thinking about the man sitting at his desk, looking like a pagan god playing at business man, doing terrible things to my body.
I clear my throat, wishing the images away. Or, at least, tucked away where I can enjoy them later.
“But you didn’t. So, thank you.”
He surprises me then. In a single move, he is around the desk. I don’t remember him being this tall, this overwhelming last night. His shoulders block out the light, the solid wall of his chest consuming everything I can see.
He smells the same, though. Something smoky and warm that makes me want to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in.
He is utterly gentle when he reaches up, cupping my cheek softly. His thumb rasps over my cheek. “There are plenty of things in this life to regret. Sex should never be one of those things,” he murmurs.
He doesn’t move for a long moment. I don’t think I want him to. I want to stay right there, forever, and draw on his strength. Use it to hold myself upright. To gather my strength to face the world.
I’d touched myself last night, imagining his fingers, his mouth.
But I never thought to put a name to that touch.
What does that say about me and the life I’ve lived up until now?
I swallow. “I’m Parker.”
He takes a step back then, leaning on his desk, his forearms corded and braced against the edge. “Eli.”
I resent the space between us. The ease with which he backs away and acts like the world didn’t just tip beneath his feet. “So what did you need to see me about?”
“I’m here about the internship.”
He arches one dark brow and the move is nothing but pure male arrogance. “The Mercedes in my parking spot does not suggest starving college student.” And just like that, we are back to where we started. He folds his arms over his chest, and I cannot miss the way the corded tendons press against his skin.
“Yeah, well, the Mercedes in your parking spot doesn’t buy me a passing grade for my honors project or help me write a letter for my business school application.”
He frowns. “I didn’t post an internship ad.”
I pull out the flyer from my purse. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Deacon”, but I can’t be sure. I wonder if that’s Mr. Attitude out front.
But I’m more concerned about Mr. Tattoo and Beard standing in front of me. Heat radiates from his body, drawing me closer, like a dying woman craving just one taste of salvation.
Eli. His name is Eli.
“You’re going to have to work a little harder than that to convince me why you’re here instead of asking Daddy for help. Doesn’t he have the right connections to get you a job at a consulting firm or something?”
I run my tongue over my top lip at the disdain dripping from his words. “Pretty judgmental to make all these assumptions about me, isn’t it?”
“Am I wrong?”
Heat flashes across my skin. Damn it. It’s everything I can do not to stomp my foot and start making demands.
“Not exactly,” I finally admit. I push out a hard breath. “Look, I don’t want to ask my dad to get one of his friends to help me with this project.”
“Which doesn’t tell me why you’re here and not somewhere else more suitable.”
“Maybe I want to learn how the bar business works. There’s tremendous growth opportunity in this market segment. I specialized in marketing. I could really use the stuff I’ve learned to help you work your branding and market placement.”
He frowns, and I can’t help but miss the slight downturn of his lips at the edge of his beard. “It’s actually incredibly crowded.”
“Not the way you’re doing it. Who the hell thinks up a place that does pancakes and beer?”
“Anyone who has ever been out drinking at three a.m. and decided they needed pancakes but they weren’t ready to call it a night yet.” He is scowling at me. “Besides, that was a failed experiment. No one who actually runs a bar wants to pull the graveyard shift and be part of the pancake crowd at four in the morning.”
I should probably be at least a little nervous. Or maybe feel a hint of embarrassment. But he hasn’t asked me to leave yet, so that’s a good thing, right?
“Why are you really here?”
Damn it, why did I have to pick the one guy who can see right through me? “I told you already.” But the words feel dishonest at best. Nothing in my life is that simple.
He steps into my space again. “You’re not a very good liar.”
“Actually, I am usually much better at this sort of thing.”
“What, lying?” There goes that dark brow again, rising into the air with an arrogance that’s starting to get annoying.
“Negotiating.” I shift my purse, suddenly highly conscious about how everything I am wearing—from my top to my purse to my shoes—screams that I am out of my environment.
“So let me get this straight. Last night, you came here for a revenge fuck to piss off Daddy or the ex or whoever. Today, you’re here looking for a job when you could pick up the phone and ask Daddy for help with this.” He’s still studying me, still standing far too close. “I don’t want anything to do with you and your daddy issues, honey. They have counselors for that kind of shit.”
There is hurt in those words. It’s subtle but there, blazing for the world to see if only it would look closely enough. I’m not sure I dare to step this close to the fire. But I can’t leave, either. Because leaving would be a retreat. It would make me a coward. “I know this looks bad but I’m asking for a chance.”
“Why should I hire you? What can you possibly bring to this assignment other than being a pain in my ass?”