“That was business. In.” He gestures with his head.

  I step inside like I’m testing it for quicksand. It’s completely dark. The heavy door slams shut leaving an eerie echo bouncing off walls that seem wider and higher than my eyes can see. Trick flips a switch to a single light bulb that looks like it’s dangling from nowhere. Dark shadows drape everything but a freight elevator with the old scissor gate a few feet in front of us. He opens the gate and steps into the elevator. I don’t.

  We have a silent standoff. I’m not getting on that old thing and he … well I don’t think he cares what I do.

  “Suit yourself.” He starts to shut the gate.

  “Wait!” I scurry into the elevator and he shuts the gate behind me.

  It starts its ascent with a jerk as the old wheel and pulleys moan in protest. I lean against the back wall with my hands flat against it to brace myself. The fright in my face is palpable; I can only imagine how ugly it must look from the outside. My fear is met with another toothless smirk.

  Smug ass!

  The elevator grinds to an equally jerky halt. Trick slides open the gate and steps off, turning on the lights. With less hesitation than before, I follow him like a horse he’s breaking with fear, not trust. He lives in an old warehouse. It has monstrous open ceilings with exposed duct work and conduit and a panoramic grid of windows at the far end. The walls are all naked red brick and there’s a spiral iron stairway in the distant corner, leading to an open loft area.

  “I’ll get you a jacket.”

  “I’m fine.” I force myself to stop the nervous friction of my hands rubbing against my arms. It has to be eighty degrees on this upper level, but I still have chills.

  Trick continues to the stairway, of course not acknowledging a word I’ve said.

  This place is void of interior walls with the exception of two translucent glass brick walls about ten feet high near a cluster of bedroom furniture. Watching the stairway for his return, I ease my way over and peek around the corner of glass—it’s a bathroom. Shuffling on my toes to silence my heels, I move toward the kitchen so he doesn’t see me snooping near his bedroom area. With my hands clasped behind my back in innocence, I wait for Trick. Beyond the sitting area in the middle of the room are multiple figures near the far windows. The dim lighting makes it impossible to tell if it’s more furniture or something else. It looks like different things draped with sheets.

  “Here,” Trick says coming down the stairs, holding out a black leather jacket.

  “I like your place.”

  He raises a single disbelieving brow at me.

  “I do. I like the industrial feel.”

  He gives me a slow yeah-sure-you-do nod, clearly not convinced. In my own home I surround myself with modern decor trimmed in clean lines and very little clutter. Step-mommy Rachel thinks it has a hideous “sterile” feel to it: stainless steel appliances, white and shades of gray paint, and all hard surface flooring.

  “You’re a man of very few words, Patrick Roth.” I smile, hoping to capture the ultimate prize—a return smile.

  “It’s Trick, and maybe you’re a woman of too many words. Put the jacket on. Let’s go.”

  “You could offer me a drink.” Internally, I grimace. Where did that come from? I have no idea what I’m doing or what’s my angle—my motivation. It might be fifty percent stupidity and fifty percent curiosity. Okay, more like seventy-thirty.

  He sighs. “I don’t have anything to offer you.”

  What does that mean? Are we still talking beverages or something else, as in he’s gay and I’m not?

  “Wine?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Beer?”

  Another shake.

  “Tea?”

  No shake, just a glare—a you-just-woke-the-beast glare.

  Don’t say it; don’t say—

  “Water?” I whisper, a squint of apprehension on my face.

  Gah! I’m pathetic.

  His jaw clenches as he turns. Retrieving a bottled water from his refrigerator, he tosses it to me. I catch it and stare at it for a few seconds.

  “What?” he says with biting aggravation.

  My nose wrinkles. “Well, my teeth are sensitive. I can’t drink cold water.” God’s honest truth.

  He rests his hands on his hips and looks up at the ceiling, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.

  “I’m fine with tap water.” I squeak the words out like I’m waiting for the ceiling to collapse.

  He grabs the bottle from my hands, screws off the top, and gulps down the contents. Then he fills it with tap water, glancing back at me with an evil scowl. “Jacket. Go. Now!” He hands the bottle to me, brushing past to the elevator.

  The clicking of my heels echoes with each step as I hurry to catch up. On the descent, I take a small sip of the water and give him a sheepish sidelong glance. He doesn’t look at me, eyes firm ahead, hands fisted.

  Leaving me and my lukewarm water on the elevator as if I no longer exist, he flips on another single light that illuminates a door off to our right. There’s a keypad by it and he enters a long code before the door buzzes and he pushes it open. I hustle to catch up before the heavy door slams in my face. It’s pitch black again until a large service door opens. Trick yanks off a cover with a magician’s confidence, revealing a motorcycle.

  Sucking my wet lips into my mouth, I release them with a pop. “I’m not getting on that thing.”

  We both stare at the motorcycle in silence for a few moments.

  “Suit yourself.” He tosses the cover over it and backtracks toward the elevator.

  “Wait!”

  He turns.

  I point to a larger something that’s also covered. “What’s that?”

  “Not mine.”

  I sigh, a lack of trust pulling my eyes into a tight squint. I know there’s more beyond whatever isn’t his, but I can’t see that well in this meager lighting. I could share with him motorcycle fatality statistics and the life-threatening injuries I see come into the ER, but something tells me my words would be nothing more than miming to a blind person.

  “I can’t get my leg over a motorcycle in this tight dress.” I gesture to my fitted skirt that falls just above my knees. There’s an inch slit up one side, but not enough give to allow me to swing a leg over. It takes him three meaningful strides before we’re standing toe to toe. I shrug in the most innocent it’s-not-my-fault-I-have-this-dress-on way while looking up at him, thinking he surely understands my predicament. Eyes that give away nothing inspect the full length of my body, then he bends down and rips the skirt of my dress to my hip, exposing the waistband of my thong.

  “What the hell?” I screech, grasping for the torn pieces in a losing battle to cover my bared ass.

  Trick pulls the cover off his bike and grabs a helmet. Now it’s my jaw that grinds in rage. He wedges the helmet between his knees and gathers my hair, twisting it until it’s piled on top of my head before he shoves the helmet on me and flips down the visor.

  “Jacket,” he grumbles, picking it up off the floor by my feet.

  He slips it on me and zips it like I’m a child; then he gets on the bike and brings it to a roaring start.

  “Get on.” He looks back at me, eyes drifting to my naked leg.

  “Jerk!” I huff while throwing a leg over the bike and my patience to the wind.

  “Hold on,” he grates, reaching back, palming my ass, to scoot me closer to him, which just makes me more pissed. And turned on in a praying mantis sexual cannibalism way.

  I hug his body out of necessity with a scoop of detest and a drizzling of lust. How did my night turn into this fiasco?

  “What’s your address?” he asks as we pull up to a stoplight.

  I don’t say anything. I’m too livid to speak.

  “Suit yourself.”

  I flip up the visor. “What the hell does that mean? Why do you keep saying that to me?”

  The light turns green.

  “Address, Darby … now!”

  I spew out my address like venom as he speeds forward. If I didn’t know better—and maybe I don’t—I’d think his mission is to send me flying off the back of his bike. My fingers make a death-grip claim to his abs. If I had long nails he’d be bleeding by now.

  I say an instant prayer of thanks when we pull to a safe stop in front of my place. Nearly tumbling to the ground to get away from him, I jerk off his helmet and heave it. He catches it with a look of shock on his face. Shrugging off his jacket, I whip it on the ground.

  “Have a nice life, asshole!” Turning, I stomp to my door. The lock evades me as I make desperate stabs at it with my key. It slides through the teeth, but before I can turn it Trick pins me to the door, my cheek pressed to the cool metal. I swear my ribs could crack from my heart beating in such a thunderous rage; every labored breath seethes through my clenched teeth.

  His lips are so close to my ear I can feel their warmth. “I’m not an asshole. I just don’t like rich-bitch women who think they can strut their whore asses around and own me because they have a bigger bank account. I offered you a ride … period. So stop trying to buddy up to me. You don’t have anything I fucking want. Got it?”

  I wriggle out of his grasp and turn.

  Smack!

  Fire rages through my hand, the effects of which I’m sure will last longer than on his face. “You are an asshole.” I shove him, but his feet stay rooted firmly to the ground. He doesn’t even sway. “You don’t know me, and you sure as hell don’t know the balance of my bank account. So get the fuck away from me, and make sure you never end up in my ER again, because I won’t lift a goddamn finger to put you back together! Got. It?”

  I whip around and stumble inside, closing and locking the door behind me before collapsing to the floor.

  “Fuck!” he yells. “Darby!” He bangs on the door, but I don’t move.

  I’m so pissed. The nerve of that jerk! But damn if I’m not as equally turned on. For the love of God, he ripped my dress. That was so damn hot! And when he slammed me against the door and rambled all that inconsiderate shit to me with a completely unwarranted judgmental attitude, I was even more pissed and proportionally aroused. I’m sure after a good night’s sleep and the return of my rational thinking, the only memory I’ll have from tonight will be his asshole attitude. But for now, the thing I’m most miffed about is that he’s gay!

  Chapter Three

  Four hours of sleep—not enough. However, as I drag my emotionally drained ass to work, lack of sleep is not my biggest concern. My clutch bag with my wallet and phone, aka my life, trumps everything else. I left it at Trick’s place. Note to self: Never burn bridges if your purse is on the other side.

  I still can’t make sense of what happened. Everything seemed fine until I asked for a drink—one drink. It was as if I asked him for a kidney transplant. I blinked and he went from agreeing to give me a ride home to accusing me of trying to what? Buy him? Control him? Own him? All over one drink? He’s the asshole that ripped my dress and tried to kill me with his reckless driving! Welcome back, rational thinking.

  “Good morning, sunshine. Long night?” Jade hands me a Green Lantern, my favorite raw green drink from Peel that I stockpile in the break room refrigerator. She’s the closest thing to a best friend that I have, and that’s pathetic considering we never see each other outside of work. But she knows I let my Green Lantern sit out thirty minutes so it’s not so cold when I drink it, and she’s kind enough to not act all exasperated about it like some people.

  “Thanks. Mmm … perfect.” I lick my lips. “And yes, it was a long night. Steven got called into work and my evening went to hell in a handbag after that.” And now I’m in hell because I in fact don’t have my handbag! That reminds me, Steven! He’s probably blown up my phone with messages wondering where I was when he got home.

  “What happened?”

  “Cardiac arrest ten minutes out,” Ellen announces.

  “Long story, I’ll tell you later. I need to make a quick call and get dressed.” I change into my scrubs and call Gemmie.

  “Hel—lo?”

  “Gemmie, it’s Darby. I’m sorry for waking you, but I need a favor.”

  “Shit balls, Darby! It’s six-forty-five on a Sunday!”

  “I know, hence the apology. I need you to get my purse from Trick. I need my phone back ASAP.”

  “They’re not open on Sunday.” I can hear the growly yawn in her voice.

  “It’s at his place. He lives—”

  “I know where he lives. Wait … how do you?”

  “Long story.” That seems to be the answer of the day. “Please … I need my phone. I’ll owe you big time.”

  “The long story, that’s all I want. Soon!”

  “Deal. Gotta go. Thank you. I love you. You’re the best!”

  The next four hours fill with a steady flow of weekend crazies. A looming cloud of exhaustion chases me so I just keep going.

  “Room two, possible fracture.” Jade hands me the chart.

  “X-ray?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Get one. What’s next?”

  “Five-year-old stuck a bean up his nose, room four.”

  I roll my eyes. “Lovely.”

  “Darb.” Steven catches me on my way to bean nose.

  “Oh, Steven, about last night—”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, babe. I was in surgery longer than I expected. I’m just now leaving.”

  “Oh, well … I went…” Yeah, he doesn’t need to know. “…I mean, no problem. I’ll call you later.”

  I glance up, searching for a nod of acknowledgement or something, but his gaze fixes over my shoulder. I turn to Trick planted behind me as if he just appeared rather than arrived. A glacier, he gives away nothing with his indifferent almost steely expression while holding my clutch in his hand. An icy chill sloths up my spine.

  “Is that your purse?”

  I look back at Steven. “Yes. Long story, I’ll call you later.” There it is again—my long story.

  Snatching my clutch, I brush past ice man without a word.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I whip around with vinegar in my veins. “Tell Gemmie thank you.”

  He holds up his hand. “While I’m here, how about you take these stitches out?”

  I fish my phone out of my clutch and hand my purse to wide-eyed Jade behind the counter. “It’s been seven days, I said eight to ten.”

  “Suit yourself, I’ll rip them out on my own.”

  I look at Jade with a desperate plea in my eyes, a silent SOS.

  “Room two went to X-ray.” She smiles, throwing me in the lion’s den and swallowing the key.

  I squint my eyes in a piercing scowl. “Jade, after you get the X-ray in room two, Mr. Douglas, curtain six, soiled himself and needs your assistance.” My scowl morphs into vengeful smirk as I turn on my heel. “Follow me, Patrick.”

  He hops up on the table while I wash my hands. I grab several paper towels, taking a long breath and releasing it slowly. I hate feeling angry. Some people would say I act like a doormat, but if I were to react like I did last night every time a man pissed me off, I’d already be dead of a heart attack or stroke. Certain personalities crave that reaction; they love crawling under other people’s skin like a chronic disease. If that’s Trick, then I gave him exactly what he was looking for last night.

  My focus stays on his hand, yet just his proximity does unwelcome things to my body that hasn’t got the I-despise-this-jerk message. Thank God my hands are immune to the rest of my jittery emotions as I remove his sutures.

  “I’m really not an asshole.”

  I release a cynical laugh. “Um … yes, you really are.”

  “I may have misjudged you.”

  “May? That’s an understatement. But it doesn’t matter…” I remove the last stitch and glance at him “…after today you won’t have to see this controlling rich-bitch whore again.”

  He grimaces like I ripped his wound back open. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was a knee-jerk reaction.”

  I pull off my gloves and toss them in the garbage. “No, you shouldn’t have thought it in the first place.” I wash my hands. “Whatever, I don’t need another critic, and you made it perfectly clear that you don’t want or need anything from me so…” I hold open the door “…have a nice life.” Fake smiling. Teeth grinding. Breath holding.

  He bites his lips together, dropping his chin into a thoughtful nod as he scoots off the table.

  I stare at my feet like they’re the most deserving thing in the room of my attention as he walks toward me. There’s a tightness in my chest and a sinking feeling in my stomach from a toxic mix of anger, pain, and disappointment. Then there’s my irrational side that’s been gagged and thrown in the proverbial closet, all hot and bothered.

  “What time are you done working?”

  I raise my head, a what-did-you-say frown stealing my face. “Three. Why?”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven. Dinner’s on me.” He gives me his signature smirk, that small lip twitch that deceives his best efforts to act unaffected around me.

  “Why would I want to go to dinner with you?”

  “Because even if you won’t admit it, something inside you needs to know that I’m not the asshole that drove you home last night.”

  I’m not sure what irritates me more, that he acts like he knows me or that he’s right. I squint, but he’s unreadable. It’s insane that I’m even considering his offer, a likely round two of throwing my bruised ego into the ring.

  I sigh. “I’ll be starving by five and you’re still an asshole.”

  He purses his lips to the side. “Grab a snack, I’ll get you at six, and … you’re wrong.” He doesn’t give me a chance for rebuttal before he’s out the door.

  I need a what-the-hell-just happened moment, but I don’t have that luxury because there’s a bean up some kid’s nose just calling my name.

  I manage to slip out of the hospital before Jade has a chance to play twenty questions. Part of me is dying to talk about this situation I’ve fallen into, but that would require an explanation of my fascination with a gay man whom I’ve just recently met. That’s an answer I don’t have yet.