Chapter Three
At quarter to one, Laurel snapped to attention. Four hours of fighting and a steady infusion of beer had numbed her senses, but all that fog dissipated when Flynn took to the ring.
His final fight was much like the earlier one, seemingly well-matched but ending in a near knockout. She watched him pull on a tee shirt and toss a bunch of stuff into a gym bag. Pam was at his side.
Laurel balanced her plastic cup on top of an overflowing trash bin and approached them.
Flynn spotted her first. “Still here then, sub shop girl?”
“Looks like it.”
He nodded and Pam smiled, and the three of them headed for a door at the opposite end of the basement from where Laurel had entered. They walked down a couple poorly lit hallways and up a long set of stairs, emerging in an alley behind the bar. After hours in the heady, sultry sauna of the gym, the city’s thick summer heat managed to feel refreshing.
They squeezed passed a Dumpster and a couple parked cars in the alley, out of the dark and onto the sidewalk. Flynn led the way down side streets for a few blocks.
They stopped at the entrance to a hulking brick building—one of the city’s many repurposed factories, though this one wasn’t ritzy like the slick new condos popping up like dandelions all over Boston and Cambridge. Flynn unclipped a noisy ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the foyer door. He strode to the elevator panel to punch the up button.
Laurel ran a hand over the brick and studied the framed picture hung on one wall—a sepia photo of the building from over a century before, carriages passing by in the foreground. “What did this place used to be?”
“Molasses factory.”
She studied Flynn’s sour expression, the dark bruise rising along his jaw to match the one ringing his left eye. The ding of the arriving elevator triggered a mental image of him stripped to the waist in the ring.
They stepped into the car and he hit the buttons for the second and fifth floors. The doors eased open at two and he said, “Hold it.” Pam leaned an arm in the threshold and Flynn jogged down the hall to the right. Laurel heard him knock three times then he jogged back.
“What was that about?” Laurel asked as the doors slid shut behind him.
“My sister,” he said. “She’s kind of a basketcase on fight nights. Likes to know when I get home in one piece.”
“You guys live in the same building? You must be close.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You could say that.”
The chime sounded again as the elevator opened onto the fifth-floor foyer and Flynn led them down the corridor to the very end. He unlocked his door and they stepped inside. He eased up the dimmer on a set of bulbs that hung from the high ceiling. He and Pam dumped their bags on a loveseat that seemed to be there for that purpose, but Laurel held on to her purse, as though it might save her from drowning. The door clicked softly shut behind her.
She took in the open loft space, with a small kitchen along the far wall. Three towering, arched factory windows offered a view of similar buildings and a sliver of white moon, and exposed pipes and vents crisscrossed the ceiling, making the apartment feel industrial and stark. A couch and an easy chair huddled in one corner around a coffee table. A bicycle, purple with silver Mylar streamers, was propped on its kickstand below one tall window, an open toolbox beside it.
Laurel’s confusion about the bike must have shown, as Flynn clapped her hard on the arm as he passed, heading for the kitchen area. “Don’t you go lookin’ for kinks where there aren’t any. I got a six-year-old niece.”
“Ah.”
Flynn’s generous bed was against the back wall, a navy comforter tossed across it in a middling attempt at tidiness. Shelves stood to either side and above the headboard, filled with books and CDs.
“Have a seat.” He waved a hand toward the couch. “Bathroom’s there,” he added, pointing to a door next to the stove. “We’re gonna ignore you from here on out, if that works for you.”
She nodded.
“You need to leave, you know where the exit is.” He turned to where Pam sat on the couch unlacing her tall, shit-kicking boots. “You want me to shower first?” he asked her.
She grinned. “Not a chance.”
He went to the front of the apartment and flipped off the lamps so only the dim, sickly glow leaking in illuminated the room. The orange streetlight exacerbated everything industrial and ominous about Flynn’s home, made the space feel at once hidden and exposed.
Laurel took a seat on the easy chair, not sinking in but perching on the edge as her eyes adjusted, still clutching her purse for dear life. Pam drank a glass of water at the counter while Flynn sat on the mattress and took his shoes off. Laurel wondered how he had the energy to do anything after what she’d witnessed at the gym.
Pam set her glass in the sink. Flynn stood as she approached, looking twice as dangerous now in the shadowy privacy of the space.
Laurel saw his expression shift, eyes narrowing, features hardening. He reached out and clasped Pam’s jaw in both hands, thumbs digging into her cheeks. The kiss that followed was less a show of affection than of dominance and ownership. He pressed into her, chest to chest, forcing her backward until she dropped onto the bed. Laurel felt the cushion under her own butt, imagined it was the mattress, that she was the one at the center of Flynn’s attention.
“Strip,” he said, cold. In her head it was Laurel who peeled her clothes away, skin bared to the humidity and this man’s hungry stare. He stepped back a couple paces. “On your knees.”
Those words rocked Laurel, yanked her back into her own body. This is actually happening. A part of her screamed that this was wrong—chauvinistic and cruel. Another part wanted to see him served, wanted to be the one at the mercy of his selfish demands.
Pam knelt before him and Laurel cupped her own knees, aching for the rude bite of hardwood boards beneath them.
“Get me hard, girl.”
“Yes, Sir.” It was Pam who reached out to unbuckle his belt, but Laurel could practically feel the cool metal releasing in her hands, feel the excitement as she unzipped Flynn’s jeans.
“Take it out,” he commanded.
She tugged his pants and shorts down a few inches to expose his cock. She stroked him, the gesture worshipful, just how Laurel felt. She got him stiff, made him long and thick and ready. Her lips parted, anticipating, and Laurel’s own mouth watered.
Flynn’s voice came, low. “It’s been a whole week. You been missing this?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve missed your dick.”
Flynn’s eyes flashed across the room, boring straight into Laurel’s. He held them for just a moment then addressed Pam. “You look hungry, girl.”
Laurel swallowed, watching Pam’s small hand running up and down his heavy-looking cock. She conjured the heat off his skin, the stiffness of him in her fist.
“Suck it,” Flynn ordered. He tugged the elastic from her long ponytail and wrapped that hair around his hand, yanking her closer. “Suck it.”
“Yes, Sir.” Her mouth closed around his head, hand still stroking. Laurel could tell from her hollowed cheeks how hard she was sucking, could feel that aggression building in her own body. Flynn sniffed in a harsh breath and a vein rose along his neck.
“Good. Get it nice and wet.”
She drew him out and ran her tongue up and down the length of his shaft, bathing him in her spit.
“That’s right…now more.”
The fist gripping her hair set the pace, drawing her mouth down his dick in slow, deep swallows. Laurel suppressed a moan to match Pam’s, pushed a rough hand through her own hair, wondering how it would feel to be held that way.
More, she thought. Desire and fear hummed in her pulse and her cunt clenched, impatient.
“More,” Flynn commanded, and his hips began to pump. In seconds he had her taking all of him, her lips meeting his base with each thrust. Laurel’s neck and face flashed hot, her hands damp as she imagined holding Flynn’s sides, feeling the flex of muscle and bone beneath his jeans.
“Good girl. I wanna see you choke on that cock.”
More, Laurel thought again. She watched him bury every last inch, shut her eyes and clawed her nails against her own thighs, what she’d be doing to him if she were the one on her knees.
Arousal began to overshadow his callous self-control—Laurel heard it as his breaths turned raspy. She opened her eyes, frozen when she found his attention nailed to her.
He looked back down at Pam and tugged the bottom of his shirt up, giving himself a clear view of her mouth. “That’s it. Keep that up. Keep that up and I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll be begging me to stop.”
In Laurel’s imagination, she was the one giving him this pleasure, the one who’d sucked him so good she’d brought that rusty edge to his voice. Even in the dim light she caught his cheeks and neck and ears darkening, saw the faint trembling of his arms and shoulders.
“Good,” he said. “Good.” He slowed Pam’s head, made the thrusts shallow then drew his cock from her mouth. He stroked his crown across her lips a few times and Laurel could swear she tasted him on her own tongue.
“You love that cock, don’t you?”
Yes.
“Yes, Sir.” Pam lapped at his head, kissed that swollen skin.
“You wanna drink my come later, sweetheart?”
She gave voice to the thirsty noise Laurel ached to, lavishing more wet caresses on his dick.
“Good… You give me what I like and I’ll reward you with a mouthful.”
Laurel nodded, parched for it herself.
“Turn around,” he said. “Hands and knees.”
Pam shuffled in place and braced her arms. Laurel felt the grit under her own palms, Flynn’s eyes on her back. He shed his shirt and dropped his jeans and shorts and socks, walked to a shelf. Laurel heard a box being opened, a wrapper crinkling. Flynn turned back, rolling the condom down his erection. There was a stern placidity to his face, that same look Laurel had seen him wear just before the bell clanged to start a fight.
He dropped to his knees behind Pam, their bodies in profile to Laurel. Then he glanced to Laurel and all at once it was her before him, dying to be taken, all that heat coming off his body making her woozy.
“Eyes on the floor,” he ordered.
For a second Laurel obeyed, forgetting who she was in all this. As she raised her head she saw Flynn gripping his cock in one hand, the other teasing Pam’s pussy.
“Nice,” he breathed. “You’re always ready for me, aren’t you?”
“Always.”
“Yeah.” He angled his cock to her, pushing in. He made a sound of bone-deep satisfaction. Pam made a different noise—a sharp intake of breath followed by a sigh. His hips set a rhythm, slow and steady.
“You been thinking about this all week?” he asked.
Fuck yes.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” he demanded.
“Yes, Sir.”
Laurel saw his fingers dig harder into Pam’s ass as he fucked deeper, his thrusts echoing through her body, through Laurel’s. She watched his driving cock, knowing just how it must feel, all that hot, thick flesh taking what it wanted in greedy strokes.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and Laurel blushed from the praise, needing it to be for her.
He fucked, steady and calm, for several minutes. Then one palm slid from Pam’s ass to the small of her back, the gesture dripping with possession. He sped, pumping deep and fast and selfish.
“Lower,” he said, a new meanness in his voice.
She obeyed, dropping onto her elbows, hair pooling on the floor like a curtain and hiding her face.
“Lower.”
She dropped to one shoulder, then the other, face and neck wrenched to one side. Laurel imagined it, letting her discomfort be Flynn’s pleasure. Pam slid her arms to her sides and he took her wrists, crossing them behind her back and pinning them with one big hand. Laurel held her breath, grasped her own wrist, disturbed and turned on and nervous and hungry.
“You want this?” he demanded, and fuck if it didn’t feel as though that question were meant for Laurel. She bit her tongue, letting Pam speak for the both of them.
“No,” she said, almost too faint to make out.
Flynn turned to Laurel, expression cold as he nodded—the exact moment the play shifted from rough to far rougher.
He grunted in time with his hard thrusts, his free hand running up and down Pam’s thigh. He brought it down on her ass with a harsh slap and she cried out just as Laurel gasped. Chemicals flooded her bloodstream, the same confusing mix of adrenaline and shameful intoxication as when she watched a rape scene in a movie. In both cases, no one was really being violated, but she registered that same hot guilt she had her entire life, finding the visual powerful and horrifying but undeniably arousing.
“You like that?” Flynn asked, sneering, body hammering Pam’s.
Fuck yes.
“No. Stop.”
His laugh was sharp and cold and his eyes darted to Laurel, words stopping her heart. “I saw the way you watched me tonight.” He looked back to Pam. “You were dying for this cock, weren’t you?” He pounded her fast, hips slapping her ass for a handful of violent beats.
“Stop. Please, stop.”
“You think I can’t feel how wet you are for me?” He slowed, drawing his cock out, easing it back in, controlled and explicit and mocking.
“Don’t, please.”
“Shut your mouth, bitch. Shut up and get fucked.”
“No—” Her protest was cut off by another hard smack of Flynn’s palm on her hip.
“Shut your mouth.”
Laurel gulped for air, lightheaded and breathless, assaulted by a hundred conflicting emotions. Her awareness flashed in and out of the scene, torn between red-hot curiosity and icy fear. Part of her wanted to run for the door, but she remembered everything Pam had told her during the fights, about how women came to Flynn specifically for this treatment. There was consent, and a core of respect buried inside the cruelty.
She watched Pam’s arms jerk uselessly in Flynn’s grip.
“Struggle all you want. Only gets me hotter when you fight it.” With that, he let her hands go. He pulled out long enough to wrestle her onto her back before grabbing her wrists again, pinning them to the floor as he shoved his thighs between hers. Even in the dim light, even with her black hair strung across her mouth and her face set in a fearful grimace, Pam was unmistakably aroused. Her eyes blazed up at Flynn’s as she flailed her legs, kneeing his ribs as he tried to get his cock back inside her. Laurel felt her own arousal return threefold, felt the floor under her spine and Flynn’s weight against her pinned hips.
“Hold still, bitch.” He flinched as Pam spat at him and Laurel saw his eyes narrow as though they were mere inches above hers. “You’ll fucking pay for that.”
Pam gasped and jerked and Laurel imagined his intrusion between her own legs, mean and merciless.
“Yeah, that’s what you get.” He found a rhythm, graceless now, working against her thrashing body. “Harder you struggle, the harder I fuck you,” he warned. “Open your mouth.”
She bucked and spat again.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Flynn said. He yanked at her wrist, making her back arch, making Laurel’s ache alongside it. “Do what I say or I’m gonna get mean.”
She twisted under his hold and he yanked again and this time her body quieted.
“Better,” he said. “Now open that mouth.”
Both women parted their lips as Flynn lowered to kiss Pam, violent, hips still pounding. For a moment Laurel could feel his firm, wet tongue taking her mouth, then he jerked away with a gruff noise, released her wrist to touch his fingers to his lip.
“Fucking bitch.”
Laurel watched Pam slap uselessly at his slick chest and stomach as he wiped the blood from his bitten lip. Flynn squinted down at his victim, hips going still, his face full of hatred so cold it made Laurel shiver from ten feet away.
Without warning, he jammed his blood-streaked fingers into Pam’s mouth before moving them to her throat, pushing her head against the floor. Her assaulting hand froze between them.
Laurel froze too, body so tight with arousal and adrenaline she felt faint. She tasted copper in her mouth and her throat closed up.
Flynn’s next words came slow and dark and dangerous. “Now you’re going to do what I say. You understand?”
Pam made a noise, strained but coherent enough to tell Laurel she could breathe just fine, that Flynn wasn’t actually choking her.
“Right. Now you be a good girl and reach that hand down and touch yourself.” When she didn’t respond he seemed to tighten his hold on her neck. “Now.”
She obeyed, snaking her hand between their bodies to finger her clit. Laurel ached to do the same, her pussy begging for it. She held back, reminded herself of her role and made her obedience into an unspoken order from Flynn.
“Good.” He moved his choking hand to the floor by Pam’s shoulder. “Now you make yourself come, bitch. And I’ll know if you’re faking. You make that cunt clench around my cock or I swear to God you’ll regret it.”
Words gave way to moans and grunts as both bodies turned frantic. Laurel smelled the heady mix of sweat and sex and latex, felt the heat peeling off them against her own dampening skin. Her eyes drank in every shape of Flynn’s powerful body as it twitched and tightened, his thrusts looking punishing, the brutality real. Her cunt was screaming to experience him, throbbing deep and hot with impatience.
Pam came apart. Her breathy grunts matched Flynn’s harsh ones and her legs came up, knees hugging his waist, inviting him deeper. He let her pinned hand go and she moved it to her chest to palm her breasts and tweak her nipples. Laurel’s fingers twitched, dying to do the same.
They fucked like nothing she’d ever seen in porn—technically missionary, seemingly vanilla, but the intensity between them was incredible, palpable, crackling with electricity.
All at once that energy was rerouted, shot straight across the room between Flynn’s eyes and Laurel’s and she felt him, all the aggression and strength of his body pummeling hers.
Pam groaned beneath him, head turning to the side as the hand stroking her breasts grew frantic.
“Good girl. Come all over that hard cock.” He froze, pushed deep inside.
Pam cried out, raked his back as she climaxed. Laurel’s mind swam for a second, lost in the details of Flynn—his sweat-damp hair, muscles gleaming in the city’s ambient glow. She breathed in his smell, feasted on his body. She wanted him more violently than anything she could recall, as though the need in her were blinding pain and the only thing that could take it away was Flynn.
“That’s right,” he whispered, hips giving a few gentle pumps as Pam calmed. “That’s right. Good girl.” He leaned in, kissed her forehead. The gesture sent an odd ripple through Laurel, seeming twice as graphic and raw as any other intimate contact she’d witnessed in the last ten minutes.
Flynn pulled out and got to his feet as Pam made it unsteadily to her knees. She reached out to unroll the condom from his cock, set it aside and stroked his flesh. Laurel imagined him in her palm. His balls looked tight and high, telling her how close he must be. He took over after a minute, jerking fast and rough, and Laurel felt each bump of his head against Pam’s lips. She felt his skin under her nails as Pam dug her fingers into his thighs, saw his need as her eyes stared up at his face.
“Here I come, sweetheart. Open up wide for me.”
Laurel ached to see him come but Pam’s mouth closed over his head, keeping the moment private, forcing her out of all this borrowed intimacy. She had to be satisfied watching his clenching ass and his tight fist as his hand slowed, had to settle for his rumbling moan as he released. She saw Pam swallow what he gave her, felt her heart stop when his gaze jumped to her face for the briefest moment.
“C’mon.” He put a hand out and helped Pam to standing. “Go get cleaned up.”
Pam disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door to block out the light and the whir of the fan. A moment later the shower hissed on.
Laurel’s stomach dropped and she wondered if she was supposed to go now. She bit her lip, watching Flynn tug on his jeans and buckle his belt. He turned to her, still barefoot and stripped to the waist and looking just as dangerous as he did in the ring.
“Still here, huh?”
She tried to keep her eyes on his face, off his gleaming stomach, tried to keep her awareness on the words and off her pleading cunt. “Looks like it.”
He nodded and pulled on his shirt as the water shut off. He flipped the lights on and gathered Pam’s clothes, knocked on the bathroom door. A hand emerged to accept them with a thank-you.
Laurel got up, stepping to the windows to peer at the empty street five stories down.
“You dawdling?” Flynn asked. When she turned to try to come up with a pithy answer she found him smiling at her, thumbs tucked into his pockets.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You probably got some questions. Run away if you want though.”
She opened her mouth to speak just as Pam opened the bathroom door, flipping off the light and fan to emerge fully dressed. She looked different with her hair wet, bangs off her face, eyeliner and dark lipstick gone—vulnerable and heartbreakingly human. She turned to Laurel, her voice softer than it had been all evening.
“Did you like it?”
Laurel pursed her lips a moment and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for inviting me.” She turned to Flynn and held his eyes to tell him the thanks were meant for both of them.
“Walk you to your car?” he asked Pam.
“No, I’m just across the way.”
“I’ll watch from the window,” he said. “Go on, it’s late.”
Oh, right. She’s got a husband at home. Weird.
Pam turned to Laurel. “You need a ride anywhere?”
“No, I live close,” she lied. “Thanks though.”
“Sure. Nice meeting you, Laurel.” She headed for the exit, Flynn right behind her.
“Take care,” he said, and closed the door. He braced a hand on the wood and leaned into it as if he were thinking, then walked to the windows. He stared down into the street for a minute, raised a hand in a small wave as a car started up outside.
He turned to approach Laurel, crossing his arms over his chest. “So.”
“You’re bleeding,” she said, eyes on the fresh blood shining along the gash on his lip.
He wiped his mouth, smearing red. “You traumatized now or anything?”
She ignored his patronizing tone. “Do you have peroxide?”
He blinked at her a couple times then headed to the bathroom. She loitered at the open door while he crouched at the cupboard below the sink. He stood, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in hand, and Laurel edged past him to root through his medicine cabinet, finding antiseptic ointment and bandages. No cotton balls, but she popped the toilet paper roll off its spool and headed back into the main room. She heard Flynn behind her as she walked to his bed and sat on its edge. He looked down at her, semi-silhouetted. She patted the mattress and he surprised her by sitting.
Laurel angled his head and inspected the cut. He didn’t flinch as she brushed her fingertips over it.
“You a nurse or something?”
“No, I’m a waitress.”
“Aren’t you too old to be a waitress?” he asked, the tease stinging. She hoped the alcohol just might return the favor.
“I’m only twenty-nine.”
“Yeah, but you can wait tables in Providence. Nobody moves to Boston to become a waitress. Where’d you drop out from?”
“Nowhere. I graduated from Wentworth.” He remembered where I’m from. That’s something, right? She wet a wad of toilet paper and pressed it to his lip. He didn’t bat an eye. “I didn’t like my field all that much once I got into it.”
“Waste of thousands of dollars.”
She frowned. “I had a scholarship, not that it’s your business. Is there a humongous chip on your shoulder I should be disinfecting?”
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding it.
“What do you care, anyway?”
“I like to know who I’m playing with, and you seem like you might be sticking around.” He watched her smear her fingers with ointment before dabbing at his cut.
“Well, I’m a failed engineer who waits tables at a tourist trap in Quincy Market,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“And you don’t live around here, do you?”
“No. I live in the North End.”
“Roommates?”
She nodded. “I’m pushing thirty and my career’s in the shitter and I wait tables and have two roommates. And my longest relationship lasted less than your current fuckbuddy arrangement. Happy?”
Flynn laughed genuinely for the first time and it changed him. It deepened the lines beside his eyes and mouth, revealed his imperfect but white teeth. It also reopened the cut and she glared at him.
“What else have you got?” Laurel touched her fingers to a nasty bruise just above his collar. He peeled up his tee and she grimaced at the array of black and blues—way more now that she was close up. An ugly scrape traced his collarbone but nothing else appeared to be bleeding. Laurel swabbed the scrape and smeared it with Bactine, smoothed a bandage in place.
“Why do you do that?” she asked. “The fights?”
“Same reason I do the other shit you saw tonight.”
“Which is?” She crumpled the bandage wrapper in her fist and held his stare.
“Dunno. Just need to.”
“Does it make you feel alive or something?”
“Why’d you come here tonight?”
She nodded. “Touché.”
“You done fussing over me?”
She screwed the cap back on the ointment and nodded again.
“You drive here?”
She shook her head. “Bus.”
“Buses ain’t running this late. You want a ride?”
“I can call a cab.”
“Or I can give you a ride. Come on.” He stood and tugged his shirt back on and she followed, setting the first-aid supplies on his counter. She grabbed her purse from the table as Flynn pulled on his shoes and clipped his keys to his belt.
“Flynn isn’t your first name, is it?” Laurel asked.
“No. It’s Michael.”
“Oh.” She’d been expecting a little more evasion or possibly a stranger name than Michael. “Well, my last name’s White.”
“Right. Laurel White, I’m Michael Flynn.” He shook her hand curtly. “You’ve watched me fuck and we know each other’s full names. That enough for your first night?”
She offered a snide little smile. “Sure.” They left the apartment and he locked up behind them. They shared a silent elevator ride and walked half a block to a rust-pocked white station wagon. Flynn unlocked the driver’s side, slid in and leaned over to pull the lock for Laurel’s door. She sat down and glanced at him, then around the car.
He started the engine, grinning. “What’d you expect?”
“Not a station wagon.”
“I’m the only non-drinker in a bar full of fighters. Some nights I wish I had a minivan for haulin’ people’s drunk, limping asses home.” He pulled them onto the silent street and Laurel rolled down her window, breathing in that ripened summer city smell.
Flynn flipped on a classic rock station and lowered the volume.
“Thank you,” she said. “For letting me tag along.”
He shrugged and they didn’t speak for a couple minutes as he took them over a bridge and through the Seaport District. Dirty Water came on, as though they’d just driven into a parody of themselves.
“Think you’re interested in what I do?” Flynn asked, turning to her. “If you are, all you have to do is tell me what night.”
“Are you interested in inviting me?” she asked.
“Pretty sure I just did.”
She shifted in her seat and clutched her purse tighter. “I’m interested. I’m not sure how I’ll feel tomorrow though.”
“Just pick a night. You can always stand me up.”
“You must work early. So weeknights would be—”
“Quit stalling. Just pick a day.”
“Okay. Wednesday. I’m off work at four.”
He nodded. “Fine. Come over around eight. Or don’t. But I’ll make sure and be home then.”
She nodded and exhaled, feeling all at once relieved. “Is there a…shallow end? You know, to the rough stuff.”
He grinned at her. “You need training wheels?”
“Well—”
“Just fuckin’ with you. Of course there’s a shallow end. You’ve seen how I like to screw. But it’s a preference, not a fetish. I don’t have to be a prick to get hard.” He turned the car onto Atlantic Avenue, downtown looking as empty as Laurel had ever seen it.
“Regular sex is like jerking off to me,” he went on. “It feels good, it gets the job done. But I’d rather be doing somethin’ else, you know?”
“Are you part of the BDSM scene or whatever?”
He made an exasperated noise. “I can’t stand that shit. They make everything so fucking complicated. You might as well be one of those Civil-fucking-War…” He twirled his hand, searching for the word.
“Reenactors?”
He snapped his fingers at her. “Three points. Anyhow, I just like stuff a lot of women don’t, so I have to make sure I find the ones who do. Like, really do. Do you have a man someplace?”
“No.”
“Good,” he said.
“Pam does.”
“I know, and I won’t lie, it bugs me.”
“She said he knows about you guys.”
“Yeah, and I believe her. But it’d be simpler if she was single. I like my women simple,” he added, smirking.
Laurel rolled her eyes. “Your women? Exactly how big is this harem you’re inviting me to join?”
“It’s only been Pam, these past few months.”
“Oh.” Her dander settled, and good thing. It was ridiculous to already feel a twinge of jealousy over this man, but it was also an undeniable relief to know she wasn’t going to be just one in an endless stable.
“So what about it gets you off, do you think?”
Flynn shrugged, eyes on the road. “Power, I guess.”
“Same with the fighting? You like—”
“I’m not real interested in being psychoanalyzed, kiddo. Dissect my rotten soul all you want but keep it to yourself.”
“Sorry. I have an engineer’s brain.”
He side-eyed her. “What’s that mean?”
“I like understanding how things work.”
“Well, draw yourself a pretty little blueprint and do me a favor and don’t ever show it to me. I like fighting, and I like fucking. I don’t care much for thinking.”
“Okay.”
He took a right on Hanover into Laurel’s neighborhood. “Tell me where to turn,” he said.
“Left on North Bennet.”
He drove to her building and put the car in neutral, double-parking on the narrow one-way street. She caught the wink of headlights in the rearview mirror and unstrapped her seat belt. “Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem. You got your phone? I’ll give you my number, case you need it.”
Laurel fished out her cell and he entered his info.
“I never hear it ring, so just leave a message. I’ll see you Wednesday at eight,” he said, handing her phone back. “If you find the balls.”
“I—”
An SUV pulled up behind them and honked. Laurel flung her door open but Flynn grasped her wrist.
“What?”
“Nothing, just makin’ that prick wait. I can’t fucking stand impatient people.”
The horn blared again.
Flynn leaned out his window. “What’s the rush at three a.m. on this gorgeous summer evening?” His grip was too tight for Laurel to break.
A series of honks, and Flynn propped his elbow out the window, presumably flipping the driver the bird. Laurel felt her face color. She hated being part of a scene.
“I can wait all night, douchebag,” Flynn sang once the horn quieted.
Laurel’s heart beat in her throat. A greedy, primitive part of her relished the thought of the pissed-off driver confronting Flynn, only to get loomed over by a tower of black-eyed, split-lipped muscle. Instead they gave a last honk and reversed, fast, turning down a side street with a petulant squeal of tires. Flynn let her hand go and the blood trickled back into her fingertips. She tried to imagine him holding her wrists in another context and blushed deeper, glad it was dark.
“See you Wednesday,” she said.
“Up to you.”
She got out and slammed the door without looking back. Flynn idled until she’d unlocked the building’s front door and closed it behind her. She heard him drive away as she started up the steps, her body mourning the sudden absence of his smell and voice. Wednesday sounded like a hundred years from now.
And Wednesday sounded far too soon.