Chapter Six
Nice guys finish anywhere they want.
That phrase rung through Cash’s mind like a church bell as he sat in the office, frantically sketching on the back of… An order form for fresh needles? Whatever. His sketchbook was somewhere around the shop—probably at his workstation—but inspiration had him by the balls. If he got up to look for the right materials, he’d lose the magic.
His hands worked frantically, marking out the concept with harsh, black lines. Once upon a time, an art teacher had told him he should only ever sketch in pencil. But biro was Cash’s medium of choice; let the mistakes sit there for everyone to see. He’d recreate again and again until it was just right, and then he’d put it into someone’s skin and every flaw would have been worth it.
But whose body would this latest fantasy adorn? He had no idea.
What the hell had she meant, finish anywhere they want? Surely not the filthy interpretation that his mind immediately latched on to. She was too sweet for that.
But then, she’d called him sweet, hadn’t she? And here he was, dreaming of the pretty patterns his come would paint against her dark skin. Ah, fuck. He still couldn’t decide who and what she was—dream or reality? White silk or red latex?
Maybe she was both.
Didn’t matter. He’d never fucking know. Because if he let himself get close to a girl like that, he wouldn’t be able to stick to his own rules. Adoration would set in, obsession would follow—and then he would finally become his father. Whether he liked it or not. Whether he wanted it or not. He—
No.
Cash’s hand moved frantically, scarring the paper. He pressed harder, worked faster, as though he could carve away the twisted voices in his head.
He knew what they were, of course. Intrusive thoughts, his therapist had called them. They didn’t come from him; they came from his monster. He also knew that he was supposed to ignore them, but it was pretty fucking hard to ignore something that went on inside your own mind.
Still; he’d try his best. That was all he could ever do.
“What you working on there, mate?”
Cash looked up to find Steve entering the office, his own sketchbook tucked under his brawny arm.
“Uh…” The order form now bore the image of a woman, her long hair swirling about her shoulders like living wind, pointed little horns atop her head. The woman’s face was wickedly gleeful as she brought her fingers up to her mouth, her dark eyes flashing behind her glasses. Tiny fangs peeked out from full lips, and her tongue was in the act of sliding out to taste the droplets on her fingertips.
Fuck. He’d drawn Bailey.
Again.
“Nothing,” he lied.
“Really?” Steve ambled over to his own desk, his slow movement and gentle tone deceptive as always, hiding the sharp intellect beneath. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like Bailey.”
Cursing, Cash flipped over the page. He was acting like a fucking teenager, and he knew it. But he wasn’t about to back down in his own shop.
“It’s nothing,” he repeated tersely.
Steve gave him a level look. “You know, in my time I’ve learned that you should grab a good thing with both hands. Before it disappears.”
Cash arched a brow. “Yeah? So when were you planning on grabbing Gem?”
The temperature of the office dropped until it almost matched the icy street below. Steve’s mouth twisted into a grim line and he folded his arms, leaning back in his seat.
“You know I can’t do a thing for Gem,” he said, his voice a brick wall.
“What I know is that you’re as much of a coward as I am. So you can hold the inspiring speech.”
For a moment, the men stared each other down, the atmosphere tense. But then Steve let out a grudging chuckle, shaking his head.
“Right pair of twats we both are,” he said gruffly.
Relieved, Cash rolled his eyes. “You’re not wrong.”
“You done for the day?”
“Nah. My next client’s in at—” Cash glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh, shit.”
Steve smirked. “Lose track of time?”
Snorting, Cash ignored the other man’s words. Somehow, his lunch hour had dwindled away to nothing, and now he had less than ten minutes to call John. Cursing himself, he pulled up the hotel’s website and dialled their number, keeping one eye on the clock.
“Hi,” he said, after an exceptionally cheerful man greeted him. “Could I speak to, ah… John, please? Room 302?”
“Mr Halliday? Certainly, Sir. I’ll put you through now.”
“Thank you.”
There were a few, long beeps. A few too many, maybe. Cash started to wonder where John was. Started to hope the young man hadn’t done anything stupid, the way Cash might’ve done once.
But then the beeps disappeared, and a familiar voice said, “Hello?”
“John,” he replied, relieved. “It’s Cash.”
“Oh, hi!”
“I’m really sorry, but I have to make this quick. I’ve got a client coming in soon. I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to my friend about you last night, and he wants to meet you to discuss a job.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. He’s the director of a non-profit for disadvantaged groups in the area. He wants to talk to you about an administrative role and maybe some kind of mentoring position.”
John was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was suspiciously hoarse. “Thank you. This is fucking unbelievable. I—I can’t believe this is happening.”
“You don’t need to thank me. I…” Cash looked over at Steve, who was bent busily over his own desk, pencil in hand. “Let’s just say I’ve been where you are right now. But listen, I need to go. And we need to get you a mobile, too, so you’re not waiting around in the hotel room for me to call you.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Bailey rang me earlier, and she’s coming over tomorrow night with a spare phone of hers.”
Cash swallowed the lump that suddenly materialised in his throat. His eyes fell towards the drawing in front of him as he traced its stark lines, the slight indent his pen strokes had made in the paper. “Yeah? That’s nice of her.”
“She’s a great girl. And she mentioned that you gave her a job?”
“Yeah, well. We needed a receptionist at my studio.”
“Did you? Because the way she was talking, it seems the job’s pretty light.” John’s tone became playful. “She didn’t say anything, but it made me wonder if you had some other motivation for hiring her?”
“What? No.” Cash ran his hands through his hair, pushing the strands back irritably. He should get it cut soon. It was fucking annoying.
“You sure? Because women aren’t really my cup of tea, but even I can see Bailey’s appeal.”
Yeah. Cash bet he could. Bailey’s appeal was probably visible from halfway across the planet.
“Listen, John, I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch. You’ve got my number?”
“Yep,” the other man said, his voice rich with amusement.
“Alright. Uh… Talk soon.”
“Bye. And thanks again, Cash. Seriously.”
“Stop thanking me.” He put the phone down.
Then he wasted a few precious minutes staring down at the picture he’d drawn of Bailey. Tracing the contours of her face with a practiced eye. He’d got the nose slightly off—it was broader, flatter on the bridge. Her brows were higher, more finely arched. But he’d got the plump cheeks just right, along with the soft lips that could go from sweet to sensual in five minutes flat. And most importantly, he thought, he’d captured that gleam in her eyes; the one that spoke of whole-hearted enthusiasm, of the adorable way she threw herself into everything and thoroughly enjoyed it, even if she became embarrassed a moment later. He knew her face well. He’d drawn her often.
Too fucking often.
Attachment was a dangerous thing.
Cash tore the picture in two.