Chapter Two
Roxanna
“Cigarette?”
The doors to Two-Timin Jacks shut behind us. We’re alone out here except for the bone-biting cold and the distant sound of a car alarm. Chicago’s freezing night air sobers me up for a second and I think about Nash’s offer. It’s tempting — I haven’t smoked since high school, but it might calm my nerves; I’ve known this guy for maybe half an hour and already I’m going home with him.
“No, thanks,” I answer.
“Suit yourself,” he says, shielding his cigarette from the night breeze with one hand while lighting it with the other. Puffs of smoke rise as we walk through the lot. “Your place or mine, sweetheart?”
I’m tingling with the kind of excitement I haven’t felt in years. It’s unnerving, unfamiliar, exhilarating.
“Yours,” I say.
We get to an old pickup truck that looks like it was taken from a 1980’s lumber yard. A hefty, beat-up hunk of steel on wheels. Nash comes around to my side and opens the door for me and I can’t help myself — I’m brimming with nerves and excitement — I hop up on my toes and go to give him a quick kiss on the lips.
Except, it doesn’t work like that.
My lips hit his and there’s this feral rumble that starts in his chest the second we make contact like I’ve hit a switch inside him. He presses into me, his ripped chest pushing into me and holding me back against the cold steel of his truck. And I shut my eyes and let him take over, giving myself to this new experience while my hands wander down his back to grip his rock-hard ass through his jeans.
Our quick kiss goes on, until he pulls away, leaving me panting.
He grins at me.
“I don’t do things halfway, sweetheart,” he says.
He opens the door for me and gives me his hand to help me up. I need the help — my legs are Jell-o.
The truck rumbles and roars as he turns the key in the ignition.
Neither of us talk much on the drive; I’m wrapped up on my head, already picturing what’s going to happen when we get to his place, alternatingly psyching myself up and psyching myself out; Nash keeps his eyes on the road, though every time we come to a stop, he’ll look on over at me and I’ll see the ghost of a smirk light his lips.
The truck lumbers to a stop outside an apartment in a part of town that I’d hesitate to drive through even in the daytime. Half a block away, the street’s lit up with the ruby-red glow of a neon hotel sign promising rooms by the hour.
“You live here?”
He chuckles and slips his arm over my shoulder and I turn into him, kissing him again. He smells like good whiskey and cheap tobacco and I am drunk on all of him.
“It’s a temporary thing. I’m just passing through. When you’re looking for short term apartment rentals in this city, you can either pay a hundred and fifty bucks a night to live in some guy’s bullshit retro loft above an organic grocery store, or you can pick somewhere a little more reasonable.”
“So, instead of an organic grocery store, you get to live next to a drug den and a sleazy hotel?”
“Fuck no. My neighbors are just regular folks who are down on their luck. People looking for their second chance. I get that, I’ve been there,” he says. “But come on, it’s freezing out here, let’s get you inside.”
He opens the door for me and I start to feel a bit better about the place. Yeah, the building’s dated, and yeah, it smells a little bit musty, but the hallways are clean. There’s even a little community notice board right in the front entryway. Next Friday there’s going to be a building-wide party in room 38 to celebrate some guy named Frank’s birthday.
We head down the hallway, his arm over my shoulder, his firm rock-hard body next to mine, and come to a stop in front of a door that’s like every other in this hallway, except for the number painted on it and what I know is waiting for me inside.
I’m tingling with anticipation in a way I haven’t felt in years.
“Here we are,” he says, the bass of his voice vibrating in his chest.
I make another move — giddy and nervous — and our lips meet for several pulse-pounding seconds. He presses me against the wall, overpowers me, and I submit to him while my hands wander his muscular back, feeling every hard inch of him until I work my way down to clenching his tight, jean-covered ass.
He is a tower of muscle and the thought of being in bed with him makes me tremble in anticipation.
My head is spinning when he pulls back. He grins at me. Cocky. Confident.
“Would you like to come inside?”
“I think so.”
Inside, it’s dark for a second, until he presses a switch in the hallway, illuminating the sparse apartment. The place doesn’t even look lived in — there are no pictures on the walls, no color anywhere, and all the furnishings look like they came with the place. The only indication that this place belongs to Nash is the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table.
Whatever. I’m not here to worry about decorations.
“Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
I take a slow walk through the empty living room. There’s not much to speak of here, except I spy a small picture hidden on a corner coffee table.
I pause. A scent tickles the inside of my nose; a hint of Nash’s tobacco. I breath in. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be wearing that same smell on me. At least until I take a shower. The thought makes me smile.
Maybe I’ll be ok. Maybe I’ll move on from Erick. Maybe I’ll let go of the whole mess and, eventually, I’ll find someone I can really build a family with.
“Nice place,” I call out to the empty room, not really knowing what to say, but trying to be polite.
I stretch out and wonder just how this hooking up thing goes. The last time I even had a one night stand was back in college, and then it was much simpler — I knew I had to be out of the guys dorm room by eight in the morning because that’s when his RA usually got up and would practice his guitar in the dorm lobby.
“Hello?”
It’s quiet, except for a rustling far in the hall.
“Everything all right?”
“Relax, Roxanna,” he calls back. “Just give me a second.”
Shrugging, I pick up the bottle of whiskey and take a sip. It burns going down. In a good way.
I take another. It helps. My nerves are just getting the better of me, and I’m not surprised — going from a reluctant fiance like Erick to hooking up with a man-mountain like Nash in the span of a day is enough to make anyone nervous.
Another sip. A long one, this time.
I smile.
I’m ready.
I’m going to have fun tonight.
Several times.
I’m certain Nash can handle that.
There’s a click. Metal sliding over metal. It’s a sound familiar in the way that it makes my heart freeze.
Something cold presses to the back of my head. I know what it is without having to look. The weight and sound of it takes me back to firing ranges, time spent with my father and my uncle learning how to defend myself; the feel of it against my head turns me helpless.
“Sorry to do this to you, sweetheart. But I want to make something perfectly clear: if you scream, if you try to run, if you struggle, you won’t live through tonight.”