I expect Trick to fast track to my place and bid me a permanent farewell. He proved he’s not a total asshole and cleared his conscience while I proved I’m a total freak. I had the upper hand going into the evening, but somewhere along the way I lost it. Most guys would look past the freak part in exchange for a quick lay. So I’m surprised when he pulls into his mammoth garage. I have nothing to offer him … at least that he wants.

He parks the motorcycle and removes my helmet.

I shake out my hair like one of those women in a Garnier haircare commercial. Sadly … I don’t think I hit the sexy mark. It’s tangled and knotted in my face. “Why are we here?” I paw at the hair stuck to my face like a dog with fleas.

He brushes a few stray strands that I miss then smiles. “I thought we could hang out awhile.”

I squint my eyes like he’s talking Chinese.

He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the elevator. “Maybe I’ll be your first.”

My grip tightens as the elevator ascends. “My first?”

“Yes, your first friend.”

We step off the elevator and Trick turns on the lights.

“Why?”

He twists his mouth like he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. Maybe I need a friend too.”

Just my luck. My first official friend is a guy, but not just a guy … a squirrel, a gay squirrel. I’m not sure if he is a gift or a curse. “So what are you thinking? Battleship or Scrabble?”

Trick gives me the you-just-grew-two-more-heads look. “You’re serious?”

“No?” I cringe at my own awkwardness. Okay, I’m a little serious.

He chuckles. “You cannot be that socially inept.”

Yes, I can and I am. I have proper social skills when it comes to dinner parties and medical conferences. I’ve dated several men since I graduated college, but the relationships have only been about sex. We didn’t “hang out” much aside from the bedroom and restaurants. Number of slumber parties I’ve attended: 0. Number of girls’ weekends I’ve been on: 0. If Trick doesn’t want a blowjob or a quick roll in the hay, then I’m in foreign territory.

“So what were you thinking?”

Trick sits down on the couch and rests his ankle on his knee. “Well, I only have to beat a subpar lay so …”

“Not this again! Steven is a surgeon and his mind is always on his work. It’s not that he doesn’t have skills.” I plop down on the couch next to him, leaving just enough room that I don’t get a whiff of his pheromones that seem to make me a bit rabid. If this friendship is going to work, I need to get past my physical craving for him.

“He just has ADD in bed?”

I snicker. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but maybe.”

Trick’s smile could melt the north pole; I don’t know why he’s so reserved with it. “So how’d you meet Subpar Steve?”

I pull off my boots and tuck my feet underneath me. “Our fathers introduced us at a political fundraiser last year. My father is running for his second term in the senate, and Steven’s dad is a wealthy son of a bitch that wants a shitload of favors. So they’re a match made in campaign corruption heaven.”

He chuckles. “Your dad must be proud of your glowing endorsement.”

“My father has never been proud of me for anything.” Oh God! Those are cringe-worthy words, the ones I’ve never let myself say aloud.

“Daddy issues? Might that explain why you settle for relationships that are subpar?”

“My daddy issues extend way beyond my love life. But yes, guys love that I have no expectations of them. We can mutually benefit from meaningless sex without fear that I’ll go all Fatal Attraction on them. And truthfully, I couldn’t care less. Men are cheating, lying pigs.” Trick frowns. “Present company excluded.” I try to smile past the foot in my mouth. “My first two years of college I went through a black, sort of goth phase.”

Trick rubs the back of his fingers across his bristly chin and raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know why you wear guyliner when you work, but I like the way it reminds me of the two best and worst years of my life. Finding yourself in college is such a cliché, but that’s what I did … Unfortunately, I had to lose myself for two years first. I died my hair black, wore all black makeup and clothing, and experimented with sex, alcohol, and a few recreational drugs.” I laugh. “God, my father was so pissed. But what did he expect? I hadn’t had the best role models in my life, except for my nana, she’s amazing.”

“Where does your nana live?”

“Lincoln Park. Not too far from me. She’s the only blood relative I have left on my mom’s side, and she moved in with us after I was born.” My voice fades to just barely above a whisper. “My mom died giving birth to me, so Nana basically raised me.”

Trick gives me a sad smile that I return with a such-is-life shrug. The heavy air suffocates the moment leaving an awkward silence. “Mom died” is the biggest conversation killer.

“So … if you hadn’t taken pity on me and offered dinner and ‘hanging out,’ what would you be doing tonight?”

He wets his lips then rubs them together. “Drawing.”

“Drawing? Drawing what?”

“Whatever my current project happens to be.”

I purse my lips to the side. “Are we talking crayons, markers, chalk?”

“Pencil.”

“Really? Can I see?”

He looks at me with an unexpected frown on his face before diverting his eyes to his lap “No.”

I laugh then try to choke it back when I see his lips pull into a firm line. “Are you serious? You’re not going to let me see them?”

Trick shakes his head with absolution.

“But I thought we were friends.”

“We are, but let’s be honest, if this were a date would you have sex with me tonight?”

If you weren’t gay? Yes! Yeah, that’s so wrong of me.

“No. What’s your point?”

“My point is that some things are personal and require a certain amount of trust.”

I fidget with the frayed hem of my jeans. “So you don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust women.”

Rubbing my hands over my face, I sigh. “I guess I had that one coming. Do you want to talk about it?”

He looks up with tight brows. “Talk about why I don’t trust women?”

I nod.

“No, I don’t.”

My phone rings. We both look at my handbag. “Excuse me.” I dig through everything and find it buried at the bottom. Trick watches with unnerving intensity as I say a few okays and “be right there.”

“Emergency?” he asks as I drop my phone in my purse.

“Yes, a shooting with multiple victims. Sorry, I have to go. Besides, you won’t show me your artwork so we might as well call it a night.” I love the way he tips his chin to hide his grin. He stands and I wave him off. “I can grab a cab.”

“No, I’ll get you there faster.”

I raise an untrusting brow. “I think safer is better than faster.”

“Come,” he yells over his shoulder as I do the one-legged hop, trying to catch up while tugging on my boots.

Hair twist. Helmet. Jacket. Ass grab. Yes!

Thankfully no one can see the Cheshire cat grin on my face as Trick weaves through traffic to the hospital. The past forty-eight hours have been surreal. After witnessing so many motorcycle injuries and fatalities, I swore I’d never get on the back of one, yet here I am—enjoying every tummy-twisting minute. The idea of having a true friend had fallen off my vision board; now it’s back on, front and center. And capturing the attention of a guy like Trick … well, there are no words.

Wealth doesn’t always equate to popularity. Slipping out of a sleek limo says wealthy. I’ve done that more times than I care to remember since my father married Rachel. Easing my leg over the back of a motorcycle behind a guy that looks like trouble says popular. At twenty-seven, is it too late to be popular?

I hand Trick my helmet and shrug off his jacket. “Thanks for dinner.” I hug myself, rubbing my arms. It’s the middle of summer. Why am I either freezing or burning up in his presence?

He nods, slipping his jacket on.

“We should hang out again.” In my head it’s a question; in my voice it’s a suggestion.

Another nod. “Come by sometime.”

“I will.” I start to walk away then turn. “Just so you know, I’m not a virgin. So sex on our second date is a good possibility. But since I’m missing the correct anatomy, I’ll settle for a private viewing of your sketches.” If he weren’t gay, I’d still be babbling like the first day we met. But he’s unobtainable, so I have nothing to lose by being myself with him. As much as being with Trick feels like a slow drip of adrenaline, he’s offered me something I need so much more than physical gratification—friendship.

He puts his bike into gear as my eyes focus on his lips. I wait for it … I think a little part of me even prays for it … there it is, the slight twitch of his lips. I read it that he’s pleased, which is perfect because so am I.

The switch flips. I’d love to chomp my gum and twirl my hair, contemplating the endless possibilities of my relationship with Trick, but I can’t. Wasting not another second, I hustle to the ER, get changed, and do what I do best—piece together puzzles.

In spite of the nonstop, grueling hours of the clock ticking one heartbeat at a time, I never question why I’m here doing this. Most days I feel like this is my sole purpose in life—giving more than I take. Even with the nasty smells, which are actually my least favorite part of the job, I still love being here.

“You off?”

I turn to Steven zoned into his cell phone screen. “Just about,” I reply, signing my last chart and yawning.

“Breakfast?”

“No way. Bed.” I yawn again.

He slips his phone back in his pocket and smirks. “I like the sound of that.” He wiggles his brows.

Steven is a lukewarm bath. He has blond curly hair that he normally keeps trimmed short, but today I notice a few wayward curls rebelling around his ears. Blue eyes and dimples, he’s textbook cute. It’s the wow factor he’s missing. Only recently, since I’ve experienced wow, have I come to that conclusion.

“Let me clarify; I need sleep. It’s been twenty-four hours and I’m ready to drop.”

“Want me to get you a coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee, Steven.” He’s known me for almost a year and I’m quite certain we’ve broached this subject before.

“Then black tea, green piss juice, or whatever the hell it is you drink.”

I brush past him to go change my clothes. “I don’t drink tea either, and I don’t want to stay awake so I’ll pass on the ‘green piss juice’ offer too. Bye, Steven.”

After freeing my tangled hair from its ponytail and changing out of my scrubs, I dig through my handbag for my key.

“Crap!” I didn’t drive.

“Something wrong?” Jade asks from around the corner.

“I forgot I didn’t drive in yesterday.”

“Bummer. You might have to resort to public transportation like the other ninety-nine percent of us.”

Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I pin Jade with an unrelenting glare.

Her eyes slip to her locker. “I’m kidding. Don’t look so serious.”

I turn and walk to the door, then stop just as I open it. “You do realize this ‘wealth’ you’re referring to belongs to my father’s wife and it’s securely protected by a mile-long prenup. Aside from the occasional trip I get dragged on or a few designer dresses, I don’t benefit from her money.”

Her locker door slams shut. “Darby I’m—”

“It’s fine … I’m used to being judged.”

Her weak voice rips through the brief silence. “Really … I’m sorry.”

Keeping my back to her, I nod once and leave.

I should call Steven and apologize for blowing him off yesterday, but then he’d want to make plans to meet up—hookup. But that’s not what I want to do. For reasons unbeknown to myself at the moment, I want to see Trick again. Maybe it’s too soon, but then again, it’s not like we’re dating so the customary waiting period shouldn’t apply.

I need a reason to stop by, like I just happen to be in his area. Honestly, I’m not in his area unless I have an appointment with Gemmie. That’s it. I should stop by and get some hair products. My nose wrinkles as I glance at the time. Gemmie will be closing up shop in less than an hour.

“Choose it, Darby.” I chastise myself for my expert ability to make hard decisions with ease, yet easy ones debilitate me.

The choice makes itself. I’m in my red beamer heading south before my brain catches up to what my body has already decided. I’m off to see my new friend—my only friend.

“Shoot! Did I forget to put you into my schedule?” Gemmie asks with concern crinkling the corners of her eyes as she mists hairspray over a young blonde’s wavy hair.

“No, I just need some…” Crap! I have to sell this lie better if I expect always-skeptical Gemmie to buy it. “…conditioner.”

Gemmie’s not buying it as evidenced by her bullshit squint. I look at the products assembled with perfect precision on the glass shelf by the window.

“Third shelf down on the far right.”

I grab the bottle of conditioner.

“Still coming on Saturday?”

I turn, biting my lips together as I nod.

“I’ll add it to your bill, sweetie.”

“Um … thanks.” I submit to the nervous smile revealing my lie as I head out the door.

Her knowing glare pierces my back; I can feel the icy burn of distrust. No sense in hiding my next move, so I throw my shoulders back and saunter across the street. With each step my heart palpates, heating my skin, while long fingers of anxiety strangle my nerves.

The security chime of the front door to Rogue Seduction announces my arrival to both Trick and the raven-haired skeleton in Prada perched on the stool. He’s still working and maybe I should have thought of that. Not everyone works the same unpredictable ER hours that I do. The woman stares at me with what I read as an unwelcoming gaze. Trick, however, doesn’t so much as flinch in acknowledgement of my arrival. I wait for him to say something, but then again, I’m the one who walked through his door. This is a poorly thought-out plan.

Holding up the bottle of conditioner, I shrug with a slight grin. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought …” Either the floor is sinking or I’m having flashbacks of my youth being the unwelcome new kid at school. Either way, I feel an inch tall. “Sorry, I should have called or—”

“Sit,” Trick says with a clipped voice, keeping his full attention on Ms. High Cheekbones and pouty lips.

The repressed part of my personality, the defiant part, puffs out its chest. Maybe I don’t want to sit. Maybe I want to stand and wait. Or maybe I don’t want to wait at all.

“Or stand.” Trick glances back over his shoulder. There it is—the twitch of his lips. Cocky shit! Never did I imagine thinking a guy could look anything but rebellious in makeup, but for the love of all things skin-tingling, breathtaking, and nipple-hardening sexy … Trick in black guyliner makes me crave friction in my girly parts like nothing and no one before.

I swallow. “I think I’ll sit, thank you very much.” Take that!

Trick lines pouty lips with an orangish-red tint that looks surprisingly good on her. Dark eyes hooded in mile-long lashes look me over. I fight the urge to squirm with insecurity, like when the popular kids rolled their eyes over me with scrutiny.

“Beautiful.” I hear a French accent as I look up expecting to see her admiring her reflection. Instead, she’s still staring at me.

“She is,” Trick replies, just inches from her face.

Embarrassment and shock careen through my body, obliterating my ability to respond, or think, or … breathe. These two beautiful people are talking about me … they’re calling me beautiful. It’s … crazy!

Interlacing my fingers, I stare down at my hands while I twiddle my thumbs just like Nana does. I bet my mom did it too.

“You’re a god,” French accent gushes as she stands, leaning into the mirror.

I sneak a peek but look back down as she walks toward the register.

“I’ll see you onsite next week, darling,”

Through the corner of my eye I see Trick nod as he takes the wad of bills from the perfectly manicured hand. She flutters her fingers in a dainty wave upon her exit. I return a shy smile.

Trick straightens up his work area as I ease my way over and climb up on the stool.

“She’s pretty.”

“Thank you,” he replies with a smirk while keeping his eyes cast downward on his busy hands reorganizing everything.

“Don’t be so arrogant. She may think you’re a god, but her beauty is her own. You just enhance it.”

Trick turns and steps closer, as in really close. If I try to regain my personal space, I’ll fall off the stool, so I just pray he doesn’t feel my nerves or see my whole body blush with heat. His hand moves and I flinch, but it doesn’t deter his motion. Grabbing a few strands of my hair, he runs it through his fingers, teasing it then releasing it at my breast.

Breathe, breathe, breathe!

“If you would have said he’s pretty, then the compliment would belong to him. But you said she’s pretty, so the compliment belongs to me.”

“She—he—that was a guy?” The incredulity of my voice trips through the air.

Trick shows me his full-on grin filled with pride. “Don or ‘Donna’ does cabaret shows.” He turns and finishes cleaning up.

“I-I mean—wow!”

“Thank you.” He shoots me another smirk.

I roll my eyes. “Stop being so cocky. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh?” He glances up with a raised brow. “Then what suits me?”

With a thoughtful squint, I twist my lips to the side. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“Come.” He shuts off the lights.

“Where are we going?”

“Grocery shopping.”

“Why?” I hop off the stool and follow him out the door.

“I need groceries.”

“Want me to drive?”

“Nope, we’ll walk.” Trick is a good ten steps in front of me.

The guy doesn’t wait for anyone or anything. I jog to catch up.