Chapter 2
Dillon
I take the corners too fast, screeching through the parking garage ramp like a kid who’s just stolen his dad's car. This floor is almost deserted except for the back wall. I guide the Ferrari through the lanes, relishing the feeling of its tight steering, sensitive as a schoolgirl.
The back wall is all lined with engraved placards for the reserved spots. Jerking the wheel to the left, I whip into the spot marked Emmet Riordan. He won’t mind. Brothers share, like I'm always trying to tell him.
The engine is almost silent but when I shut it off, and I can see just how low and sensual that sound really was. Kind of a subliminal hum, a vibration that thrums through the whole chassis. Pretty sexy.
Just had a hummer this morning, as a matter of fact. I try to remember her face, and what the hell was her name? She gave me one of my top-ten blowjobs ever, jamming me deep into her throat and still managing to hum like a kazoo band in that sexy, low voice.
It was all her idea. I expected her to leave after I fell asleep, like they usually do. I thought she had to get to class or something, but I guess she wanted to stick around. Then she dropped back under the tangled sheets and started pushing my ball sack around with the tip of her nose. Singing to herself or something, I thought. Then humming, then deepthroating me with a soundtrack. Maybe some kind of voodoo, I don't know. It worked just fine, that I can definitely say for certain.
Now what was her name?
Just thinking about it — the blowjob, not the name — is getting me hard all over again. I ease the seat back a little bit and settle into the supple, leather bucket seat, my hand jammed against the base of my cock. I feel it twitch, hard. Yeah, I'm ready again. Maybe not such a great blowjob after all? Not a lasting one, in any case.
Should I do it? Actually beat off as I’m parked in my brother’s reserved, special parking space? With my eyes half-closed, I kinda see his name up there, through the windshield. That's a little weird.
I close my eyes. She had the blackest hair I've ever seen. So dark, with highlights as shiny as plastic. She moved her head up and down, and it seemed as though I could almost see a reflection of the whole Chicago skyline, right there on the side of her head.
Beautiful.
Thud.
I sit upright, looking around. I felt the car move. Did some motherfucker just hit me?
“Excuse me?” I ask over the roof of the Ferrari as I get out. There’s somebody there, shuffling in the space between cars but too low to see.
There are LED lights in cans, one over each spot. It’s a nice detail, and safe too. It almost looks like a hotel bar in here. After half a second, a mahogany brunette head pops up, followed by one of those oval-shaped, pretty, brunette girl faces. Straight nose. High cheekbones. Big, brown eyes with long lashes.
“Excuse me?” she repeats, like I've offended her. Lots of sass in that voice. This is going to be good.
“I think you just hit my car.”
She squints at me like this is some kind of trick. Like I’m going to abduct her in the parking garage of my own company or something.
“I just dropped my keys,” she scowls, as though that says anything.
“You hit my car,” I repeat as I walk around the back to inspect the damage. Dammit, I just got it out of the shop. Again. I'm not in the mood to be replacing another body panel.
“I told you, I just dropped my keys,” she holds up her fingers and jingles the ring. “See?”
I don't answer, just scowl at the side of the sleek machine, kneeling to get a better look. I don't see any immediate damage, but sometimes you don't see that kind of thing right away. Not until you get it out in the sunlight, at least. Sometimes there’s a dent you don’t notice until you compare it with the other side. So I keep looking, measuring mentally.
And I hate it when people assume that just because I don't need the money that I don't mind when they mess up my shit. Kind of a pet peeve, I guess you could say. A quirk.
My fingers slide softly along the panel, feeling for divots. As I get close to the front of the passenger door, I notice that she's edging away, practically all the way to the concrete wall by now.
“You scared?” I ask her without looking up.
She doesn’t answer right away, but puts her feet shoulder width apart. I bet you a hundred thousand dollars she's got her arms crossed now, looking tough.
“Well?” I look up at her, just tipping my head while I'm down here practically laying on the ground. Close enough that I could reach out and stroke her ankle. Close enough that I could lean forward and tongue the circumference of her kneecap. I get a little whiff of something… is that perfume?
Oh, she's one of those girls who sprays a little Chanel up her twat. I like that.
I stand up slowly, rising parallel to her and watching her eyes track my height until I finally stand over her. Even in her stiletto heels, I still have a good five inches on her.
And I'm totally right, her arms are crossed. Somebody owes me a hundred thousand dollars.
“Well?” she asks defiantly, setting her jaw slightly to the side.
“You're not Hannah Bonham,” I remark.
She flinches a little bit back but holds together pretty well. Then she takes a step forward, forcing me back down the little lane between the two cars. If I wasn't a gentleman, I wouldn't have moved. I am totally a gentleman, no matter what anybody says.
“I'm just visiting,” she mutters as she keys open her door. She squints her eyes as she looks through her front window and sees Hannah’s plaque on the wall, then shifts her gaze to Emmet's plaque. Then, just like clockwork, she looks at me with that mixture of surprise, uncertainty, and fear that I love so much, whenever I meet a new employee.
“I really didn't hit your car,” she says in a much smaller voice.
“Maybe your… what is that? Hermès? Something pretending to be Hermès?”
She glances down at her bag. The tip of her nose goes adorably pink.
“I don’t think my fake bag hit your car either. I would have felt it.”
I should get mad, just to see how she reacts. See what she’s really made of. But apparently that’s the sort of thing that gets you labelled a douche in this town. Whatever.
I shrug, because really, do I care all that much? But it is fun to watch her squirm. “Probably wouldn't matter if you did.”
Her eyes shift back and forth uncertainly for a moment, as though figuring something out. She takes a deep breath and looks up at me, smiling pleasantly. Plainly curious, but suddenly slightly more confident.
“Bella Cage,” she nods, holding out her hand. I shake it, noting the strength of her fingers, the rustling warmth of her palm against mine. It feels surprisingly comfortable there, like it's a good fit. Like it's custom-made. Her skin is soft.
“I think I’ve heard your name before,” I say, watching her eyes dart back and forth between mine. She's taking deep, measured breaths. Her pulse is probably elevated. I bet that perfume between her legs is getting more intense.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, um, Mr. Riordan.”
Mr. Riordan. That's a nice touch.
I look down, noticing that we’re still holding hands.
“Oh,” she says softly and drops my hand, then balls hers into a small fist that she lets fall to her side.
“So… perhaps a drink? To start?”
“Excuse me?”
She takes a short, deep breath and squints at me shrewdly. “A drink? Doesn’t that sound like a decent way to start off?”
I find myself licking my lips. Did this woman just ask me on a date?
Her eyelids flutter softly, her long lashes trembling. I can’t stop looking at her. She’s such an interesting mix of hard and soft. There’s a firm set to her lips but her gaze is a touch unsteady. I know her heart is racing but her feet are still planted shoulder-width apart like a dedicated recruit.
“Whatever you like?” she persists. “I like American whiskeys, if that suits you.”
I am amused beyond measure. Here's this strange woman, parked in the CEO’s parking space, possibly doing fifteen thousand dollars worth of damage to my car. And yet, she's got the balls to ask me out.
What a delightful creature.
“I prefer Japanese whiskeys.”
She raises her eyebrows briefly, as though she considers challenging me. Then she merely replies: “Yes, I'd like to try them.”
I cross my arms, leaning against her car briefly. It is some kind of macho girl crossover, like a RAV4 or something like that. Something city girls get to make it look like they actually leave Chicago every once in awhile. Maybe go up to Wisconsin. Antiquing in Galena. Visiting relatives who live on one of those fucking farms out west like in Plano or something. I’ll bet this thing has never been west of California and Ashland Avenues.
“What about my car?”
She swallows. I see her throat undulate and not too subtly think blowjob in big neon letters in my mind. I’d like to slide down that throat. My cock twitches in agreement.
“I really don't think I did anything to your car. I think I may have just bumped it when I bent down to get the keys.”
“Bumped it?”
“Yeah, you know…” She does little pantomime, twitching out one hip suggestively.
“So you’re admitting it now? Looks like those hips could actually do some damage, you know.”
Her eyes narrow. I bet she's getting mad.
“You're messing with me,” she says. It's not a question.
I back away, letting my eyes trace her outlines from the gleaming tips of her Louboutin pumps to the subtle shadows of her nipples beneath the fabric of her dress. Calvin Klein, I’m fairly certain. Nothing wrong with that. He’s a nice guy. We played volleyball at his place on Martha’s Vineyard once. Memorial Day or something like that.
“Am I messing with you?”
She wrestles a polite little smile onto her face. I'm not sure what's going on there. To be honest, it sort of seems like she dislikes me, so I don’t know why she’s trying to get in my bed.
“I'll have a car come pick you up tomorrow at eight."
She scowls prettily. “You don't know where I live.”
“I own the HR department, though, don't I?”
“I — I suppose you do,” she says finally. It's almost like a little white flag poking over the edge of the bunker. A tiny, adorable surrender.
“How about The Copper?” I ask her, waiting to see how she reacts. There's nothing there, even though she should probably know already that reservations are impossible to get. It's ridiculously exclusive, and she should absolutely be impressed.
“All right,” is all she says.
“Wear something sexy,” I advise her.
She thrusts her chin defiantly a little higher in the air. “Certainly. I can hardly wait."
Just before I back away, I stop and look her over once more. She's quite the contradiction: willingness battling against some kind of natural hostility. I don't understand it, but I find myself eager to explore it more thoroughly.
I am intrigued, I suppose. Well, that's something, at least. Most people do not arouse my interest.
“Til then,” I smile, meaning goodbye.
“Yes,” is her simple answer.
I walk away thinking how nice it is when women answer yes before I've even asked the question.