Staying at Joe's

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“Nice touch, that thing with the door.” He leaned over and released the cat onto the sofa. When he straightened, brushing the orange hairs from his T-shirt, his expression had loosened. “No plan. Just fond memories. I miss the look of stunned bliss on your face when you come.”

She sucked in a breath. “Damn you and damn that bottle, Joe Gallahan. What you miss is your old life. You’re just too proud to admit it.”

“I am not drunk. I’ve been drinking, yeah, but it takes more than a few swallows of hooch to knock me on my ass. And you’re wrong, slick. I sure as hell don’t miss my old life. Right now? I’m missing my beauty sleep. So unless you want to join me...”

“Haven’t we punished each other enough?”

“Hardly.” He yawned, then scrubbed a hand over his hair and headed toward his bedroom. “Lock the door behind you. Don’t forget we start at seven tomorrow.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said to his back. “There’s no reasoning with you.”

“Yet you persist.”

Because that’s what idiots do. She sighed. “Why is it so important for me to stay?”

At the door to his bedroom he turned. “Because I can make you. I may not wear a suit anymore, but I still like to call the shots.” He bared his teeth. “Almost as much as I like to drink ’em.”

* * *

JOE LAY ON his back, one hand cupped around the kitten sprawled on his chest, the other pressed to his head. The cat was snoring, every fur-coated rumble like a buzz saw ripping through Joe’s brain. How the hell could something so small create such a massive sound? And why hadn’t that handful of pills kicked in yet?

Gingerly he raised his head high enough to aim a one-eyed squint at the clock. Almost time to roll. Yeehaw. He lowered his head again, and groaned when it connected with his hard-ass pillow. If he weren’t expecting Allison he’d stay in bed, at least until he could blink without sending pain shooting through his skull.

Then again, if he weren’t expecting Allison he wouldn’t have polished off that bottle of whiskey last night.

Two weeks. Damn. He’d better stock up.

He closed his eyes, pictured her in her borrowed getup and shifted on the bed. Who knew a determined woman sweating through an oversize pair of coveralls could be such a turn-on? Too bad she’d never let him anywhere near that zipper. He let loose an aching moan.

And then, of course, there was the outfit she’d showed up in last night. Tight jeans and some silky, floaty, barely there top with short sleeves. Pale pink, like the polish on her naked toes. When they’d stood in the cool darkness of the kitchen, where he could hear the excited hitch in her breathing, and smell the familiar spicy peach scent she’d stroked across her skin, all he’d wanted to do was strip her, push her against the wall and lick every inch.

But he hadn’t wanted her to smell the booze on him. Because he’d known she’d react...well, exactly how she had reacted. Which was why he’d led her to the living room after all. Where she could see for herself what he’d been up to.

As often as he’d fantasized about taking a horizontal trip or two down memory lane the last couple of days, he knew it would never happen. Allison Kincaid had never been the type for casual encounters. And shame on him, anyway, for lusting after a woman he didn’t trust any more than he trusted Vince Tackett.

What he should have done was get up early this morning and hit the treadmill. An hour-long run would have helped take the starch out of his libido.

Who you kidding, asshole? He’d had to practically crawl to the bathroom to get the ibuprofen.

He exhaled, deposited the kitten on the bed beside him and pushed himself up. The pounding in his head didn’t get any kinder, but at least he no longer felt the need to hurl.

I don’t want to be here. Haven’t we punished each other enough?

So much for a truce. Not that either of them had really wanted it in the first place. Damn it, why’d she have to go all judgmental on him? It was no surprise she hadn’t appreciated his comment about calling the shots. But he deserved some payback of his own and he was going to get it.

He sure as hell wasn’t going to get anything else.

He stroked a palm down the length of his hard-on, his groin somehow managing to out-throb his head. He imagined Allison sinking to her knees in front of him, licking her lips and humming deep in her throat....

He called himself one of the names he’d considered for the cat, peeled off his boxers and staggered to the shower, desperate for the temporary relief of a hot water massage and a personal hand job.

He was showered and dressed and considering a little hair of the dog when the buzzer sounded. Allison called out then appeared in the doorway wearing jeans and a bright green top, the grimy coveralls over one arm, her pale blond hair neatly gathered in a plastic clip. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her ivory cheeks still flushed with sleep, and it was all he could do not to flash back to the rare mornings they’d awakened in the same bed, him reaching out, her instantly arching, pressing close and hot against him—

Judas Priest. How the hell could he still want her, after everything she’d done and who she’d become? He angled away from her. Busied himself pulling mugs out of a cupboard.

“You stayed,” he said curtly.

“You didn’t give me a choice.” She looked around, probably for the kitten, and draped the coveralls over the back of the nearest chair. “Are you feeling as miserable as you look?”

“Just about.”

“Good.”

He banged the mugs down onto the countertop, then flinched.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, with just the tiniest trace of smugness. “I know there are...things we don’t like about each other. Things we both did that we’re finding hard to get past. Simply put, if we have any hope of getting this job done, we have to overlook these things—all of them. For now.”

“You mean, so Tackett can have his way.”

“So we can all move on.”

“To D.C. Where I get to be Tackett’s lackey. Got any pointers for me, Kincaid?”

Her lips went tight and she shook her head. “Got any coffee for me, Gallahan?”

It was like they were playing Go Fish. He set his jaw and slid a mug across the counter, hiding a wince at the loud scraping sound. “Help yourself.” He watched her, wondered what she’d do if he offered her a little Irish to go with her brew. As she hefted the pot, her gaze veered to his yolk-smeared plate in the sink and he closed his throat against an instinctive invite. She already had him by the short hairs. Damned if he’d offer up his balls, too.

And anyway, he didn’t have any eggs left, though where the hell they went, he had no idea. The loaf of bread seemed shorter, too. He hadn’t had that much to drink. Maybe he’d started sleep-eating? Wouldn’t be much of a stretch, considering what he’d dealt with over the past few days.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she murmured.

“Bring it with you.” He grabbed his own mug and headed for the door. But she didn’t move, didn’t even seem to hear him, her attention focused on the microwave he kept on top of the chest-high refrigerator. The kitten bounced into the room and was headed for the food dish when Allison suddenly reached out and stabbed a button on the appliance. The high-pitched ping startled the cat. Tiny claws scratched feverishly over the linoleum as the kitten scurried out of the room.

All Allison had done was zero out the remaining seconds on the display, but she was smiling as if she’d set the thing to detonate the next time he used it.

An hour later they had the carpet in #5 rolled up to within four feet of the far wall. They knelt in opposite corners, each working a hammer into the space between the carpet and the tack strip. As awkwardly as Allison handled her tools, she worked faster than he did. It was the damned hangover.

And his tendency to stop every minute or so and look over at her.

She’d shocked the hell out of him when he’d ordered her to wrestle a carpet lined with decades of grime and she hadn’t told him to go screw himself—because she sure had every reason to. She was used to wining and dining clients in high-end restaurants, facilitating million-dollar contracts and shopping for PR party duds at cutesy designer boutiques in Old Town. Yet here she was, wearing ill-fitting, stain-resistant cotton and big-ass boots, helping him renovate a country motel without giving him anywhere near the grief he deserved.

Which would be more impressive if it weren’t so obvious that the job—the money—meant everything to her. And he was dying to know why. What was the something she needed so desperately? Or was it a someone?

He shifted, relieving the pressure on his knees. How many times did he have to tell himself—?

Suddenly a wolf spider with a body the size of a goddamned golf ball popped out from under the carpet. Joe yelled and fell back on his ass. He stared at the spider as it scuttled toward the door, then over at Allison, whose eyes were rounder than the fried eggs he’d forced himself to eat for breakfast.

He started to laugh, and she started to laugh, and at the sight of her dirt-smudged face lit with unrestrained humor, the late morning sun gilding her hair and gleaming on her pale skin, he realized that he had screwed himself. Big time.

Because at that precise moment, what he wanted most in the world was the freedom to pull her into his arms, kiss her breathless, inhale her sweetness and absorb her heat. And that freedom was the last thing she’d ever grant him.

He jerked to his feet. “I have paperwork. We can finish this later.” He motioned with his chin at the nearest wall. “Next step is tearing down the paneling. Feel up to tackling that yourself?”

She rose more slowly, her face adopting the polite and professional mask she’d always worn for T&P clients. She nodded. “My trusty hammer and I won’t let you down.”

“Don’t forget your goggles,” he said, and got the hell out of there.

* * *

HE HOVERED AT the edge of the tree line, his gaze sharp on the open window. Surprisingly the meathead who’d convinced himself he could run a motel had had the sense to ventilate the room while painting it. Kind of a shame, really. ’Cause with all those fumes trapped in that tiny space, one flicker of flame was all it would take to burn the whole place down.

Whoosh. And a hellish history would be...history.

He shivered, glad that despite the bright morning sun he was wearing his hoodie. Not that he had much choice. If he had to make a run for it he’d just as soon nobody got a good look at him. An inhale rewarded him with a whiff of the lake—seaweed roasting on summer rocks. An answering ache in his stomach. He distracted himself by concentrating on the task at hand.

Pay attention.

Meathead must have finished painting because he’d moved on to the next room—and he had a partner now. Pulling up carpet—how much help could that skinny blonde be? Didn’t matter. What did matter was that his chances of being caught had just doubled. Uneasiness sparked at the base of his spine. He worked up a mouthful of saliva and spit.

He’d come too far, waited too long to back out now.

Keeping his eyes on that fifth window, he loped toward the only door on the back side of the building. Locked, of course. Meathead was smarter than he looked. But not smart enough to install a keycard lock, like the ones on the guest room doors. With the help of a torque wrench and a paperclip, he was in.

He carefully closed the door behind him, shoved back the hood of his sweatshirt and looked around. Three times, now, he’d broken into this dump. Still, he took a moment to bask in his accomplishment, to enjoy his triumph over the new owner and his cheap-ass locks.

At least, that’s what he let himself believe. The real reason for his hesitation was too complicated—too painful—to think about.

At the end of a long, narrow counter was a once-white stove, now yellowed with age, pushed into the corner. On the other side of a faded strip of linoleum crouched an undersize refrigerator. Beside it stood a small sink and a square of countertop big enough to support all four feet of a stainless steel toaster, the gleaming mass of which mocked the rest of the kitchen.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and curled his fingers into his palms, fighting the desperate need to bash, to bellow, to burn the whole godforsaken pile down to the goddamned ground. One shaking hand went to the pouch at his belly, pressed against the slim bulk of the lighter he kept there.

Not yet. He didn’t understand why, but he just knew he had to wait.

He opened his eyes, inhaled, yanked open the refrigerator door. Milk, cheese, apples, salad stuff. And the ever-present beer. He rubbed at the sudden tightness in the center of his chest.

The dude needed to shop. And he’d eaten the rest of the eggs, damn him. But he still had potatoes. And ketchup.

His belly let loose a pleading gurgle as he contemplated hash browns and toast. But he couldn’t risk taking the time to cook again, let alone wash up. With a grunt he grabbed an apple and hit the cabinets next. Not much he could take that wouldn’t be missed. Finally he eyed the loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter and sighed. Peanut butter and jelly it would have to be. Again.

He was drying the knife he’d used when the buzzer in the hallway sounded. Shit. Luckily the pocket doors were closed, but he should have thought to check them before.

Someone mumbling. It was Meathead. And he sounded pissed.

Soundlessly he set the knife on the counter, wrapped a paper towel around his sandwich and backed quietly down the hall and into the bathroom. He wedged himself into the narrow space behind the door, the backs of his legs mashed up against the toilet. Meathead would definitely see him if he poked his head in—or if he had to use the john.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

A muted rumble as the pocket doors slid along the track. Footsteps pounded on the linoleum. A frustrated sigh, the slam of a cabinet door, the soft rush of water as Meathead held a glass under the faucet.

The thick smell of peanut butter rose up around him, and his belly begged loudly for a bite. He held his breath. A clack as the water glass was put on the counter, more muttering, then footsteps coming closer, and closer.

Even as he fought to hold his breath, to keep quiet, the memories crowded in. Ugly, aching, relentless snatches of the past. Sweat dribbled from his scalp and into his ear. A rushing sound, punctuated by the echoing thud of his heart. He pressed his left fist to his mouth while the fingers of his right hand curled into the sandwich. If Meathead found him, he wouldn’t get another chance. He’d have to run, lay low and wait a hell of a long while before coming back.

A soft sound, near the floor. His stomach went into free fall. He looked down and saw a little orange tabby looking back up at him and almost pissed himself as his muscles loosened. The dude had a cat? Since when?