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.
Chapter Six
My distractingly sexy new friend drags me through every aisle, and all the lip-licking glances go unnoticed by him—but not by me. “Women sure do like you.”
Trick inspects each apple before adding them to the cart. “Impossible. They don’t even know me.”
Proving my point, I glare at a lady eye fucking him while her kids cling to the side of her cart like a troop of monkeys. “Let me rephrase, they like your body.”
He pushes the cart toward the checkout, glancing over at me. “Do you like my body?”
I swallow hard, grabbing and thumbing through a magazine as we wait in line. “It’s … fine. I guess. I haven’t paid it much attention.”
“No?”
I suck in my lips and shake my head. Ten minutes later we leave with six paper bags of groceries. He carries two in each hand, and I carry the other two.
“If you don’t feed me when we get back, I’m going to feel used. You really should consider trading in your motorcycle for something more practical.”
The look he gives me misses my jugular by a few millimeters. Warning received. It was a joke, well … sort of.
“If you’re hungry you can drink one of the four bottles of fresh pressed juice you stuck in my cart.” He gives me a quick sideways glance.