The Other P-Word Page 13

  Arty tapped on the keyboard. Evan drummed his fingers against the polished wood of the desk. I sniffed the air. We were all in our element.

  “Cross your fingers,” Evan said, his mouth hovering above my ear.

  “Or you could just say A Prayer for Owen Meany,” Arty said. Apparently, his hearing was as good as his memory.

  “Huh?” I asked in confusion.

  “It’s way overdue, along with many other books including The Godfather…perhaps the greatest piece of literature ever written.”

  Wow, who knew Arty felt so strongly about mafia books. Arty made a tsking sound, shaking his finger at Evan.

  “You’re such a bad boy,” I muttered.

  “Told you,” Evan replied.

  Evan flashed a charming smile at Arty. “What are the damages, sir?”

  Arty, perhaps because he appreciated a dramatic gesture, wrote an amount on a notecard, folded it neatly then slid it over to Evan.

  “Did you at least read the books, dear boy?”

  “I never got the chance.”

  “Such a shame.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m asking for a second chance and you, sir…you are the godfather in this scenario.” Evan unfolded the paper, his eyes widening. “You’re kidding me. I know loan sharks that charge less than this.”

  “I never joke when it comes to library fines,” Arty replied, adjusting his bowtie.

  I leaned into the counter. “Arty, it was a long time ago. Isn’t there a statute of limitations?”

  Arty smiled. “It’s not as if he committed a felony.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Thanks, Arty.”

  “If he had, there might be a statute, but I’m afraid the library is less forgiving. A fine is a fine.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The library never forgets, young lady.” He leaned in toward me as if we were conspiring. “I won’t tell your mother about this.”

  Um…okay. Although she was a staunch defender of the library, I doubted she’d be as anal as Arty.

  “Do it as a favor,” I said, trying to appeal to his position as a close family friend.

  Arty stood taller. I had a feeling he’d stepped on the cubicles that lined the other side of the desk. He towered over us, his voice dropping to a raspy whisper in what I assumed was a Don Corleone impression. He was no Marlon Brando, but I had to give him props. He sounded legit and even did the hand gestures. “You come to my house on the day the new wing of the library is set to open and you ask me for a favor?”

  “Let’s go, Billie. I don’t want to find a horse in my bed tonight,” Evan said, tugging on my sleeve.

  I held up my hand. “I got this.” I dropped my voice and crooked my finger toward Arty. “Tell you what, Arty. You make Evan’s fines disappear and I won’t remind my mother that you still have her copy of The Notebook.”

  “Blackmail does not become you, Billie.”

  “There is nothing I won’t do in the name of good literature, Arty.”

  He huffed, but his fingers tapped on the keyboard again and the outcome was a very nice laminated card with Evan’s name on it.

  “Accept this favor and never again let anyone outside the family know what you are thinking.”

  “I don’t know if I should shake your hand or kiss it,” I replied.

  Arty had a twinkle in his eye, no doubt enjoying a small opportunity to seize power. “Now be gone with you. Read and let read, I always say.”

  “Yes, Godfather,” I said, which was ironic, since he really was my godfather.

  I grabbed Evan’s hand and we walked with clipped steps, escaping with the card before Arty could change his mind.

  “I’m glad you’re in my corner, Price.”

  “Meh, he was going to waive the fine anyway. Arty loves theatrics and I wanted to make his day.”

  “It made mine too.”

  We separated for a while. I went toward the romance section, while Evan searched the biographies. I felt his presence behind me as I gazed at one of my favorite books.

  “Are you checking that out…or are you checking him out?”

  True, the man with the regency era jabot sans shirt was hot. He wasn’t Evan hot, but not bad.

  “I’ve read it a hundred times. I own it. I just like to look at it. Make sure it’s still here for someone else to enjoy.”

  “Is it your favorite?”

  “One of them—probably the one that started my love of all things romance. It had all of those perfect grand gestures.” I turned to him, sucking a succession of deep breaths into my diaphragm and letting it out slowly. “You know?”

  “No, are you hyperventilating?”

  “I’m creating that moment—the one that seizes your heart in movies and books. This story had it. Although it is very sad.”

  “It is?”

  I nodded, pointing to the dashing model on the cover. “The hero dies tragically saving the heroine at the end.” I slapped my hand against my mouth. “I can’t believe I just gave away the ending. I hate it when people do that.”

  “It’s okay, Price.” He took the book from me. “The Last Lusts of Lord Monroe is not on my current reading list.”

  “I should have figured.”

  He handed it back to me. I ran my finger down the spine and silently thanked Lorraine Malter again for moving me with her words, before putting it back in its rightful place.

  “So that’s the book that inspired you to write?”

  “Yes, I snuck it from my mom’s room when I was a kid. It might sounds strange but even as a young girl, it made me realize what I wanted—that kind of sacrifice.”

  “You want a man who dies for you?”

  “Yes.” Wait…that doesn’t sound right.

  Evan shifted closer to me. “How do you know he’d die for you if the opportunity never presented itself?”

  Good question. A slow grin spread across his face—the kind that said, you’re adorably amusing. It aggravated me.

  “I would just know in my heart. It works both ways, Evan. I’d die for him too.”

  “Why would he want you to?”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No. I’m trying to understand you.”

  “Why don’t you show me your favorite book?”

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Good. Lead the way.”

  The old children’s wing was still intact. He pursued the shelves for a while. I watched as he hunted around for it.

  “I can help you.”

  “I got this.”

  He emerged from a lower shelf with a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit.

  “Really?” There was nothing that could make me poke fun about this. Nothing at all.

  “My mom used to read this to me when I was little. It’s the first book I really remember, but I learned a lot from it.”

  “Such as?”

  “You don’t become real until someone loves you.” The glasses came out of his pocket. I told my drumming heart to shut up while he put them on. He laid the book flat against the shelf and flipped through it, sliding his fingers down the page. His smiled but there was a cold distance in it. “You think that’s true, Price?”

  “I think some people have such a deep hurt, it’s easier not to be real.” I stood next to him and looked at the pretty illustrations on each page. “It’s funny how the books you love as a child have a way of staying with you the longest.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  I could feel Evan’s suffering. Its palpable heaviness settled into the thick air around us. I blinked away a tear before it could fall.

  He snapped the book shut and cleared his throat. “How did we go from The Godfather to The Velveteen Rabbit?”

  “Anything goes when you’re in the library. Do you want to check this out?” I asked, tapping the book.

  “What do you say we leave it so another kid can be imprinted by its magic?”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  He sucke
d in a deep breath and put the book back.

  “Evan, are you all right?”

  He held onto the veneered edging of the shelf. His fingers turned white and I wondered for a moment if they might go through the plasterboard. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me right now. We should go home. I’m sorry.”

  There was something desperate in his voice, something that pleaded to be light again. I wanted to take him there, stabbing away his sorrow with my make-believe sword of good intentions.

  “Want to see the stacks before we go?”

  He grinned, the mischievous light coming back into his eyes. “I remember the stacks. No one ever goes up there unless they want to…”

  “Make out?” I finished.

  Two minutes later, we were there.

  “You ever been up here, Price?”

  “Only in my fantasies.”

  “This is a fantasy?” he asked, shutting the door and leaning against it.

  “It is. Have you been here?”

  He opened his mouth but I covered it with my hand.

  “Don’t tell me. It’ll ruin it.”

  He clasped my wrist and moved my hand away. “How about we stop talking in general?”

  In one sweeping motion, he spun me so my back was against a bookshelf. He lifted me up and spread my legs around him. His claimed me with his lips. He tasted like chocolate and citrus and mint and everything perfect. His tongue slid across my bottom lip then he nibbled it. He ran his hands along my legs, settling on my hips. My whole body turned to quivering jelly. I wrapped my arms around his neck. He moved his hands up my sides until they grazed the curves of my breasts, his thumbs flicking my nipples so hard I could feel it through all the layers of my clothes. In response, my nipples hardened like never before. His tongue found mine, but he didn’t force it like a fencing competition. He teased me with it, drawing me in slowly, exploring and prodding until I begged for more.

  He was right. A man could definitely run his fingers through short hair…and what talented fingers they were. After he threaded them through my hair, he ran his lips down my neck. I pulled his face up, wanting to taste his mouth again. Something fell—a hardcover book from the other side of the shelf. I turned my head, but he held me in place as he pressed his mouth against me once more. Some more books fell, I think, but I didn’t register it anymore. My mind, consumed by him, could only focus on the magical things he did to me. He pressed his body closer to mine. His muscles felt harder than I’d imagined. I was melting. I’d be a puddle on the floor if he kept going.

  “Do I have to take your card away so soon, Mr. Wright?”

  Shit.

  Arty stood at the door, his expression stern.

  Evan helped me down and backed away so fast I felt a gust of wind. The entire shelf I’d been sitting on was now empty.

  “Sorry,” he said. “She had something in her…her eye.”

  “Really, it looked like it might have been in her mouth.” Then Arty turned to me. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I had to kick her and Damien out of here not too long ago for the same offense.”

  Arty might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water over me, because whatever fantasy I held about making out in the stacks dissipated as quickly as snow in the desert.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Thank you for today,” I said in front of my door. “I had so much fun.”

  “I take it you’re not going to invite me in.”

  “Evan, I want to but I can’t handle investing my emotions in something that’s not going to pay out.”

  “You talk about me like I’m a bank account.”

  “What would happen if we had sex tonight?”

  “You want me to paint a picture for you? I’d fuck you the first time and then I’d take my time the second go-round. The third is lady’s choice.”

  My breath hitched and I fought against my desire to jump on him. “After that.”

  He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Sometimes it can just be enough to share something in the short-term.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m sorry I kissed you. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Make no mistake about it, Price, I kissed you. And I fucking enjoyed the hell out of it. We both did. Even if it was a pity kiss.”

  “That was no pity kiss. Let’s do the friends thing. I think we’re getting better at it.”

  “Whatever you want, Price.”

  “Evan—”

  “Sweet dreams,” he said, before slamming his door.

  I walked into my apartment. I drank a cup of bitter tea and wrote a bit. Amazingly, I wrote about that kiss and for the first time in a long time, I liked what I wrote. I showered and changed into pink lacy boy short panties and a tank top, needing to feel sexy. I heard his shower come on and I tried not to imagine him…but only one word kept creeping into my mind…piercing. I read for a bit until the purring of a cat on the fire escape interrupted me. I pushed aside the silk damask drapes just in time to see Evan lay out a saucer of milk.

  “Have a good prowl?” he asked the furry creature. I almost said something, but I didn’t want to interrupt this moment. I didn’t trust myself to not unravel the chains of the figurative chastity belt I’d fashioned for myself. Especially with this new knowledge—Evan Wright fed stray cats.

  I tried to sleep, but it’s hard to rest in a strange place, especially with a super-hot, hunky, bad boy next door. The strumming guitar made it even worse, causing all the chains of the chastity belt to rumble in rebellion.

  If that wasn’t enough, he started humming. His deep sultry voice did bad things to me. Where the fuck was the vibrator? I scrambled out of bed to search for it. Without any shame or second thoughts, I decided to fuck myself to the beat of his soundtrack. I swore under my breath as I ripped apart the plastic packaging, ran to rinse the device under hot water, and tried to figure out how to put the damn batteries in.

  The object itself was a little crazy looking. It wasn’t huge or long but as soon as I turned it on, I clapped my hand over my mouth trying to contain my shock as it sprung up and down like a jack in the box. I lowered my panties and placed it against my opening, keeping my mouth covered so I wouldn’t moan out.

  He increased the tempo of his riff and I imagined his fingers sliding against those strings. My body writhed in the velvet richness of his voice. A sheen of sweat soon covered my skin. I lifted my ass off the bed, squeezing my eyes shut trying to concentrate, waiting for the crash. The sweet release. Then…he stopped playing. Abruptly, without warning or satisfaction.

  I tried to keep going, giving it my all, but I had to admit there was no happy ending along the horizon. I turned off the device and threw it out of the bed. So much for warranties.

  “You done already?” Evan’s deep voice came through the wall.

  Shit.

  “Done with what?”

  “You may be slick but you are for damn sure not sly.”

  Shit…he had my number.

  “You’re quiet, but that vibrator is loud as hell.” Then he added a very long buzzing sound to emphasize the point. “Did my little lullaby make you wet?”

  “No.”

  “I think it did. But not enough to make you come. I mean, you couldn’t have gotten off already.”

  “For your information…and come to think of it, I don’t know why it’s your information, I did.”

  “Liar.”

  “Why did you stop playing?”

  “Just testing my theory. What’s it feel like to be frustrated, Billie?”

  “Fuck you, Evan.”

  “I thought you’d never ask. Come over.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be mad. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “How?”

  “Let me get you off, friend.”

  “I said I’m not coming over.”

  “You don’t have to. Just listen and do everything I say.” He started
playing again. The melody was slow, almost gracefully seductive. “Want to play?”

  “I’m in,” my mouth said, even though every part of my head was screaming to end this stupid game.

  “Take off everything.”

  I almost ripped my own panties trying to get them off.

  “Take your hand and caress your breasts. Don’t squeeze. Don’t pinch. Just touch.”

  I did as he said. The moan came from nowhere but I felt it everywhere.

  “Take your thumb and index fingers from each hand. Get them wet and rub your nipples with them.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. I bet you look so fucking hot right now.”

  The beat picked up. I swear he was playing Spanish Fly by Van Halen. Shit…he was giving me music to masturbate by.

  “Evan…”

  “Suck your fingers again.”

  I made a slurping sound and I swear I heard him groan.

  “Now what?”

  “Fuck yourself, Billie, but not hard. Slow and long.”

  I inserted my wet fingers. He played something bluesy to help me along.

  “Are you shaved?”

  “I have a runway strip. Is that important?”

  “No, I just wanted a visual. Rub your clit with your thumb but be very gentle. It requires a delicate touch.”

  I writhed again but it was different this time.

  “Faster, Billie,” he said, giving me a rocking riff that had my fingers dancing.

  “Is that Sunshine of Your Love?”

  “By the band Cream. Appropriate, don’t you think? Now shut up. I think you need to wet those fingers again.”

  I removed them and almost stuck them in my mouth, but I stopped myself, registering what I was about to do.

  “I can’t do that. I’m not ambidextrous.”

  He did a low rumbling thing that made my moisture meter go to flood level. “Go ahead and taste yourself, Price. You probably taste like warm cherry pie.”

  “Evan.”

  “Suck your fingers now.”

  Not cherry pie, but not half bad either.

  “Did you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now put those fingers to work back inside that tight pussy. It’s time to land.”

  I inserted my newly slicked fingers back inside just as he changed the tune again to something powerfully harsh and fast.