Authors: Shanna Germain
‘Thank you,’ she mouthed. She turned away and started to slip through the crowd.
‘Wait,’ I said. I wanted to ask her about her tattoo, about keyholes, about cat houses, about any and all of it. But she was already going, then gone, toward the back door of the Tail.
I tried to get Jay’s attention, to see if he knew her, but he was busy with a big group at the end of the bar. So I dropped my money on the wooden bar, slipped off my high vantage point and went rogue.
* * *
Nancy Drew is me, I thought as I headed out the back door into the parking lot.
Which should have been my first clue right there to turn around and go home.
The sapphire-headed woman wasn’t visible at first, so I stepped through the cars, trying to look like I had a reason to be there. Other than the fact that I was following some poor woman through the darkly lit night. I was never so glad not to be a guy; it made me feel bad following someone as a woman. If I was male, and worried that I’d scare her, I never could have done it.
Not that I was doing a very good job of following her. There was nothing in front of me except the rest of the parking lot with its rows of cars, and the sudden shine of the street lamps on both sides. How could someone in such a shiny dress just disappear?
At the far end of the lot, I caught a glimpse of movement. There she was, threading her way through the cars, a lit cigarette bobbing in her hand. Despite how far ahead of me she was, she didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Merely determined to get where she was going.
I followed her, asking myself why I was doing this. Was it the kiss she’d given me, the sweet taste of her open mouth, the way she’d tongued into me as though she knew exactly what my body craved? How she’d put one finger at the bottom of my chin, dragged the nail lightly over my skin?
Or was this me trying to right what I’d screwed up earlier? The fact that I didn’t just call out to her, that I didn’t flag her down and say something, or ask a question, made me even less certain about my intentions.
Either way, I went quietly along behind her, following her with the same methodical movements as her own. She stopped long enough to take a drag on her cigarette and look skyward. I wished I was close enough or it wasn’t so dark; I wanted to see that tattoo again, to really make sure I knew it was the same. But that would risk everything, so I stayed behind, followed her down one block and then another. I kept hoping she wouldn’t turn around, and then hoping she would.
She didn’t. Every time I got close enough that I could smell the smoke of her cigarette, I dropped away a little. I kept thinking she’d see me in one of the million windows, a reflection of a shadow, a movement, something. If she did, she didn’t notice.
Her dress shimmered lightly with her movements, showing off her curves. She should have looked utterly out of place here in her shiny dress and her high heels, and yet she didn’t. She pulled it off with such absolute confidence that you almost wouldn’t notice her if you walked by her.
Walking behind her, I noticed her, of course. Her stockings were also made of something that shimmered with every step, and I kept feeling my eyes drawn downwards, towards the muscles of her calves, and then up to that dark place between her thighs that you couldn’t quite see but could almost imagine.
I’m a stalker, I thought. Not just a stalker, but a pervert. The thought almost made me laugh out loud.
Seriously, what was I doing here? Clearly she was just going to keep walking for ever. I needed to either talk to her or give up and stop stalking her.
What would Nancy Drew do? I thought. Well, clearly Miss Drew would never stalk a hot chick with an amazing voice just because she’d kissed her and had a keyhole tattooed in the hollow of her throat. Or would she?
Half a dozen blocks away from the bar she finally turned into a little alleyway. I gave her a couple of seconds and then followed her. The alley was tiny and unremarkable. Business garbage cans and compost bins sat on one side. A couple of fire escapes. Some white graffiti that was light enough and big enough to be seen in the dim light.
And her. Or the silhouette of her. Standing sideways, lifting her shadow hand to knock at a door. I could only guess it was a door. From where I was standing, it just looked like part of the wall. She knocked twice, two solid raps that I could feel in my teeth. She looked around, a gesture that sent my heart up into my throat – surely she would see me, surely she would scream or come running or something else. I waited, motionless, still as a scared rabbit. As if my stillness would give me an invisibility cloak.
Either she didn’t see me, which seemed utterly impossible, or she saw me and didn’t care.
One second she was there, looking around, and the next there was a beam of light that seemed to scan her face and neck.
Then she was gone. Not even her shadow form remained.
After waiting a couple of seconds, I stepped forward through the empty alley until I was in front of the place where she had knocked. From this viewpoint, it was clearly a door. There was no handle or hinges, but it was edged apart from the rest of the bricks by clear lines. I ran my fingers over it very lightly. The cracks felt warmer than the rest, as though whatever was inside was heated.
I pulled out my cell phone and turned on the flashlight feature, lighting up the door. It was nothing remarkable in any way. Except for a barely-there image in a black chalk that looked like it had been drawn a hundred years ago and rained away a hundred more times.
A keyhole. Just like the one on the woman’s neck. Just like the one on Davian’s paper.
This was the second confusing door I’d stood in front of in the past few hours.
I should call someone, I thought.
If I was going in here – and even as I considered it, I realised that I was, that I’d already made a decision – then I was dumb to do it alone. But I didn’t know who to call.
I raised my hand and knocked twice on the brick door. A tiny hatch opened inside the door, and a thin stream of light shone out.
‘Key,’ a feminine voice said from the other side.
I caught a glimpse of two green eyes inside the door. The light scanned my face and neck. I realised it was looking for a tattoo. A tattoo that I didn’t have.
* * *
After having two doors closed in my face on the same night, I was ready to call it quits. Everything had unravelled. Kyle and I were … somewhere. Kyle was somewhere. I’d botched my job, if you could call it that, of talking to Kitty. I hadn’t found anything out about Davian’s book. I’d gone rogue and hadn’t learned anything new. Worse, I hadn’t even gotten in the door.
At home, I did what I always do when I’m stressed and nervous. I slept, I cleaned the house – which needed it – I cleaned myself – which also needed it – and then I hunkered down on the couch with a pile of books and a handful of chips.
Sometimes thinking is like seeing things from the corner of your eye. If you think too hard about something, the solution escapes you. But if you think about other things, sometimes the thought police lighten up and let things slip through.
Unfortunately, my pile of to-read books at the moment was 90 per cent erotic, which meant that shutting off my brain, at least when it came to the dark and mysterious Davian Cavanaugh and what was happening with Kyle and me, and what had happened at the Cat House, was harder than it seemed. Every book I picked up reminded me of something Davian-ish or Kyle-ish. And yet I couldn’t stop reading.
The man in the first novel threw the girl over his knees in her little skirt for a perfect spanking. Another had a whole scene about being bound by rope and leather that put the scent of saddle soap in my nose. Another told the tale of two women who had the hots for each other, but couldn’t do anything about it other than lust from afar. Every single plot twist and turn reminded me of something from my own life. I couldn’t put them down. The more I read, the more I saw Davian in everything. His hands. The way his eyes had flared to a golden cream right before he’d leaned in to kiss me. How much I wanted to run my hands over his hips, his thighs. To unzip him right there in my office and finally, finally introduce myself to his cock.
Masochist, I muttered at myself when I finally stopped reading. My clit was singing a maddening song of want, and I pushed both hands between my thighs, edging my thumbs along the tender nub. Despite all the sexuality in my life lately, the poor thing clearly felt neglected; as soon as I touched it, it responded with a pulse of pleasure that I could feel all the way down to my toes.
Maybe if I daydreamed like this for a while, an answer would come to me. I slipped my yoga pants down so I could spread my legs, then let my fingers slowly circle the pulsing bead of my clit. Heat rose in my pelvis and spread across the top of my chest.
Mind, go wander, I urged. Do something. Please.
Of course, what it wandered to was Davian. We’d only kissed once in real life and that wasn’t much to build a fantasy on. But I’d seen enough of him dressed, I’d touched him enough to know that I wanted more. What if he came into Leather Bound and kissed me again? I’d let him. I’d beg him. I’d be the little slut that I was, that I wanted to be, for him. I wanted to undo those perfectly fitting jeans, unbutton his shirt one slow button at a time. I wanted that mouth on me, not just on my mouth, but other places too. The side of my neck, on my nipples, between my thighs.
I tweaked and tugged at a nipple, matching the rhythm of my fingers on my clit. I could already tell this orgasm was going to be fast and hard; if I didn’t slow down, I was going to come before I could even give my brain some down time.
But my body was demanding. It wanted release and it wanted it now. Yesterday, even, if I could have made that happen.
I slid two fingers inside me, angling my thumb so its stroke was perfectly centred over my clit. I imagined my mouth full of Davian’s cock, his length stroking slowly along the flat of my tongue while I fucked myself with my fingers. His fist in my hair, pulling me over him, faster, harder, nearly making me choke, making me groan around the hot pulse of him.
‘Come for me,’ he said in my head, and I did, arching up off the couch, my body convulsing and shuddering. Pleasure rolled through me, quick and hard, and then, suddenly, I was warm and glowy. And not more than a little tired. I collapsed back on the couch, my fingers soaked with my own pleasure, my stack of books tumbled around my feet.
‘You are smart and driven,’ I told myself. ‘You will figure this out. Ideally without fucking your potential client, but you know what, if it comes down to that, I’m probably OK with it in the end.’
It wasn’t the solution I’d been hoping for, not by a long shot. But at least I felt like I had a fuzzy plan. And my orgasm-happy body told me that was more than enough for now, so just shut up and enjoy the buzz. Which I did. I had a feeling it was going to be my last one for a long while.
As it turned out, that wasn’t true. I woke on Wednesday morning from a dream so hot and gripping that my body was still shaking when I tried to drag myself from bed.
I’d been up on stage at the Cat House, all by myself. But I could see Davian in the front row. And Kyle too. And Kitty. And the men who’d been on stage, who were somehow now entwined with the door guy. They were all waiting for me, watching me.
I was touching myself, as though hypnotised. I could hear a voice in my head, telling me what to do next, and it was as though I’d had to obey. I hadn’t wanted to, or at least I didn’t think that I did. But every time I followed instructions, my body rewarded me with a shot of pleasure. It was like Simon Says for sexy grownups. I hadn’t come in the dream, I didn’t think, but as soon as I’d woken, I’d touched the swollen, wet nub between my legs and had gotten off. Fast. Hard. Wet.
Now shaky. My legs refused to hold me, giving me grief until I was out of the shower, and rushing to get dressed.
There was a message on my cell from Kyle, saying that everything was fine, no need to call and he’d get in touch with me in a couple of days. That seemed odd, but he really did sound fine. Happy, in fact. I certainly wasn’t going to call him when he’d all but asked me not to; no way was I going to rub salt in a wound that seemed like it was beginning to close.
I’d never been happier to head to work. I needed the comfort of books around me. I needed to see all of those stories that were told, and know that I was just one of many. My favourite heroines regularly screwed up their lives; in fact, wasn’t it required that they do so? Maybe being surrounded by their stories would make me feel a little less stupid about my own.
I walked to Leather Bound, prepping myself for a day of setting things right.
Only to find Lily crying in my office.
Worse yet, she looked like me. By which I mean dishevelled. A simple dress, her red hair pulled back in a loose bun, hardly any make-up. I even thought I saw a chip in her orange-hued nails.
My first thought was that the rent situation had got worse.
‘Lil?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ she sobbed.
‘Even if you weren’t crying, I wouldn’t believe you,’ I said. ‘In all the years I’ve known you, never once have I seen you wear the same polish colour more than two days in a row, and I’ve certainly never seen it with a chip.’
I took her hand and flipped it around to show her the big missing chunk out of her thumbnail. ‘So spill.’
‘Just girl trouble,’ she said. ‘As usual.’
‘Who do I need to beat up?’ I asked. ‘Is it the hot motorcycle chick?’
She brought a hand to her mouth and bit her thumbnail. A second later, her face seemed to echo the shock that I felt. Quickly, she dropped her hand into her lap.
‘Oy vey,’ she said. ‘I haven’t bitten my nails since I was six.’
It was a funny little glimpse into Lily, into who she’d been long before we’d known each other. She was always so poised and polished that I’d assumed she was like that even as a child. But maybe that wasn’t true after all.
‘What’s going on?’ I said.
She shook her head. Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, but her gaze was steady on mine, a kind of plea not to push her. Fair enough. I certainly wasn’t going to make Lily cry, not if I could help it. Good gods, one pile of trouble onto another.