The Deal Dilemma

My back smacks into the doorjamb, and I shove Willie’s way. “I said left, dick.”

“My bad.” His grin peeks beyond the mattress a second, and he adjusts, so we’re able to ease inside my new room. “Down in one, two—”

I let go, and he’s forced to refocus his weight.

“Fucker.” He shakes his head, lowering it to the floor.

Picking up the bottom edge, we push it onto the metal frame.

“So.” Willie puts his hands on his hips. “This is the new spot, huh?”

I don’t answer, tossing my sheets and comforter onto the memory foam mattress. “You sure this is the one Layla said to get?”

“Same one we got, yeah.”

“And your big ass doesn’t sink to the bottom?” I push on it, my hand melting into the soft material.

“Nah, it’s made to hug you, so you forget you’re a lonely, sexless son of a bitch.”

My head snaps toward Willie, and he grins.

“What? It’s true.” His eyes spark, and he walks backward from the room. “Speaking of the fuckless.”

“She’s not home, and if she were, I’d smack the shit out of you for saying that out loud.”

“Wonder what color comforter she has. I’m betting pretty pink or lovely lavender? Extra fluffy.”

I scoff, and his gaze narrows.

“You son of a bitch. You already looked,” he accuses.

My smirk is small as I reach for her door handle, opening it no more than a crack for him to peek inside.

A low whistle leaves him. “A surprising little virgin.” He pushes closer. “What is that? Gold satin?”

I close the door, forcing him to step back. “Rose gold satin. Black satin sheets.”

“Get it, girl.” He smiles, following me into the kitchen. “It looks expensive. You sure she doesn’t have a sugar daddy sending her things?”

“She kissed me because Julius staring at her made her nervous. I think it’s safe to say, there’s no sugar daddy.”

“Julius is a good-looking motherfucker,” he teases, laughing at himself as he speaks of his identical twin. “Sugar daddy’s can be fugly and virtual. Maybe that’s her type, the ones who steer clear and are just below good-looking. You know, like you.”

My middle finger is all he gets in response.

Sugar daddy.

Come the fuck on.

And no way she talks to guys online. She’d never, I warned her ass about that before Memphis and I moved out. She knows I’d have her ass for that.

Right?

Willie’s laugh is loud and barking, and when my eyes slide to him, he’s staring right at me. “Man, you’re too fucking easy when it comes to her.”

“Fuck’s that mean? I’m no different than any other time.”

Willie smiles, pulling his phone to his ear when I didn’t even hear it ring. “Hey, baby. I’m at Crew’s.”

I flip him off again and step back into my room to make my bed while he’s on his call.

Like Davis, my sheets are black, but a cooling cotton in tune with your body temperature.

Never heard of them before, but that’s what you get when you send money with your buddy’s wife. She did good, though, and I like the deep-blue down comforter she bought with it.

I used it at the bar, but twin sheets didn’t even fit the cot in my office, the thing was that small, so Layla went and snagged these for me today while we picked up the mattress in Willie’s truck.

Tonight, I plan to get a full fucking night’s sleep, and I’m dying for it to be on a real bed for once. The last two nights don’t count since I spent the first one cussing out Davis in my head until I fell asleep, and the second, when I lay down, I realized it wasn’t even a mattress I was lying on, but more like something you’d lay down on the bottom of a ground tent to make camping less miserable.

It’s hard to believe she’s slept here alone for a year.

Growing up, she was afraid to be home alone, afraid to sleep with the lights off or her door closed, that’s why she found her way into my room so often.

Or so I told myself.

She’s grown now, asshole.

So fucking grown…

“All right, let’s get this bitch into the dumpster. Layla wants nachos from across the street.”

Eyeing the wall that connects my room to hers, I nod and push to my feet. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Behind the wheel of his Ram, Willie looks to me as he puts the thing in gear. “Me and Layla made a bet. I gave you a month.”

“A month?”

“Before you go caveman on the girl.”

“You know it’s not the fucking time. You should listen to your wife. She’s smarter than you.”

“She gave you a week.”

My head snaps his way, and he laughs like a maniac.

“Just drive, dickhead.”

He does.

He drives right across the street, and the first thing I see through the window of the diner is Davis Franco… smiling at a familiar black-hat-wearing asshole.

I turn mine backward on my head and walk inside.

Davis

Black Hat Guy’s eyes fall to my nametag, then quickly pop up to mine. “Were you named after the university?”

“No, my parents were huge football fans growing up, so they named me after their favorite team’s owner.” I stick my pen into my apron, drawing out a straw and lowering it onto the tabletop.

“Nice, which team?”

“Raiders.”

Before I can turn toward the voice, heavy arms snake around my middle, and I’m drawn into a warm, solid body. Soft brown hair teases along my jaw as wet, full lips press at the skin of my neck, sending a shiver shock through me. As fast as they plant, they rise to my ear.

“You didn’t tell me he’s been coming back,” Crew whispers his disapproval. “Not okay with that.”

Shifting slightly, I meet his eyes, but I’m immediately called to the brim of his hat. His Raiders hat, flipped backward on his head, nothing but short, shaven hair showing from beneath it.

He straightens to his full height, my body no longer cocooned in a fascinating mix of pillowy hardness but braced against him.

His lips leave my ear, so I peek up at him, but his attention’s locked on Black Hat Guy.

Crew releases me and slips away, walking backward until he can fall into the empty booth two spaces over and across. One by one, he raps his knuckles on the table before him, his gaze finally flicking to mine.

His smirk is instant, ill behaved, and when he cocks his head, my feet deem it a demand, one they’re clearly eager to follow, leading me right to him.

“Burger will be right up.” I excuse myself, and seven steps later, I’m in front of Crew. “That was unexpected.”

Back half leaning where the seat meets the wall, Crew has one arm thrown over the seat, the other stretched long across the table. He is the picture of carefree, but there’s a darkness in his gaze, proving otherwise.

“Did you come for lunch? The meatball sub’s on special.”

“How many times has he been back?”

My brows tug in the center. “What?”

Crew leans forward, his chin nearly level with my stomach, his eyes pointed up and focused on me through a thick layer of long, dark lashes. “How many times… has he come back in here?”

His words are delivered slow and low, very Crew-like, but they roll right over my head as I fixate on his. A thought sparks, a naughty one, and my expression must show it as his gaze narrows in question.

“What are you thinking right now?” he presses.

“I’m not sure you want to know.”

“You said you’d answer when asked.” His neck stretches the teeniest bit. “Answer me, Sweets.”

“If you insist.” I step in until the table is smashing into my right thigh, bringing myself as close as I can, without dropping beside him, so I can keep my voice as low as possible. Don’t need Mr. and Mrs. Joe eavesdropping from their spot across the way.

“I’m pretty sure this is about where you’d reach if you were on your knees in front of me,” I whisper, then straighten and hold a finger up to the girl trying to gain my attention a skip over. Hurriedly pulling my pen from my pouch, I press it to my order pad. Did you want to try the sub or no?”

Silence.

My eyes lift to Crew.

He’s yet to move an inch, his attention frozen on my face. My eyes. I’m not even sure he’s blinking.

“Crew.”

His frown deepens, though he shows no other sign of life.

“Miss!”

Ugh.

“Look at the menu. I’ll be right back.” I go to walk away, but Crew’s reflexes are on another level.

His large fingers lock around my wrist so fast, I’m forced to jerk to a stop, my head snapping back in his direction.

Eyes on me, he glides his closed fist across the table, nudging the silverware right over the side, and it falls to the floor with a clatter. Crew scoots to the end of the seat, gently nudging me backward as he slips his body free, pressing a single knee to the floor.

Blindly, he stretches his long arms, scooping the fork, spoon, and napkin into his palm. He straightens then, his left knee still pressed firmly to the cheap linoleum, his chin leveling out. Only then do his eyes leave mine, now pointed directly forward, but only for a split second. Long enough to push a harsh, intentional breath out, one that seeps beyond the cotton of my clothes, teasing over my ribs.

Slowly, he rises to his feet, the next words leaving him a low rumble. “I’d have to hook your leg up high for that to work. Maybe put you in heels.” And then he sits back down and says, “Three nachos. One steak, two chicken.”

My mouth opens, closes, and then I nod.

“One chicken, two steak, got it.”

Unsteady, both mind and feet, I run through my tables on autopilot, all the while picturing my thigh braced on Crew’s stout shoulders, my favorite, glittery heels, I’ve never worn but had to have, resting along the muscles in his back.

He’d have to grab me by the ass cheeks to hold me still, and I bet he’d squeeze, knead.

Yeah, he seems like the type to enjoy a good handful and I’ve got a couple.

Why won’t he just take one for the team? And by team, I mean me.

“Davis?”

My head jerks up, and I realize I’ve come to Black Hat Guy’s table.

Look at that, I’ve already set his meal down.

“Ketchup?” I guess.

The guy chuckles, adjusting his frame in his seat, so he appears taller. “I didn’t think you heard me.”

He was talking?

“Sorry.” A low laugh leaves me. “My mind is—” in the gutter. Crew deep. “Anyway… what?”

A cup slams against a tabletop with a loud clank, and all eyes dart toward the sound. Toward Crew.

He’s slouched over, head lazily hanging forward. Eyes on me.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“I wish,” I mumble.

It’s quick, instant. Accidental.

Crew looks away, but the shake of his shoulders tells me he heard, and he’s entertained.

I, on the other hand, ripen like the finest of tomatoes.

Black Hat Guy is looking at Crew but faces forward as I turn back around, shocking me when a large smile spreads across his face, and you know what? It looks good on him. It’s not crooked, and it doesn’t reveal any scars or dimples, but it is nice. Straight.

“Good to know.” Black Hat Guy—okay I really need to ask his name, or at the very least, peek at it on his card when he pays—winks and scoots his food closer. “Think I could get that ketchup?”

“Ketchup, coming right up.”

I spin on my heels, and Crew’s chin lowers to his chest as I pass, but that doesn’t stop me from shoving his head with my open palm as I walk by.

This time, his laughter echoes.

It’s an annoyingly glorious sound.