Had to Be You: Bad Boys of Red Hook Page 7

  She looked around, not sure how to get out of it, not sure she even wanted to. Okay, she didn’t want to get out of it, but she knew she shouldn’t go. “I don’t have a helmet.”

  He pulled one out of the saddlebag and handed it to her. “I have an extra.”

  She stared at the helmet, wishing she had the self-control to hand it back to him and get in Patrice’s car.

  “I bought it today so Nicki could ride with me.” Slater raised a shoulder and Rocki saw a shadow of the tall, lanky geek Patrice had told her about.

  Rocki’s concentration was shattered when Patrice slammed the car door, looked over the roof at her, and waved. “I’ll call you later, Rocki. You two have fun.”

  “Wait!” By the time she yelled, Patrice was already driving away. “It looks like I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “You could always take the subway home, but it’s a hike to the Port Authority, and my bike is more fun. There’s nothing like the feeling of seventy-five horsepower between your legs.”

  She wanted to smack herself—he’d played her like Pavlov played the dogs when he rang the bell. Her conditioned response had her mind going from slightly pissed to over-the-top horny in a nanosecond. The last person she wanted to be horny with was Slater. She stuffed the helmet under her arm, put a hand on her hip, and a don’t-give-me-shit cock to her head. “Did you and Patrice have this planned?”

  “No.”

  She stared into his eyes and knew he wasn’t lying. “Just so you know, this isn’t a date.”

  He took the helmet from her and tossed it from one hand to the other like a basketball. “Okay, if it’s not a date, what is it?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  He stepped toward her, placed the helmet with a full face mask on her head, and tightened the chin strap. “That’s good because I’ve been looking forward to doing nothing with you since the first time I saw you.” He flipped the visor down, effectively cutting her off from saying any more. It was a good thing the helmet covered her mouth; she’d hate for him to see her drool.

  • • •

  Slater straddled the bike and held his hand out to help Rocki.

  She ignored it, grabbed his shoulder, and threw her leg over.

  “Wrap your arms around my waist and hold on.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll just hang on to the bars back here.”

  “Suit yourself.” He took off, knowing her back would hit the backrest, and her arms flew around his waist before he was out of the parking lot.

  “You did that on purpose.”

  Damn straight he did. But then there was no reason to tell her she was right. She knew it. “Are you hungry? We could have a picnic in the park.” He took the turn onto Twelfth Avenue a little tight and her arms squeezed his waist, her thighs squeezed his hips, and her breasts flattened against his back.

  She didn’t answer but then he didn’t really expect her to. The bike and the beautiful day were working their magic. It’s hard to say no to a longer ride on a perfect day, and with Rocki holding on to him, he was having a hard time seeing anything that wasn’t perfect—well, except for the fact that Rocki really didn’t want to be with him. She wanted on the bike—sure. She wanted to take a ride—hell, yeah. But with him—not so much.

  He headed uptown, turned onto Fifty-Eighth Street to Columbus Circle and Central Park West, and wondered how to handle Rocki. And by God, he did want to handle her. He parked the bike, removed his helmet, and offered Rocki a hand.

  This time she took it.

  He helped Rocki off. “I’m not going to take it personally.”

  Rocki tugged at her chin strap. Confusion furred her brow. “Take what personally?” She pulled the helmet off and then raked her hand through her hair until it stood up again.

  He looked deep into those eyes he couldn’t get out of his head. “I’m not a threat, Rocki. I don’t want to take over your life. I just wanted to be friends.”

  “Friends? That’s why I’m getting the full-court press?”

  Leave it to Rocki to put it all out on the line. He thought he was direct. He shrugged. “I want to get to know you.” Oh yeah, and that was the truth; he wanted to know everything about her. What she hid from the world, what she felt like in his arms, the sounds she made when she was excited, and he wanted to see the look on her face when she came. Slater blew out a breath and prayed the tightness in his jeans wasn’t too noticeable. “Unfortunately you won’t give me a break just because I’m Pop’s son.”

  He sat on the bike and looked up at her. Damn, even with helmet hair she was gorgeous. Taking a deep breath, Slater swung his leg over and got off the bike, standing so close to her, he saw the flecks of silver in her irises that made her eyes go all soft and gray. He set his helmet on the seat. “If I were anyone else, I have a feeling we’d get along just fine, better than fine.”

  “We get along.” Rocki stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jeans as if she didn’t trust herself not to touch him. He should know since he was doing the same thing.

  “Right. But I’m Pop’s son, so that puts me on your do-not-tangle-with list. Even though everything I see tells me you’d like nothing better than to get all tangled up with me.” Her eyes dilated and her breath came out in soft puffs. He stepped closer. “A tangle of tongues, a tangle of arms, a tangle of legs. Yeah, and I want to get all tangled up with you too—temporarily.”

  Rocki’s breath shot out of her as if she’d just taken a blow to the diaphragm. Not a good sign.

  He took her hand and pointed to a gourmet deli he’d found when he was roaming the city before he’d gotten the guts to go home. “Come on. Let’s get some food, and you can decide what you want. Once you do, I promise I won’t argue.”

  She knew what she wanted and Slater knew it was him. She wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her. It showed in the way she breathed a little too heavily, the way her eyes sparkled a little too brightly, the way her face flushed hot. He just hoped she didn’t let her fear get in the way.

  CHAPTER 6

  Slater had been in Red Hook for more than a week but it felt like a year. Being back home was as bad if not worse than he’d expected. In the last week he’d seen Skye quit, met her four brothers, and was forced to watch Rocki flirt with every last one of them. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t like it. Not one bit. If he’d been another man he’d swear he felt jealous. But Slater didn’t do jealous—not even with any of the girls he’d dated and slept with, and technically, he hadn’t done either with Rocki. Not for lack of trying on his part.

  He tentatively touched his jaw, worked it from side to side, and winced. It hadn’t helped that he’d allowed his brother Logan to beat the crap out of him. Sure, he had it coming after accusing Skye, Logan’s girlfriend and chef extraordinaire, of doing the same thing Dominique had done to him—dumping him after finding out he was a stray mutt with no parents, no prospects, and no pedigree.

  Deserving a beating was one thing, but Slater just wished Logan hadn’t gone for the face. Slater could have taken him without even working up a good sweat, and Lord knew Logan wasn’t much of a fighter—thank God—but he had a hell of a right cross. Slater’s left eye was still swollen, his jaw still ached, and his face was more colorful than a gay pride parade.

  His face would heal—eventually, but he wasn’t sure about his ego. It had taken a hit after he’d said good-bye to Rocki after their nondate. She’d told him she wasn’t interested in being more than coworkers. He saw the lie in her eyes but had said he wouldn’t push, so he didn’t. He just wished he knew what she was hiding, and he couldn’t help but feel that her secrets were the reason she wouldn’t see him.

  He ran his hands over his face. He couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but the maddening woman who either ignored him or treated him like a pesky kid brother. Rocki stirred him up more than anyone he’d ever met. She m
ade him crazy, curious, and hard—not necessarily in that order. When it came to Rocki, he had a whole catalogue of feelings for and about her—the least of which was brotherly. No, lust was at the top of the list, followed closely by admiration and intense interest, but he could guaran-ass-tee he’d never look at her like a sibling.

  No matter where he went, it seemed as if he couldn’t get away from her—not that he really wanted to. Rocki was in the bar playing something classical and he knew for a fact that she played it by heart. He’d checked her sheet music—it was nonexistent.

  He sat behind his computer at his dad’s desk and eyed the drawer where Pop stashed his personal files, fingering a paperclip and wondering how hard it would be to pick the lock.

  He hadn’t been able to find out a thing about Rocki. He thought about hacking into the DMV but decided against it. After all, he’d told her he wouldn’t and he never went back on his word. But he hadn’t told her he wouldn’t see what Pop had in his files.

  Slater had googled, Facebooked, checked Twitter, and every other social networking site known to man. It brought him zilch. It was as if Rocki O’Sullivan didn’t exist. She was a ghost, an enigma, a puzzle.

  When he couldn’t get anything off the Internet—and he specialized in Internet searches—he’d decided to do some more old-fashioned investigating. He’d talked to everyone he could about Rocki, hoping someone would know more about her than Patrice. With all the people he’d spoken to, he hadn’t found one person who hadn’t loved her. Hell, most of the employees at the bar considered her their best friend, but when it came right down to it, no one knew anything concrete. It was as if Rocki appeared three years ago and took over the joint.

  The only person who would know would be Pop. Pop, the ex-cop that he was, made it his business to know everything about everyone who worked for him. He wouldn’t have taken Rocki under his wing, let her help take care of Nicki, and become part of the family, if he didn’t know all. Still, the fact that Pop knew didn’t mean he’d be willing to share the information. He’d probably hold back just for shits—after all, the old man hadn’t had a lot to laugh about recently, and since Slater had come home, he seemed to be Pop’s court jester of choice.

  He opened Pop’s top desk drawer and found cigars. Now that Bree and Storm were home from their honeymoon, Pop had better hope Bree didn’t find his stash or she’d box his ears.

  Slater didn’t know what Bree had done to make Pop fear her, but he’d heard that she’d taken a cast-iron frying pan to his brother Storm’s thick head before he’d fallen in line and in love.

  The office door opened and—think of the devil—Pop walked in and gave him a once-over. “Damn, son, you’re looking rough. How’s the face feel?”

  “Never better.” Right. He cleared the screen on his laptop—the last thing he needed was for Pop to catch him trying to get information on Rocki.

  Pop sat in the chair opposite the desk. “What are you working on?”

  Slater realized he still toyed with the paperclip he’d considered using to pick the lock and dropped it, hoping it would go unnoticed. “Just programming stuff. Nothing important.”

  Rocki started to play another one of her classical pieces.

  “Pop, what the hell is Rocki doing here?”

  “Sounds to me like she’s playing Tchaikovsky. Why do you ask?” Pop tried to rock back in the chair and it didn’t work. He looked like a parent sitting in a kindergarten-sized seat during a parent-teacher conference. Slater didn’t imagine Pop had ever been in that position, since he and his brothers were almost teenagers by the time Pop took them in. If he’d done the whole parent-teacher thing for preschoolers, Slater figured that’s how Pop would have looked.

  Slater tried to hide the smile that he knew would do nothing but cause him pain, not to mention get him a smack on the back of the head. Shit, he couldn’t win for trying. The man was an ex-cop and a master interrogator. It didn’t take a genius, which Slater was, to figure out that his father was as good at deflecting interrogation tactics as he was at getting information. He might as well give it up. “Just curious.”

  Pop raised an eyebrow.

  “Fine. Rocki doesn’t belong here. What’s a woman who knows classical music like she does doing working at the Crow’s Nest? She should be performing at Carnegie Hall for fuck’s sake not playing at a bar in Red Hook. She’s got a shit-load of talent. and she’s wasting it here with that band of hers.”

  Pop held out his hand.

  Slater eyed the open palm, wondering when it would turn and smack him upside the head. “What?”

  “Pay up. Bree charges everyone five bucks for cursing. That’s another ten spot for Nicki’s college fund.”

  “Bill me. Besides, Nicki’s not even here. I should be able to curse as much as I want.”

  “Don’t matter.” Pop shook his head and Slater almost groaned when he saw the you’re-gonna-get-a-lecture look crossing his father’s face. Slater might be pushing thirty, but he knew he’d never get too old to receive a talking-to from Pop. He just wanted to know what the hell he did to deserve it this time. He’d been home a week and he felt like he was back in high school.

  “You gotta clean up your language if you’re going to be spending time with Nicki.”

  Slater had been walking Nicki to school and home every day, taking her damn dog out, and even helping her with her homework. In other words, he’d been dealing with everything he hadn’t wanted to deal with. “Nothing against Nicki—she’s a great kid—but the last thing I want to do is spend more time with her.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Pop sat forward in his chair, and if the damn thing wasn’t too small, Slater was sure Pop would be flying over the desk. The man still had one hell of a temper when he thought someone was dissing one of his kids.

  Slater held up his hands to calm his old man, but still stood his ground. “I meant what I said.” He ran his hands through his unruly hair. “It’s nothing personal—Nicki’s a great kid but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m taking off in a month. Nicki doesn’t need to get attached to me when we know I’m only here temporarily. Hasn’t the kid had enough loss in her life without me adding to it?”

  “Nicki has seen more than her fair share of loss, but you’re her family. Just because you’re going to the Middle East doesn’t mean she shouldn’t get to know you. It’s not as if either of you are going to leave the fold—not for long at least, and Nicki needs to feel as if she’s part of us. All of us.”

  Pop looked around and pushed himself out of the too-small chair. He might have lost a ton of weight since his heart attack, but he was still a big man. “Get out of my chair, son. I can’t think on this side of the desk.”

  Slater waited half a second before standing. He didn’t want to be on the other side either. That was the lecture side and he’d spent more than enough time there as a teen to ever be comfortable.

  Pop took his seat behind the desk and Slater leaned against the wall, stalling. He shoved his hands in his pockets and forced himself not to slouch.

  “Sit down, son. I don’t have the patience to crane my neck up at you.”

  Pop had that determined frown that meant business—serious business. Like the time he’d found out Slater had hacked into the NYPD database and deleted his and his brother’s arrest records. Pop had been mad as hell. He hadn’t turned him in but made sure that he’d never do it again. That was the one and only time Slater had wondered if three hots and a cot wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Slater felt a lump settle in his gut that had nothing to do with lunch and everything to do with impending doom. He wasn’t superstitious or anything, but Pop’s whole demeanor was off. It was as if whatever he was about to say was not something Slater wanted to hear. Was his dad’s health worse than he’d been told?

  Slater fell into the chair, crossed his arms, and waited for the inevit
able mind-fuck. The lump in Slater’s stomach expanded exponentially.

  • • •

  Pete opened his drawer, fingered a cigar, and checked the clock, wondering if he could put this conversation on hold and suck on a stogie before he blew Slater’s world apart. He mentally adjusted his balls, leaned forward, and looked Slater right in the eye. “I don’t know how to tell you this, son, so I’m just gonna say it—”

  Strains of Tchaikovsky splunked into a teeth-jarring mess.

  The scrape of the piano bench.

  The clickity click of Rocki’s heels racing across the wood floor.

  The muscles in Pete’s neck seized like the first time he broke in his barrel as a rookie cop—all twitchy fingers and adrenaline overload.

  The door crashed open, missing Slater by half an inch and Rocki stumbled in. One look at the pasty complexion of a person who had just received the worst news imaginable had Pete up and around the desk, pulling Rocki into his arms. Whatever was wrong was bad. Really bad.

  Rocki clung to him. Her unintelligible mumbling between gasps, heaves, and sobs made him wish for an interpreter. He caught about every fourth word. Brother. Accident. Coma. New Hampshire.

  “Slater, get the Macallan and three glasses.” This was going to be a high-dollar session. Not the time for Jack, Jim, Ron, or Jose. He thought about calling for backup, but the only other set of good-looking legs with a decent head on her shoulders would dump his scotch.

  Slater was out the door like he was chasing a highball.

  Pete sat Rocki down and handed her a box of tissues. He’d never needed Kleenex with the boys—even when they’d had colds. They had plenty of sleeves and there was something to be said for toilet paper. But ever since Bree moved into his office, Pete had to embrace his sensitivity. That meant investing in Kimberly-Clark paper products. He was turning into a regular Oprah.

  Slater skidded in and set the glasses on the desk. He filled two, and downed a shot before handing Rocki hers.

  “You could have poured me one, son.”