Bad Girl by Night (9 page)

Maybe most guys wouldn’t care so much about what had happened—but Jake was big on honesty. He didn’t like feeling misled. Or being treated like a jerk when he hadn’t been one. Could be that it embarrassed her to see him again, but damn—why did she have to be so cold? The more he thought about it, wrapping his mind around what had just happened, the more it pissed him off.

Still . . . if she wanted nothing to do with him, if she wouldn’t even give him the courtesy of five minutes, what could he do besides leave her the hell alone? He wasn’t the stalker type and he wasn’t about to start now.

He had some news for her, though. It didn’t matter if he left her alone for the next fifty years—he’d never forget that night. He’d never forget the naughty things she’d done to him; he’d never forget the hot pleasures she’d delivered. And he’d never forget the raging heat that had risen in him unbidden when she’d pushed him to the brink and almost made him
lose
control just in order to take some of it back.

 

 

C
arly ate her lunch in the shop’s back room, or tried to anyway. She’d lost her appetite. Oliver circled her feet, meowing up at her, sensing something was wrong. She remained too panicked to think straight.

When she was done, she tried to gird herself.
Just walk back out front, unlock the door for any customers who might want to drop in, and get back to work on Dana’s baby crib.

But she felt too sick to her stomach. So sick that she left the door locked, deciding to take the afternoon off. She wound up back in her apartment, sitting next to a window with a throw pillow clutched to her chest. She kept her eye on the street below, as if watching would somehow inform her if Officer Jake Lockhart was out telling all the good folks of Turnbridge how she’d shared a wild ménage à trois with him and another guy.

It probably wouldn’t happen
today
, of course. He wouldn’t just blurt it out. But as he got friendly with the other policemen, it would come up somehow. They’d be talking about women, or sex. Or even just the shops on Main Street. Or he’d mention needing a kitchen table and someone would kindly recommend he look at Winterberry’s, and then the story would somehow tumble out.

The one thing sitting by the window
did
tell her was that he didn’t come back. She could have reopened the shop without facing him, but she just wasn’t ready to face
anyone
yet. Because her world had just changed. Irrevocably.

Even if he never told anyone, her life would never be the same. Because she would never again be able to see a Turnbridge police officer or squad car—one of which patrolled Main Street hourly—without being reminded of the things she’d done. That she lived a lie. That she wasn’t the good girl everyone believed her to be,
wanted
her to be.

Somehow, when it had been her secret alone, it had been . . . almost like a thing she’d just imagined, made up in her head, or dreamed. When a tree falls in the woods and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? When a girl fucks strangers in Traverse City and no one else knows about it, did it really happen? Now that someone knew about it, someone who would now know all the same people
she
knew, her secret became much more . . . tangible. Almost a thing you could touch—like a photograph or a diary. The fact that someone else
here
now shared the same memory she did made it feel like so much more than a dream. And maybe that feeling of it being only a dream was the thing that had allowed her to do it. If no one else knew, there was no aftermath. Now there would always be the threat of consequences. Even if she never did it again.

And what made it all even worse was—God, when he’d touched her, grabbed her arm on the street, sensation had shot all through her.
Lust
. The same hot desire she’d felt upon meeting him. Which meant that every time she saw him, not only would she suffer the worry and shame of her secret, she would also suffer the same raw, stark need she’d experienced that night. It seemed a horrible combination of things to feel all because of the presence of one mere man.

 

 

T
hat night, she barely slept. She tried to tell herself this would all be okay, that whatever happened, it wasn’t the end of the world—but that wasn’t entirely true. Her world was small. It didn’t take much to mess it up.

The next day, however, she got up as normal—ate her breakfast, petted the cat. She got dressed, started work, opened the shop. And nothing bad happened. Jake Lockhart didn’t show up or even pass by. No townsperson came dashing in to tell her the horrible rumor the new town cop was spreading. It was a regular day.

At lunchtime, she even managed to place her normal order at Schubert’s. Of course, on the walk there, she felt herself wanting to look over her shoulder the entire time, and she literally held her breath as she stepped inside—but only a couple of guys who worked at the drugstore sat at the bar eating lunch today.

And she’d just breathed a big sigh of relief when Frank Schubert handed over her lunch, saying, “Weird, wasn’t it, when that new policeman thought you were somebody else?”

Her throat threatened to close up, but she managed, “Yeah, weird.”

“Desiree,” Frank mused aloud. “What kinda crazy name is that?”

It’s desire with an
e
on the end.
But of course she didn’t explain that. Or that she’d thought it sounded exotic, classy—things she wanted to be. She just shook her head and quietly mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“Normally, I probably wouldn’t even remember what name he called you,” Frank went on, making her sort of want to slug the nice man, “but it was so unusual, guess it stuck with me.”

She just nodded. Handed Frank a five. Said, “Keep the penny.” Refrained from saying,
It’s only that unusual if you’ve never left Turnbridge.

“Anyway, strange, ain’t it, to think somewhere out there, there’s somebody who looks like you enough to confuse him that way? ’Cause he seemed pretty certain at first.”

For God’s sake, let it go, Frank.
“Yeah, strange,” she said.

“Next time I see him, maybe I’ll ask him where he knew this Desiree person from. Maybe she’s some long-lost relative of yours that you don’t even know about.”

Christ. “No, Frank, don’t.” She hoped she hadn’t sounded too forceful, or startled, but she couldn’t help it. Trying to act more normal—which was the word, the
goal
, of the day for her—she said, “I mean, it creeps me out a little to think there could be someone somewhere who looks like me, so . . . I’d rather just forget about it. Okay?”

Easygoing Frank shrugged. “Sure—whatever you say.”

“See ya, Frank.”
And please, please don’t go around telling people the new cop thought he knew me and called me Desiree.

That afternoon, Carly sold a bread box and a tray, just before a customer who’d ordered a custom dining room table of ash came by with a pickup truck to get it. She spent the rest of her day working on the crib.

Most of Carly’s work mimicked the Shaker style. While her father had built more intricate pieces featuring lots of curves and carved designs, she herself favored clean lines, found beauty in a straight edge and in the simple symmetry and flow of a flat plane. The crib was in keeping with her usual look, other than the necessary curves required to make it rock, as well as one across the top to echo those below—and the work kept her fully absorbed until closing time.

And somehow, merely reaching the end of the day, and having done it without thinking about Jake Lockhart
or
Desiree for the past few hours, made her feel, well, exactly what she’d been striving for since this morning: normal.

That was when the door burst open and she looked up to see Dana. Uhoh. Grabbing the sheet she used to hide the project while not working on it, she covered the crib and smiled at her pregnant friend. “Hey—what’s up?”

Dana didn’t smile back. “What’s going on that you haven’t told me about?”

Carly just blinked. “Huh?” Oh, God. What did Dana know? What had she heard? Had Jake Lockhart betrayed her already? Her heart began to pound. “What do you mean?”

Dana reached up to shove a lock of short red hair behind her ear, then took on a suspicious look. “My husband tells me you seemed completely rattled yesterday—right before he saw you being chased down the street by the new town cop. Who I got a look at just this morning, by the way, and oh my, is he hot! Hank said it all looked very dramatic—that you had words with him, and that he left here looking completely put out. But Hank also said it was like sparks were flying between the two of you, so he thought it had to be something romantic going on. And I said, ‘That can’t be, Hank, because I’ve known Carly since the first grade, and I’d know if there was anything romantic happening in her life.’ But on the other hand, I would
love
for there to be something romantic going on, so I hope I’m wrong—but no matter
what
the case, you owe me an explanation, because clearly
something
is going on here that I don’t know about.”

She’d held her pooching belly the whole time she’d spoken, and Carly figured that was good, since otherwise the nonstop talking might have sent the unborn baby fleeing. Dana had always been gifted at chatter, never even stopping to take a breath, and pregnancy had somehow seemed to exacerbate the trait.

The only
good
thing about it was that the long diatribe had given Carly a chance to conjure a reply. Which was a lie, of course, and she hated lying to Dana. But she had no choice. And it wasn’t even a
good
lie—but it was better than nothing and she only hoped it wouldn’t come back to haunt her.

“I just met the guy yesterday,” she claimed, “at Schubert’s.” So far, so good. “He followed me out, and up the street—and . . . he asked me out.”

Dana gasped, smiled. “Lucky you!”

“But I turned him down.”

Then she scowled. “Why on earth would you do
that
?”

“Um, because I don’t know him?” Carly pointed out. “And he seemed . . . pushy. He didn’t want to take no for an answer. That’s why we were, you know, sort of arguing.”

As Carly had spoken, Dana’s mouth had dropped open, and she now stood gaping at Carly. “Know, schmoe. Who
cares
if you know him? He’s a god, Carly. In a uniform. How on earth could you possibly turn down a guy who looks like
that
?”

Carly just blinked, sighed. Damn it. “He . . . didn’t do that much for me. I didn’t find him all that attractive.”

Dana responded by giving her head a little shake, as if she couldn’t have possibly heard Carly right. Carly understood that, of course—the man
was
a god. But on the other hand, Dana had tried to talk Carly into going out with
lots
of guys over the years who Carly had
also
claimed she hadn’t found attractive, so her response shouldn’t come as a surprise. Even if it was hard to believe
any
woman wouldn’t find Jake wildly handsome.

“Are you kidding me?” Dana asked.

“No,” she lied.

Dana just crossed her arms over her pregnant belly and rolled her eyes. “Why on earth do you have to be so picky about guys?”

“I can’t really think of a better thing to be picky
about
,” she replied. And that was the first true thing she’d said in a while, but it was actually beside the point. The point was that she couldn’t date anyone in Turnbridge because she knew what that would lead to. And she couldn’t date the new town cop . . . for oh-so-
many
reasons. The first of which was that he hadn’t actually asked her out. And the last being that he knew her horrid secret and must think she was the strangest person on earth. And a host of others lay nestled firmly between those two.

As for her being the strangest person on earth, maybe she was. At least when it came to sex. And back when her sex problems had started, back when she’d thought she hated it, maybe she should have told Dana—but Dana had been so damn sexually healthy and well-adjusted that the whole thing had just embarrassed Carly and made her feel like a loser.

“You’re missing out on life,” Dana said.

Tell me something I don’t know. That’s why I go to Traverse City—to grab what little of it I can, even if it’s only temporary, and only physical.
But she swallowed back the real answers, feeling bad inside again, and said, “Well, I guess that’s
my
choice.”

Swell. So much for feeling normal.

 

 

J
ake sat staring at his monitor, rapidly pushing the arrow keys, playing a computer game. “Shit,” he muttered. Lost again.

Not that he really gave a crap about the game, but he was trying to distract himself from the hard-on in his shorts. And there was plenty else he could be doing. He’d just moved from an apartment in Detroit to a small house, so he needed some furniture and some lawn stuff—like a mower, to start with. But he only had an hour before his evening shift and was attempting to do something—
anything
—besides get himself off to thoughts of
her
. Desiree. Carly. Whatever her name was.

He let out a sigh as his cock stiffened a little further. He might have decided to leave her alone, but that hadn’t exactly gotten her off his mind. And memories of their nasty encounter had been permeating his brain enough
already
before yesterday. Now—now that she was surrounded by mystery, now that he’d seen what he supposed was the
real
her—his lust was somehow heightened. Maybe it should have been a letdown to discover confident, seductive Desiree didn’t really exist, but instead . . . hell, despite himself, all the mystery around the woman was making him hotter for her.

He couldn’t explain it to himself—didn’t even try, in fact. Because he’d told himself yesterday he would forget about her and he’d meant it. But apparently his penis hadn’t gotten the memo.