Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (15 page)

“No, I mean really.” She was on to something. And hell, considering how little he talked, this might be the fastest way to learn. “For all I know, you write reports all day. You do dangerous stuff to get your kicks after another shitty day in a cubicle.”

For the first time, he seemed ready to call the whole thing off.
Over this? Really?

“Eric, honestly, how am I supposed to know what kind of guy I’m with?”

He shrugged out of his charcoal hoodie then pushed up the sleeve of his tight black T-shirt. That revealed one of his military tattoos—a red star centered in what looked like a gunsight.

“I fly F-16s with the 64
^th
Aggressor Squadron out of Nellis.”

Her first thought was another
no way
. Almost as quickly, however, it registered as completely true. The subtle pride in his voice. The air of mystery. But she sure as shit wasn’t gonna give in to her cooing, soaked-panties arousal. Not yet, anyway.

“You loved saying that,” she said with a smirk.

“I did.”

“Explains things, I think. The Air Force wouldn’t be pleased with you moonlighting, would they, Mr. Jennings?”

“No.”

From her angle, under the bright lights, Trish had a brutally clear view of the scar on his face. Slowly, she touched the puckered skin at his temple. With one fingertip she traced the silvery length down to his throat.

“Explains a lot, actually,” she whispered. “Or am I way off base?”

Arms crossed, looking down, he pulled into himself but didn’t wave her away. He shivered. “You’re not. I crashed.”

“Oh, Eric…”

He took a deep breath. Cleared his throat. Clammed up. “Okay. Pony up.”

He obviously didn’t want sympathy, but with those two words—
I crashed
—she was incapable of hiding her reaction. She wanted to know more, to comfort, to be trusted with such an obviously private hurt. Their brief affair would never satisfy her curiosity.

Just a good time.
Just a good time.

She’d jump off a ledge just to get away from how uncomfortable they’d suddenly become.

“You need a little push, showgirl?”

Oh shit.
Jumping. For real.

“I’d come back as a ghost, raid your house and erase all your hard drives.”

“Cruel woman.” He tilted her chin and kissed her so softly. “Off we go. I’ll be right behind you.”

“We’ll be matching red splats. Maybe destroy a taxi.”

“Nothing better to do on a Friday night.”

She licked his lower lip. “Sure about that?”

“Champagne, dark booth, hotel room. In that order. But first I get to see your fine ass fly.”

Trish felt like she had a jailer while she paid for her ticket and endured the gut-wrenching wait. Eric was there the whole time, as if she would bolt at any moment. Smart guy. She suited up. Signed the waiver. Listened to the safety instructions. And she actually stepped into the elevator. She, Eric and two guffawing men in their fifties rocketed a hundred and eight stories up. Might as well have been to the moon.

“Who goes first?” asked an attendant.

Trish raised her hand. “But I want two shots of Jack. Now.”

Eric paid for her drinks and slammed one back too. “In solidarity.”

“Sure,” she drawled.

Then it was time. No more excuses. No more waiting. Trish sort of…left her body as the harnessed attendants near the open window strapped her in.

Shit. Fuck. Oh god
damn
.

She stepped onto the ledge, took the deepest breath she could manage and looked over to where Eric watched through the observation window. He smiled and winked.

“Bye, sugar. Give my love to Mama.”

Chapter Fourteen

As much as Eric loved a hard, thumping rush, he wasn’t in the habit of stacking one on top of the other. A boxing match would’ve been adrenaline enough. The mind-blowing fuck in a locker room had kicked it up a notch. Now…the look on Trish’s face.

The pure
attitude
she threw at him. She had flat-out determination.

Over she went, screaming the whole way down.

Being strapped into the harness felt like getting ready for a flight, with similar checklists and safety protocols. That echoed routine numbed his fingers and toes. He was going to fall—not the same free fall he’d experienced just before crashing, but a fall nonetheless. His chest seized. Not through any minute of training to become a pilot had he feared heights or the dizzying drops and swoops of flying. Now, however, the helplessness of the jump he was about to take was akin to reliving the accident that had nearly killed him.

The attendants escorted Eric onto a small blue platform. The target, way down below, was nothing but a black speck. More safety protocols droned in his ear. He could barely hear the man at his side, couldn’t think about it at all, couldn’t stand reliving the sudden loss of control. He’d done his damnedest in that plummeting Viper, with years of safety training kicking in to save his ass. The investigation guys had proclaimed him a marvel of instinct. Memories, though. They didn’t ride away into the sunset.

But Trish had already jumped, and the whole experience had been his idea. Maybe on a subconscious level he knew he needed to stand on a precipice and look the memories head-on.

Sack up, asshole.

He pivoted to face forward. Then he…let go. Off the launch. Over the side, as simply as diving into a pool. No water welcomed his body, just the rush of speed and wind and more speed. The coiling, poisonous squeeze in his chest fizzed away. His stomach gave up its gut-sick tension, leaving him with a soaring contentment that rivaled piloting a jet across the desert at sunset.

In seconds, it was over. Eric felt released. Falling, dropping, not crashing. Maybe the shrinks should’ve shoved him off the Stratosphere in lieu of three months of chatter.

Once the safety guys unhooked him in the center of the target, Eric caught sight of Trish standing between the door to the top-off-your-experience-with-a-souvenir gift shop and the SkyJump bar. She seemed high, which raked across Eric’s nerves in a way he knew shouldn’t bother him. She was only running hot on the thrill, not hopped up on meth. She couldn’t stop chattering. Every elegant step was practically a hop. That her eyes remained clear and playful, not hazed out and listless, marked the difference he needed to see. Then he could enjoy her excitement and join her in his own way. Eric smiled, returning to that odd sense of peace within himself.

That didn’t mean his blood was done effervescing. He needed to round the rough edges of his buzz, or he’d glut himself on Trish. He’d take too much when she didn’t deserve to be treated like a fuck doll. She’d been right to remind him.

Although he would’ve preferring pacing, he snagged a booth at the back of the gleaming, chrome-gloss bar. Retro. Shiny.

“Did I mention how amazing that was? Just…wow!”

“Yes,” he said dryly. “A couple times.”

“Be thankful I liked it, sugar. I could be chewing you out like an outraged Southern mama for having shoved me off a ledge.”

“You jumped.”

“I did! Oh my God, I did.”

“You keep reveling. I’m getting us something to drink.”

He waved down a waitress, who was short and curvy with a cascading tumble of blonde curls—a wig, if he didn’t miss his guess. He glanced at Trish and appreciated that she’d gone without. For him.

After having ordered, he found it difficult to keep from checking out the waitress’s ass. Any guilt he might’ve felt dissipated when he realized Trish was looking too.

He lifted his eyebrows and smirked. “Busted.”

Bright pink washed across her wide cheekbones. “You got me. She’s not my type though.”

Her sleek thigh pressed against his. He could feel her warmth through his jeans, not to mention the way she jittered. “Feel free to tell me more.”

She laughed and twined her ankle around his calf. He couldn’t resist stroking along the hem of her skirt. She rested her chin on his shoulder, as if matching his view of the departing waitress. “I like brunettes.”

He passed a hand over his brown hair. “Funny thing.”

“Exactly.” She rubbed her palm over his nape. Before the crash, he hadn’t been known for admiring girls who took what they wanted out of life. Trish was showing him that the concept held definite appeal. “But the waitress is cute enough. Those eyes.”

“I noticed her ass more.”

“You would.” She stuck her tongue out. “But I’m still completely wound up. All that adrenaline. I can’t believe I jumped off that crazy thing. Tell me you’re more nutso freaked out than you look.”

“I’m more nutso freaked out than I look,” he said with a grin.

She returned his smile then sucked in deep breath. Her breasts lifted against that sinful shirt. He noticed the moment when she turned the unconscious movement into playacting—how she caught his gaze from under her lashes. They could go on like that forever. Watching, acting, reacting, gazes intent on every nuance.

She had him by the balls, but he assured himself that was it. Who wouldn’t be completely laid out by her?

He didn’t want to be the guy who hurt her, though he knew it was all but inevitable if they kept seeing each other. His family sapped him dry. Carey’s shit wasn’t worth flinging on anyone else. If Eric were smart, or if he were the better man he was trying to become, he’d let Trish go. He wouldn’t have told her about Carey either. She was a soft touch, no matter how life in Vegas should’ve left her jaded.

She was strong, surprisingly so—in spirit and in body. Her skin was satin layered over lean muscle. Dancing in six live shows a week would do that to a woman. Eric loved the results.

She practically purred as she curled under his arm. “You can talk now and then. I’m so proud. Even if I you’re just repeating me.”

He pinched the inside of her knee, mostly teasing but with enough force that she squirmed. Lush breasts pressed against his arm. “Behave,” he growled.

“Behaving isn’t near as much fun.”

“You are all talk.”

“Am not.” She laughed. “I’m a total party girl. Screw responsibility.”

“Right.” The hair behind her ear was silky and delicate. Super short and almost feather soft. He understood the wigs—part of keying into that fantasy aspect she had to display—but it was a damn shame to hide her real beauty. Any of it. “If that were true, we’d be drinking milkshakes. What do you think?”

“Oh, stop.”

After the waitress delivered the drinks, Trish watched her walk away once again. Eric knew that look. Avaricious.

“Tell me,” he said roughly.

“Your sentences get shorter when you’re turned on. Do you realize that? You’re never precisely talkative, but you go down to monosyllables.”

“Fine. Trish, I’d be fascinated to know your interest in our waitress. Perhaps what you find attractive? What you’d do to her?”

“Wow.” She teased up and down the back of his shirt. Light washes of sensation trailed in her wake. “That sounded fairly educated.”

“College too, remember?”

“I’m surprised it’s taken you as long as this to ask. Most men jump on it instantly. All the details. What I like. How many women I’ve been with. You don’t want to know all that stuff?”

He couldn’t help his chuckle. “I’m not being noble or anything. I just have other…priorities.”

“I suppose so.”

“But feel free to fill me in.” He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck. “Be descriptive and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What exactly could you do in a bar?” Her knee nudged his.

He pressed his fingers toward her pussy. Warmth emanated from her center. “You’d be surprised.”

“Or not,” she said on a giggle.

“How about…my fingers on your clit? Here, with all these people around us.”

Her neck was sleek where he licked. Salt touched his tongue—leftover excitement from their ridiculously adrenaline-pumping free fall. He nudged behind her ear with his nose and licked again.

She exhaled a shaky sigh. “Becky Holstater.”

“Hmm?” He kissed one collarbone. More delicacy. Her body held more secrets than he’d ever learn. He could spend hours trying, then hours afterward with her pictures.

Her pictures…

He’d thought he would linger on the explicit shots. Not to pretend he hadn’t, but oddly, he’d returned again and again to ones where she’d been laughing, tossing her head side to side, kicking her feet. Everything impulsive and carefree.

He craved her fire.

“My first girl was Becky Holstater.” She spread her hand across the back of his head, holding his mouth to her throat. “I’d been in Vegas a month. Mama was back home. I ran wild. She had long, dark hair. Curves to die for, like Mallory.”

“Your ex?”

“That’s the gal. We’re still friends, but I catch her watching me sometimes. She probably catches me right back.”

“That would be a moment to capture.” Eric shifted. The edge of his palm brushed her pussy. She was hot and damp. “You’d love it if I touched you.”