Darker Water (6 page)

“I might be able to help with that. We can go
as slow as you want. Baby steps, right?”
You idiot.
But once
the words hit the air, I realized I was okay with the idea. Maybe
better than okay. It wasn’t often you were handed a situation where
sex was the only way to help someone. Hell, if it was, I’d be
starting another foundation tomorrow.

“It could take a lot of tiny baby steps. Do
you really want to get in my pants that badly?”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” I said, smiling. “Provided
there are no actual babies involved, I believe it’s my civic duty
to help my fellow man. Make that
woman,
because I’m not into
men. This is me giving back.”

“I’m not sure there’s a way to take that as a
compliment.”

“Then I’ll clarify—I like you and your body
and would love to spend more time with both of you, preferably with
less clothing on.” I stopped her and turned her by the shoulders so
she faced me. “Sex without strings is something I’m good at.
Whether you want to dip your toe in the water or jump in, it might
be better to do it with someone who isn’t going to fuck with your
head. Someone who will tell you to your face that he wants to use
you because he thinks you’re incredibly hot, and in return you can
use him.”

“
That
I can take as a compliment.”

“You should.” I had to concentrate to keep my
hands on her shoulders instead of wandering. “What I’m proposing is
that you use me for anything you want—anything non-emotional. No
overthinking needed, desired, or allowed.”

Her smile was gone, probably because she was
gnawing on her lip. “I’m not sure I can control it yet.”

“You need practice separating the physical
from the emotional. So practice on me. I promise you: I’m not
emotional, and I’m not interested in your emotions—the girlie ones,
at least. We can go as slow as you want and stop whenever you need
to.” All things I’d never wanted, let alone offered anyone. But I
liked her, wanted her, and was currently going through a
self-imposed dry spell. Strangely, the challenge was a huge
turn-on. My cock was ready to jump out of my pants as soon as she
gave the word. How long could it possibly take?

Even if the sex never happened, what was I
out? Nothing. Of course, you can bet your ass I’d do everything I
could to make it happen. As long as we both kept everything out in
the open. After all, the poor girl needed my help.

She sighed, stopping in front of one of the
newer apartment buildings in the city. “This is me.”

One of two things would happen—she would
invite me up to her place or she’d say goodnight. Lots of things
wouldn’t
happen. I wouldn’t kiss her goodnight, because this
wasn’t a date. This was a meeting to negotiate an arrangement that
would suit us both. I wouldn’t tell her I had a nice or a good or,
god forbid, a great time. Another indicator that this was a date,
which it wasn’t. I wouldn’t tell her I’d call at a certain
time—
biiiig
no-no. The promise of a time-specific call sets
up expectations, and expectations set up a huge amount of trouble
and the possibility of hurt feelings.

Unfortunately, by offering her an open
invite, I’d already broken my number-one rule—don’t stay long
enough for them to develop
any
feelings. Because aww-sweet
feelings turn into hurt feelings really, really rapidly. That
wasn’t what I did. Two people make each other feel good and then
walk away feeling good. Very simple and straightforward. As long as
I was upfront and avoided potential triggers, everybody left
satisfied and with a smile on their faces.

I didn’t kiss her goodnight. I didn’t tell
her I had a great time. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” F
uck!
The
words I never said, not ever, slipped out so easily. Twice in the
last twenty-four hours. I must have put on someone else’s mouth and
brain this morning. Because
mine
knew better.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Thank the heavens. I’d never been as happy to
be rejected as I was right now. “Why not?”
Are you fucking
kidding me?
Maybe I could go by the butcher’s on my way home
and get them to cut out my tongue.

“I think you’re great,” she said, “and I’m
sure you’re something to behold in bed. But after I left your place
yesterday, I started actually thinking. A few hours later, I
realized that I don’t work that way. I wish I did and maybe someday
I will. But not now. If we had sex now I think my head would get
all jumbled up, and I would start seeing things that weren’t there
or think you had feelings you didn’t have.”

“Honesty seriously appreciated.” Problem
averted. Moving on and away. But first... “What if I told you with
absolute certainty that it could never work out and I’ll never feel
that way about you?”

“Then I’d probably wonder what was wrong with
me that you couldn’t care about me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Nothing at
all. And knowing that could very possibly make this the biggest
mistake of my life.

He called. We met for a drink after he got
off work. He ordered a beer but didn’t touch it. I refused the
second drink, because even a buzz might have me ending up somewhere
I wasn’t ready to end up. We talked and then I went to my home and
he went to his.

Two days later, he called again. We met for
coffee. We talked. He propositioned me in a completely non-subtle
way and was totally nonplussed when I refused. Then I went to my
home, and he went to his.

That weekend, he called again. I worried
about how happy I was but was even happier it wasn’t a butterfly
kind of happy. It was because I had a great time when we hung out,
and I wasn’t feeling as guilty when I turned him down. Of course,
that was mostly because he never seemed angry and his frustration
didn’t affect his attitude. In fact, it made him more amusing. I
think he was pretty used to always getting what he wanted, at least
when it came to women.

“What do you want?” I put him on speaker
while I cut some veneer to use on an Edwardian writing desk that
was in terrible shape.

“I ran out of cash, and I need a drink.”

“Liar.” But in a non-hurtful way, which was a
nice change from all the other liars I’d met.

“I’m not lying. I need a drink. A big one. Or
multiple smaller ones.”

“I’m at work, Carson.”

“Great. Do you have liquor there?”

“You don’t even drink, do you?”

“I drink all the time, but not in public. I
stick to closet drinking—it’s easier to hide my shame that
way.”

I laughed. “Fine, I’ll take you out for a
drink.” It would take me at least twenty minutes to clean up. “But
I’m a mess.”

“Then we should probably go to my place
instead. You can take off your clothes and get cleaned up.”

I groaned when he so obviously forgot to
mention me putting my clothes back
on
. I gave him the
address of my shop. “There’s a pub down the street. They won’t care
how dirty I am.”

“But I care very much how dirty you are.”

“Twenty minutes, Carson. Think you can handle
it?”

“I think I’m already halfway there.”

I’d just finished rinsing the last brush when
I heard an impatient knock on the metal door.

“Lane! Are you alright in there? Should I
call the police?”

What was he talking about? “I’m coming!”

He was leaning against the doorframe looking
around the area, grimacing. “This is not at all what I was
expecting.”

“When I said I work in the Warehouse
District, you didn’t know there would be warehouses?”

“I thought you were joking. Only Dexter works
in a place like this. You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

I ignored him, going back to put my tools
away and make sure all the jars and cans were tightly closed.

“Hey, Lane? You know all your furniture’s
broken, right?” He opened and shut the drawer of the writing
desk.

“Be careful with that!
Really
careful.”

“Did you make it?”

“It’s over one-hundred years old.”

“Wow. I figured you for your early twenties.
You’re holding up really well for an old lady. I’m down with the
cougar thing, though, don’t worry.”

“I’m fixing it. That’s how I make a
living—repairing and selling antique furniture.” I nodded towards a
coffee table I’d built from debris and reclaimed wood. “I made that
one. It’s about three years old.”

“When you told me you sold furniture, I
pictured a store full of cheap mattresses and bedroom sets imported
from China.”

“Nope. That’s what I’m working up to.” I held
up my crossed fingers. “Every girl needs a dream.”

“I want it.” He looked up from the coffee
table and reached for his wallet. “Do you take credit cards?”

“You don’t even know how much it costs.”

“Okay, how much does it cost?”

“Sticker price on my website is
fifteen-hundred dollars.”

“Great. Do you take credit cards?”

I expected him to at least pause, if not
completely reconsider. I was so used to everyone thinking my art
was ‘sweet’ or ‘interesting,’ I wasn’t sure how to react to someone
taking it seriously. Taking
me
seriously. Even my parents
didn’t think I could do it. They hadn’t said anything outright, but
I could tell they still thought it was my ‘little hobby.’ That’s
why I left San Diego and came up north—well, that and to be with
Kevin, my last frog. I wanted to be around more people who
understood. Unfortunately, there were about twenty artists to every
art buyer and fifty to every gallery owner, so I still wasn’t even
close to proving my parents wrong.

Carson didn’t seem like an art collector,
other than his tats. And somehow, buying one of my pieces to humor
me seemed even worse than if he’d just ignored it. But I wasn’t in
a position to refuse money, either.

“Do you really want it?” I asked. “Because I
have no qualms about taking your money.”

“Then you should answer my question.”

“Yes, I take credit cards.”

“Do you deliver? If so, can you do it
naked?”

I took his card. “That would be an additional
charge, and it would be way over your limit.”

“What’s a limit?”

I knew he was joking, but I also knew his
family had gobs of money, so it wasn’t that big a joke.

“Honestly, I don’t think it’s right for your
place,” I said, pretending to hand him back his card. “I mean, it’s
not made to withstand strippers dancing on it.”

“No problem. I already have enough that are.
Anyway, it’s way too nice for my place—stripper-strong or not. I’m
going to donate it to the auction.”

“The auction for your foundation?” I held out
his card. “Take this back.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to charge you
fifteen-hundred dollars for something that will raise money for
sick kids.”

“But you were okay with price gouging if I
was going to put it in my living room?”

“Just take it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.” He walked
away without his credit card. “Right after I compensate you for
your time and I’m assuming a fair amount of nails and wood and
things. Hopefully under fifteen-hundred dollars’ worth or you’re a
terrible business woman.” He knelt down and ran his hand across the
top.

“I made it years ago and nobody wants to buy
it. If you don’t auction it off, it’s just going to sit there.”

“Gorgeous.” He wasn’t looking at the table.
“Anyone who can’t see that is an idiot.”

I suddenly felt very exposed, my arms
wrapping around myself to stop a shiver not brought on by the cold.
“Yeah, well, it’s art. And art doesn’t sell. Especially by unknown
artists with lame websites.”

“Take my money and use it to get a better
website. It’s really beautiful, Lane.”

“It’s okay. If I could do—”

“I said it’s beautiful.” He looked at me with
a raised brow.

“Thank you.” I leaned back on my worktable.
“I have a lot more pieces sitting around here getting dusty, so if
you take it, at least I’d know this one is sitting around
not
getting dusty in some rich person’s house instead.”

“Thank you, Lane,” he said with a small bow.
“So why didn’t you ever tell me you were an artist?”

I shrugged. “I don’t feel like one most of
the time.” Uncomfortable with the way he was staring at me, I
started sweeping.

“I’ll have someone pick up the table and get
some pictures taken for the auction catalogue.”

“Eric!”

“Huh?”

“Eric’s my roommate’s boyfriend. He’s a
photographer, a really good one. He could take some pictures and
send them to whoever you want.” It only seemed right—Eric would do
it for free and would love the exposure. I was paying it forward
and helping a good cause.

“Great.” He stood and wiped his hands on his
pants. “You don’t fix broken drawers by any chance, do you? On
young furniture? My dresser—”

“Yes, Carson. I’ll fix your drawer.” I
grabbed my bag and put the basics in it. “And it will only cost you
$999.”

“That seems totally fair,” he said, following
me out. “Do you take credit cards?”

Ten minutes later we were in front of his
apartment, somewhere that, thus far, I’d been able to avoid. “This
was just a ploy to get me up to your place, wasn’t it?”

“Furniture! Damn it, of course! What better
way to get a woman up here? That drawer has been broken for months.
So many wasted opportunities. I wouldn’t have had to resort to
picking up women in cafés if only I’d thought of it earlier.”

“You’re kidding,” I said as soon as we went
inside. It was unbelievable. “It’s like a Barbie Dreamhouse, but
not pink and with way more electronics.” It also screamed Danger
Zone, but I would ignore that.

“That’s a terrifying description and,
thankfully, not one I’ve ever heard before.”