Last Call (Bad Habits Book 3) (20 page)

His back was to me, but I swear he was smiling.

I walked past the couch, risking a look at Ellie and Max, which was a mistake. They were a writhing flesh pretzel, right there in my living room, and there were zero fucks to be given by either of them. They’d spent all their fucks on each other.
 

Thank God I’d left the light off.
 

I sped up to try to leave that visual behind me, though it didn’t work. What
did
work was what I saw when I turned into my room.

It was nearly dark, with just the small lamp next to my bed lit, and Patrick stood on the far side of my bed, reaching over his shoulder to grab his shirt between his shoulder blades. He pulled it over his head, exposing his tattoos. The centerpiece was a replication of The Hermit, a tarot card, with the roman numeral nine just above. He wore a gray hooded robe and a white beard, head bowed, staff in one hand and a lantern in the other, extended in front of him to light the night. The only variation was that the hermit’s hands were tattooed just like Patrick’s.
 

It was a symbol of loneliness and of enlightenment, one of searching and introspection. The surrounding art was all line and dot work, giving it the feeling of movement, almost like the illustration was reverberating.

I realized I’d stopped walking and hurried over to my dresser to dig for a pair of shorty shorts and a T-shirt. When I glanced over, he was stepping out of his pants, his sculpted ass in tight, short boxer briefs right there, right in front of me.

Pretty sure fire sprinklers went off in my panties.

I turned — it was the only way I could force myself to look away — and went into the bathroom to change, talking myself down all the way. I washed my face. Tried not to freak out when I saw his toothbrush next to mine and brushed my teeth with a little more vigor than was entirely necessary. And then, I made my way back to my room, feeling like there was a bomb in my bed. I guess in a way, there was.

Patrick lay on his back, arm hooked over his forehead, eyes closed and chest rising and falling slowly. He was almost asleep, if he wasn’t already.

I hoped to God he was as I slipped in next to him and turned off the light.
 

He sighed and rolled over to face me. “Thanks, Rose. Really. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” I settled into my pillow, willing him to stay right where he was. I wasn’t sure I had the power to stop him if didn’t.

“It was a good birthday,” he said softly.

“I’m glad,” I whispered back. And then, he was asleep, although I didn’t know if there was enough whiskey in the world to knock me out with him that close to me. So I stared in his direction, wondering how I’d gotten to where I was, lying across from the boy who I couldn’t escape but couldn’t have.

Patrick

I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TIME it was when I woke — the room was pitch dark, her fan whirring — but it was day, I knew. Though as my brain shook off the dust of sleep, I realized my wish had come true, in part, at least.

Rose and I were wrapped in each other — her body pressed against mine, my arms around her as she slept. Her face was buried in my chest, her breath hot and steady against my skin. We’d always slept like that, found each other even in sleep, needing to touch.
 

It can’t be real.

I didn’t move, couldn’t move, worried she’d wake and the moment would pass. Because in that moment, the wall would slide between us again, closing me off. But for now, it was gone, and she was in my arms.

I’d dreamed of it a hundred times.

But I only had a taste, a glimpse before she sighed, and as quickly as I’d gotten it, it was gone.

When she realized what was happening, she jolted back, rolling over to get away just like she had on the couch. I grabbed her arm as she swore, keeping her from toppling onto the floor.
 

“Whoa, there,” I said with a laugh.

The light clicked on, and she blinked at me. “I … I’m sorry.”
 

I propped my head up with my arm and smirked. “What for?”

She made a face and hit me with a pillow.
 

I chuckled and smoothed my hair that had fallen in my face. “I don’t think either of us needs to apologize. But I’ll tell you one thing.”

She hugged the pillow to her chest. “What’s that?”

I tried not to look at the curve of her hip and naked thigh, even though they were in my periphery, mocking me. “I’m not sleeping on the couch anymore. This is the best night’s sleep I’ve had in forever.”

She laughed and shook her head. “No way. That was your birthday treat. One night of sleep, hand delivered. You’re on your own, mister.”

“Come on, Rose. Do you want me to beg?”

She eyed me.

“All right.” I flipped off the covers and climbed over her, making a show of it as she giggled. I got down on my knees next to her bed and clasped my hands, face in a solemn pout and eyes as puppy-dogged as I could get them. “Rose Fisher, I’m the scum of the earth and don’t even deserve to breathe your air, but if you’d only let me crash in your bed, I’d give life and limb.”

Doubt flickered across her brow as she rolled over to face me. “I don’t know, Tricky.”

I took her warm hands, smiling past the thundering of my heart. It was a window I could climb in. A small one, only open a crack, but it was there. I told her the truth. “It’s temporary. I swear, I’ll behave. I know where you stand, and I’m not asking you for more.”
Yet.

She snickered. “So you’re just using me for sleep.”

“Is it so wrong?”

She laughed, and hope bloomed in my chest.

“You’d do the same.”

“True,” she conceded and watched me for a beat. “Let me think about it.”

“Come on, Rose. It’s not a big deal. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable that couch is?”

“No, tell me about it, you big baby.”

“Oh, you’re gonna play it like that. All right, well, then you asked for it.” I grabbed her by the arm and thigh, flipping her over as her face stretched in surprise.

“Oh, my God!” she squealed. “Don’t you fucking do it, Tricky!”

I pinned her down, grinning. “Nuh-uh. You asked for it.” I held her arms behind her back and squeezed the back of her thigh, just above her knee.

She screamed, laughing and thrashing, her voice muffled by the pillow.
 

“Come on, Rosie. Let me stay.”

I squeezed again, and her hair flipped, whipping me in the face as she laughed hysterically. She couldn’t speak.

I wiggled my fingers, digging them into her thigh. “Say yes and I’ll stop.”

She gasped. “Oh, my God, I’m gonna pee.”

I laughed and squeezed again, and her feet thumped against the mattress.

“
Fine!
” she said, half laughing, half gasping for breath. “Fuck, stop it!” She broke out in a fit of giggles again. “
You win!
”

My smile widened as I climbed off her. “See? That was easy.”

She rolled over, still laughing, wiping tears from her face. “You fucking dick,” she said and pointed a finger at me, trying for stern, but I found all the permission I needed behind the facade, something in her eyes, the corners of her lips. “Don’t make me regret it, Tricky.”

“Never,” I said as I stood.
 

I made my way to my clothes and sorted through them, pulling on my pants first, buttoning the fly. When I looked up, Rose’s eyes were on my hands, bottom lip between her teeth. I tried to suppress the smile, looking back down to grab my shirt and pretend like I hadn’t just seen it. But I had.

Something about her lying in bed, watching me, chest still heaving as she caught her breath … I had a shot, all right. I had a damn good shot.
 

“See you around, Rose,” I said as I picked up my leather jacket and headed for the door, looking back at her once more as she turned off the light again and settled back into bed.

“Later, Tricky.”

I closed the door and quit trying to play it cool, walking through the apartment and down the hall to my place, practically whistling Dixie.

Hope. I had real hope for the first time in a very long time.

Lily and West were still asleep, and I got ready for work, showered, shaved, and dressed, smiling all the while. The feeling of Rose in my arms was still fresh, the smell of her. That taste I’d gotten wasn’t enough. I needed more.

If ever a woman was a drug, it was her.

The spring in my step hadn’t left me as I headed to work, feeling like a fucking baller. And it was apparent enough that Joel looked at me like I had an extra leg when I walked through the door to the shop.

“You have a good night, Tricky?”

I smirked and walked up to the counter. “You could say that.”

He eyed me, smiling from the other side. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t. But I’m back in the game.”

A laugh burst out of him. “Well, how about that. You kiss her?”

“Nope.”

He snorted. “Doesn’t sound like you’re all
that
deep back in the game.”

I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. “But that’s the thing, Joel. When it comes to Rose, slow and steady is the only way.”

“Well,” he said as he laid his palms on the surface and a know-it-all tone to his words, “if you didn’t even kiss her, then how, pray tell, are you back in her good graces?”

“I have Max to thank for that. If he hadn’t been nailing Ellie on Rose’s couch, I couldn’t have insisted that I slept in her bed.”

Joel laughed, a big, full sound. “She did not agree to that.”

“Oh, she did. And when I woke this morning …” I sighed. “We were wound up in each other, and somehow I convinced her to let me sleep in her bed for the short-term future.”

He shook his head, amused. “Of all the things. You sneaky fuck.”

I put up my hands in defense. “Hey, I didn’t say a thing that wasn’t true. In part, I really, really don’t want to sleep on her couch again. I also really don’t want to sleep in my apartment. I just didn’t mention that I really
do
want to sleep with her.”

He snickered.
 

“I told her I’d keep my hands to myself though, and I will. For now. She’s going to have to make the move. I might nudge her into it, but I think she’ll do it. I really do.”

“Working your way in like a goddamn emotional ninja.”

I shrugged. “Hidden talents.”

He held out a hand, and I slapped it. “Well, good for you, man. I hope it works.”

And I smiled, imagining that day. “I do too.”

Rose

I WOKE SLOWLY TO THE sound of those goddamn cats as my dreams slipped away. I hit snooze and buried myself for nine more minutes, chasing the dreams, trying to hang on to them, which was about as effective as trying to fish with my bare hands. I remembered something about a wheelbarrow full of saltwater taffy, then Patrick was there, undressing. Oh, I smiled to myself thinking about that part where he was holding me, his arms around me like a cage of warm, safe, awesome.

My eyes flew open.

That wasn’t a dream.

Everything came back to me, dreams disappearing in a poof as what actually happened crystalized in my mind.

I’d agreed to let him sleep in my bed again.

I rubbed my face.
Way to fucking go, Rose. Grade-A fuck up.

It was the mother of bad ideas. A terrible mistake. My tired brain scrambled for a way out, to call it off because there was no way that would end well. Him being in my apartment was bad enough, never mind him being nearly naked in my bed. Nightly.

I groaned.

“Idiot. You dumb, stupid idiot.”

I remembered how much scotch I had, and the thought made me feel a little better. I’d been drunk. That was all. I was just drunk, and it was his birthday. And this morning when I agreed he could stay, I was probably still drunk. That was the only reasonable explanation.

But I didn’t have to keep letting him sleep there, even if I’d agreed. It was my bed, after all, and I didn’t think he’d push back if I put my foot down.

And so, it was settled. I’d get my ass up, get through my mid-shift, and then tell Patrick to shove off. Or at least shove out of my room.

It was then that I remembered Greg.

I picked up my phone and checked my texts, but I’d gotten nothing, which sparked a lot of weird feelings — anxiety as to why, relief that he wasn’t bugging me, hurt at the radio silence, shame because my ex had slept in my bed, even if we did nothing other than some apparently epic subconscious cuddling. My solution was to text him, try to be charming, and hope I got the chance to talk to him soon.

I lay in bed in the dark, staring at my messages, touching the screen again every minute or so to keep it from falling asleep as I tried to come up with clever. It was maybe the fourth or fifth time before I’d figured out something decent to say.

So, was it just me, or was it way too crowded last night?

I read it over again, chewing my lip before I hit send. I really hope he picked up on the sarcasm and didn’t just think I was being weird. Then I spent a few minutes regretting sending the text, wishing I’d gone with something normal, like
Hey
, or
What’s up,
or
Sorry I dragged you to my ex boyfriend’s birthday party.

I blew out a breath that made my lips flap, feeling flat as a pancake. But when I sat up, pain shot through my brain, just behind my eyes. I pressed my hand into my eye socket, and two things dawned on me.

1) I had definitely still been drunk this morning when I’d agreed to let Patrick stay, and

2) I’d had far more scotch than I’d realized.

Fortunately, I’d reached Drinking Level: Expert years ago. I’d survive.
 

As I peeled myself out of bed, I took a body assessment. Stomach was okay, a little rumbly, but nothing a little Pepto couldn’t fix. Head was definitely a problem, but an Excedrin would put that to bed. Mostly, I just felt thick and grumpy, which wasn’t entirely new, and likely also fueled by my PMS.

I grumbled my way into the bathroom to wash my face, then back into my room to get dressed for work. I checked my phone to see if Greg had messaged back, but he hadn’t. I couldn’t even blame him, not after the weird-shit message I’d sent him.