Willing Victim (8 page)

“Definitely,” she said again, dreamy. She felt Flynn leave the bed, heard a drawer scrape open then cool cotton flopped over her arm and breast.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he said. “Looks like you’ll be out cold when I get back.”

“Good night then.”

He wandered off and she heard the fan kick on in the bathroom. Laurel managed to fumble into the shirt and under his covers. She had just enough lucidity left to think of something that intimidated her more than anything else Flynn had offered tonight.

I like him.

She liked him enough that knowing he could be with another woman tomorrow would sting if she let it. But right now, he was hers. Until he dropped her at her door the next morning, she was the only one who got him. She smiled into one of his threadbare pillowcases and let the smug comfort of the thought carry her into sleep.

Tonight he was hers. Tomorrow could go fuck itself.

Chapter Four

“Hey. Sub shop girl.”

Laurel opened her eyes to find Flynn standing beside the bed, dressed.

“Rise and shine, kiddo.”

“What time is it?”

“Five-ten,” he said. “You got time for a quick shower if you need one.”

“Can I use that time to sleep?”

“Sure.”

Flynn wandered away and Laurel buried her head deeper in the pillow, but she didn’t sleep. Her heart rate spiked as she registered what they’d done last night. Then it eased as she realized there didn’t seem to be any reason to panic. After a minute she tossed the covers aside and sat on the edge of the bed, looking around Flynn’s apartment. It was dark, just the light above the stove switched on. The city beyond the windows looked purple and sleepy, sunrise hidden by a hundred tall buildings behind them to the east.

Flynn was on the couch, lacing his boots. Laurel padded to the coffee table to grab her purse. She caught Flynn’s eyes dart to her breasts beneath the tee shirt she’d borrowed then a glance at where the hem brushed her upper thigh. She smirked at him.

He smiled and went back to his laces and Laurel closed herself in the bathroom. She scrubbed her face and freshened her makeup, finger-combed her tangled hair and thought its messiness looked rather fashionable. She dug out her travel toothbrush and got her mouth in order, lifted up the shirt to check for any marks on her body and didn’t find any. She pouted, a bit sad about that.

Her clothes were still slung over the loveseat, including the panties she’d lost on the floor by the bed. She gave Flynn a smug look, stripped off the shirt, pleased by his rapt expression as he watched, his hands clasped politely between his knees.

“Subtle,” she teased, adjusting her bra.

“You sleep okay?”

“Yup.” She pulled her tank top on then her jeans. “Very roomy in that bed.” She sat down across from him and slipped on her flats. “Okay. I’m ready.”

Flynn went to his dresser, found a checked button-up and slipped it on over his tee shirt, grabbed his loaded key ring off the counter and clipped it to his belt. Laurel followed him out. She stole glances at his face as they rode the elevator down, looking for signs of awkwardness or regret, but he was tough to read. He unlocked her side of the station wagon first then slid into the driver’s seat.

“Thanks for the lift,” Laurel said, feeling shy.

“Thanks for the hot sex,” Flynn replied, paused a moment, then grinned at her. He flipped his headlights on and started the engine.

She laughed and shook her head. “You too.”

“Still not traumatized?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Laurel stared out her window as he steered them down the near-empty streets of South Boston, thinking it was a strange time of day, lit like dusk but with none of its energy.

She turned to him as they drove over the first bridge. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did.”

“Have you always known that’s how you are? Like, in bed?”

“No.”

“When did you figure it out?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, “maybe I sort of knew, when I was younger. But I wasn’t one of those guys who was into that kind of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“You know, like if those fucked-up
Saw
movies had been out when I was a teenager, or websites with creepy-ass rape fantasy shit on them, I don’t think I would’ve been into it. I sort of knew what turned my crank, but I didn’t like that it did. Plus like I said, it’s not a fetish. Less rough stuff can get me off, so I sort of shoved it away in the back of my skull.”

“Until?”

“Until I was about twenty-two, and I was dating this girl, and one night she asked me to boss her around and hold her down.” Flynn stopped to let a woman cross the road with her dog. “And I dunno, it was like a light switch got flipped. Like a light switch attached to my dick flipped on and I fucking caught fire.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I didn’t know anything about safe words or any of the rules people have around masochism, and eventually I think I just freaked her out, asking way too often if we could do that again. It totally took over the relationship and she dumped me and said I was a sick-o and a sex fiend and to go fuck myself. Which was fair. I can see how being too eager about wanting to pretend-rape your girlfriend could be creepy as fuck.”

Laurel nodded.

“That wasn’t like an epic breakup. I mean, we’d been going out for a couple months. But she demonized me enough that I got insecure about how things ended and I tramped it all down again, worried I was some kind of a latent rapist.”

“When did you get all well-adjusted with it?”

Flynn pushed a breath through his nose. “When I was twenty-six, I think it was. I started seeing this woman—not dating, just sort of friendly sex. It was sort of like with you. She came with another guy to the fights one night and she saw whatever it is about me, and I got to her, I guess. So she approached me after a couple weeks and we started hanging out and messing around. She was a couple years older than me and about ten years smarter about sex, and she was the first woman who ever asked me, ‘So what are you into?’ And I was honest, for the first time, and she was into it, and she sort of set me straight about how rough stuff is supposed to work.”

“Ah.” Laurel tried to ignore the knot of jealousy squirming in her stomach. “How long did that go on for?”

“It was kind of random, like we’d hang out every week or two, for quite a while. Six months, maybe.”

“Why did it end, do you think?” she asked.

“She moved to San Francisco.”

“Oh. That’d do it.” Laurel stared out the window, wondering what this mystery sex goddess looked like. “Were you in love with her?”

Flynn paused before answering. “I thought I was…not while we were hooking up, but when I found out she was leaving I was pretty upset. I thought she was the only woman on Earth I’d ever find who’d let me be how I wanted in bed, and it felt like something monumental was being taken away. But I mean, I didn’t try to follow her or anything. And eventually I learned that those magic words—what are you into?—are all you really need. You just keep asking people that and eventually you find someone who fits with you.” He looked at her pointedly.

“Yeah,” Laurel said. “Or maybe you don’t know you’re into something but then you stalk some stranger all through the Financial District until he gives you the address to his shady underground boxing syndicate.”

“I hear that works too. Anyhow, I’m at a point now where I know what I like, and I can admit it’s a deal breaker if a woman I’m getting to know isn’t into it.” He stopped at a red light and met Laurel’s eyes. “I’d rather go without and be lonely than not be how I really want with someone.”

She felt a laugh bubble up but turned it into a huff. “You get lonely?”

He glowered at her a moment before it melted into a smile. “Course I do. I don’t drink, so I don’t get shitfaced and start like cryin’ and singin’ with my drunk-ass guy friends. Sex is…I don’t know, it’s like the realest sort of human experience I got, aside from fighting. It’s hard, going without. I got nothin’ against sitting up ’til one a.m. playing canasta with my sister, but it’s not exactly a satisfying substitute.”

Laurel nodded again and studied the waking city as they drove down Atlantic. “I’d like to come watch you fight again,” she said. “Is there a Saturday night when Pam’s not going to be there?” Something sour gurgled in her gut. She’d put off thinking about sharing this man pretty well until now.

“I can talk to her on Friday, tell her to take Saturday off.”

She nodded, the politics of the thing feeling uncomfortable and awkward. “What time does it usually start? Right at eight?”

“Pretty close. But I never fight before nine, nine thirty. I’m like one of the main event type guys, I guess. They do all the younger guys first, the more amateur kids. Not that I’m a pro or anything.”

“Are any of the guys who fight there pros?”

“Sure. Not like,
major,
but we’ve got a few regulars who make some money off it. There’s a guy from Dorchester who won the Golden Gloves a couple years ago, middleweight. He gets some paid fights. Gets his ass kissed a little when he comes back to town.”

“Do you ever fight him? Oh, or are you in different weight classes? You must be a heavyweight.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You been doing your homework?”

She grinned, busted. “You’ve got to weigh at least two hundred pounds.”

“Two-eighteen. And weight classes don’t count for shit in that gym. Everybody just steps in with whoever else is up for it. Within reason. And yeah, I’ve fought him.”

“Wow.” She looked him over again, wishing she could see his arms. “What class would I be, if I boxed?”

“What are you, like a hundred and twenty?”

One-thirty-two, but Laurel nodded.

“Featherweight, depending on who’s running the fight. Why? You wanna learn?”

“Ha—no thank you. I can’t even stand to get into arguments with my roommates over the dishes. Confrontation gives me hives.” She realized with disappointment that they were nearly at her building.

“Coulda fooled me,” Flynn said. “You sure came on strong in that sub shop.”

She shrugged. “You don’t scare me.”

He pulled up to the curb and leaned over, close. “Never?”

“Well, sometimes. But only in a good way.”

He grinned indulgently then pecked a hard kiss into her temple. “God, you smell like something. What is that?”

“Something bad?” she asked.

“Hell no. Something awesome.”

“Beats me. Probably some sex pheromone.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Well, I got to get to work. Come by this Saturday. You can ice my bruises.”

She rolled her eyes at him and unstrapped her seat belt. “I’ll see you later.”

When she crept through the front door of her third-floor apartment, Laurel was surprised to be greeted by Anne’s round, expectant face.

“What are you doing up?” Laurel asked, looking to the microwave clock.

“What are
you
doing, just getting home?” Anne grinned, blue eyes full of happy suspicion. She was by
far
Laurel’s favorite of her two roommates. Christie had morphed into some kind of mutant
Ally McBeal
wannabe since discovering her brand-new life-long dream of going to law school.

“I was…out,” Laurel offered, dumping her bag on the counter.

“Who with?”

“Just some guy.”

“You’ve got sex hair,” Anne said, doing her mischievous little thumb-biting thing, practically glowing with triumph.

“I’ve got
messy
hair,” Laurel corrected, mussing it further with her hands. “That’s all. And me and my messy hair need a shower.”

“You smell like…” Anne came in close for a whiff. “Like the nastiest cocktail ever invented.”

“It’s Bactine.” She hoped that wasn’t what Flynn had smelled in the car.

“Have you taken up with a nurse?”

Laurel pushed her shoes off, resigned to the grilling she frankly owed her friend after months of romantic flatlining. “It’s nothing to get excited about. It’s nothing serious or anything.” She ignored Anne’s skeptical eyebrow. “And what
are
you doing up so early?”

Anne made a murderous face. “The fire alarm went off again. Four fifty-two in the frigging morning. You might’ve got away with your little midnight rendezvous if I hadn’t barged in there to see if you were on fire. You want coffee?”

“God yes.”

Anne pulled the canister out of the fridge. “So let me guess. It was so bad you caught the T as soon as it started running? I hate those mornings.”

Laurel was tempted to run with the proffered excuse and be done with the conversation, but she wasn’t much on lying. “No, he gave me a lift. He just works really early.”

“How was the sex?”

“Who said I had sex?”

Another accusing eyebrow.

“Fine. The sex was great, actually. He’s just not, you know, boyfriend material.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Depending on whose criteria you’re going by, a lot. But I think he’s all right. He’s just not in the market for that, I don’t think. It’s not an exclusive thing.”

Anne filled the pot and flipped the coffeemaker on. “Sounds sordid.”

“It is, actually, and that’s exactly how I want things to be right now.”

“How liberated of you. You working today?”

Laurel nodded then yawned. “Not ’til one.”

“Job searching this morning?”

“Sadly,” Laurel fibbed. She wasn’t above a fib. She’d been blaming her quasi-permanent delay in going back to engineering on the crappy state of the economy, but really the mere idea of it made her sick. “Not getting my hopes up though.” She wandered to the fridge, read Christie’s latest angry Post-It then rolled her eyes at Anne. “We’re labeling our butter now?”

“She must be boning up on dairy liabilities.” Anne’s ability to shrug off other people’s psychoses was her best trait. She set two mugs on the counter and Laurel stood the half and half carton beside them. They both crossed their arms and stared at the burbling coffeemaker.

“So can you tell me
anything
about your mysterious new conquest?” Anne asked.

“He’s tall.”

“Okay.”

“And he’s from here,” Laurel said. “And he’s kind of a meathead.”

“Wow, sounds savory.”

Laurel nodded. “He’s gawt a wicked heavy accent.”

Anne pulled the pot out before it was done brewing, drops of coffee hitting the burner with a sizzle, another offense Christie would surely want to make note of. “Pissah.”

“Yes indeed.” Laurel grinned as she poured cream into her cup and earned herself a nudge in the side.

“Look at you, little miss smiley. I’d like to meet the guy who made you do that for the first time in like a whole year.”

“Well, you won’t, so get over it.”

They took their coffees into the living room and Anne switched on the TV, scanning through her roster of recorded shows. “Is six a.m. too early to watch
The Bachelor
and mock all the giggly, desperate women?”

“Go for it. Though I bet it’d work better as a drinking game,” Laurel said. “One shot for the flirty arm touch. Chug if they strip and bum-rush the pool.”