Sustained
: Chapter 8

Scorching lips suck at the skin along my neck—teeth nipping, tongue-laving suction. Nails scrape along my abs, across my chest, blazing a hard trail of need that leads straight to my cock. Deft fingers work the buttons on my shirt and hot blood pools in my pelvis.

It’s been so long—too long—but the dry spell ends tonight.

Fucking finally.

I cradle her face in my hands and move my mouth over hers roughly. My tongue plunges and swirls, tasting tequila. So good.

Friday afternoon, I got around to dialing Lisa DiMaggio. Because I learn from my mistakes, I asked about her and Ted’s breakup—it wasn’t because of cheating. Then I asked if she’d been tested recently. Miraculously she had, and she was clean. It was like the universe was telling me, “You’ve suffered enough, poor man.”

We made plans for her place on Friday night, and I brought a bottle of Patrón for Lisa and a bottle of red wine for me that I ended up leaving in the car.

Lisa peels open my shirt, running her palms across my pecs and over my shoulders. “God, your tattoos.” She moans appreciatively, tracing the ink first with her hands, then with her lips. “These are so fucking hot. They’re my favorite part.”

I work on her earlobe, flicking at it with my tongue like it’s a clit. And I chuckle. “I thought my cock was your favorite.”

She giggles against my skin. “Guess I need my memory refreshed.”

Works for me.

I’m just about to start doing some unbuttoning of my own when my phone lights up, vibrating on the coffee table near the couch we’re sitting on. I glance at the screen but don’t recognize the number and let it go to voice mail.

I palm her tit over her blouse. Her blond hair slides over her shoulders as Lisa arches her back, moaning.

And the phone rings again. Same number.

What the fucking fuck?

I pull back. “I should answer that.”

Lisa shrugs and pours herself another shot of tequila, licking her hand and dashing it with salt as I stand and bring my phone to my ear. “Becker.”

“Hey, Becker! It’s Paul Noblecky, how ya doing?”

I was doing a hell of a lot better two minutes ago.

“I’m in the middle of something.” My eyes zero in on Lisa’s shapely thighs beneath her black dress—that’s really where I’d like to be in the middle of. “Make it quick. What do you need, Paul?”

“Well, we broke up a beer party out on Cambridge Place tonight. A high school thing, parents were away. A few of the kids were pretty wasted so we brought them to the station to dry out and call their parents. One of the girls, she won’t give us her name—only your business card. Says you’re her lawyer, Becker.”

My eyes roll closed. And I just know.

“Let me guess—brown curly hair, about five two, blue eyes, piss-poor attitude?”

Noblecky chuckles. “That’s her.”

I rub my forehead, feeling a migraine coming on—because the blue balls has most likely traveled to my brain. “Her name’s Riley. Her aunt’s the legal guardian.” I rattle off Chelsea’s phone number, which I got from her on Wednesday.

“Thanks, Becker—I’ll call the aunt, have her come get the kid.”

It’s late—after midnight. But I’m not going to think about how Chelsea will have to get all those other kids out of bed, including the baby and the little two-year-old. Put their coats on, buckle them in the car. In the dark.

All by herself.

That’s not my fucking problem. My problem is the rock-hard dick between my legs that will probably strangle me in my sleep if I don’t get him some action soon.

I hang up the phone and lean back on the couch beside Lisa. She grins, slightly buzzed. “Work stuff?”

“Yeah—nothing important.”

She palms my junk. “Not like this—this is really important.”

I thrust against her hand and lean over. “I do like a woman who has her priorities straight.”

Then we’re kissing again. And it’s nice.

But . . . I still can’t shake the image of Chelsea and the kids. The tiny blonde with the big blue eyes, Raymond squinting wearily as he puts his glasses on. I imagine them down at the precinct—it’s not the safest area to be in, especially after midnight. I imagine them driving, Chelsea yawning, possibly not noticing an oncoming car that’s swerved into her lane, not until—

“Shit!” I pull back, breathing hard. “I have to go.”

“What?” Lisa whines. “No . . . no, stay. Important things, remember? All the fabulous fucking we were going to do. Important.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” And I mean I’m really, really fucking sorry. “There’s a thing and I have to handle it myself.”

Lisa flops backward, resting her head on the arm of the couch, still hot and bothered. “You’re killing me, Becker.”

I stand up, rebuttoning my shirt. And my cock is furious. “Rain check?”

“Sure.” Lisa sighs. Then she smirks flippantly. “At least you got me all warmed up for Mr. Pink. I’ll be thinking of your gorgeous tattoos when I play with him.”

“Mr. Pink?”

“He’s my most favorite vibrator.”

I groan at the mental image. “Now you’re killing me.”

She winks. “That was my evil plan.” Then she stretches up and kisses my cheek. “Call me.”

“Will do.”

Outside Lisa’s apartment, I pull out my phone as I walk to my car and dial Chelsea’s number.

She answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Chelsea, it’s Jake.”

“Hi.” Her voice is hushed but alert, and I deduce that the kids are still sleeping—and somewhere close by.

“Did Officer Noblecky call you about Riley?”

“Yes. I’m just giving Ronan a bottle, then I’m going to get the kids up and in the car and—”

“Don’t bother. I’m on my way there now. They’ll let me sign Riley out as her legal counsel.”

For a moment, the only response on the other end is the soft sound of Chelsea’s breath. Christ—even her breathing is sexy. If I wasn’t still hard, I sure as shit would be now.

“You don’t have to do that, Jake.”

“Yeah, I know I don’t have to, but I am,” I bite out—harsher than I mean to. “So just say thanks and hang up the phone.”

“O-kay. Well . . . thanks. And even though you bit my head off for no reason, I’m gonna let it slide since you’re doing me a humongous favor.”

I chuckle. “It’s been a . . . frustrating evening.”

“Ah—now, that I can relate to.”

I bet she can.

“I’ll see you soon, Chelsea.”

“All right. Drive safe.”

• • •

I arrive at the precinct, sign some quick paperwork, and wait at the front desk for them to bring Riley out. Noblecky’s there—he makes a few stupid comments about my babysitting career, and I don’t really listen. But his jokes do get me thinking. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t do complicated, I avoid distractions, and up until this point, that strategy has served me well.

Chelsea McQuaid is a fine piece of ass—but her nieces and nephews are turning out to be more distraction than she’s worth.

Riley is escorted out from the back room. She’s as white as a ghost and unsteady on her feet. Her hair is stringy—wet—and I vaguely wonder if she got puke in it. Dark bruises of mascara shadow bloodshot eyes. She grips a bottle of Gatorade and a paper upchuck bag like the ones so thoughtfully tucked into the seat backs on airplanes.

“Hi,” she rasps in a scratchy voice. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

The first stirrings of pity echo in my chest. Not only do I remember how it feels to be sick drunk—easily the most miserable experience ever—I also remember what it was like to be fourteen.

It sucked.

“Come on, Smiley, let’s go.”

She doesn’t even have the energy to roll her eyes at me.

I guide her to the car, warning her just before I close the door, “You puke in my car, you’ll be walking home.”

I slide into the driver’s side and the engine roars. Riley squeezes her eyes closed, like the car’s vibrations are making her queasy.

“Why didn’t you give them your aunt’s number?” I ask to distract her.

“Aunt Chelsea already has so much to deal with. I didn’t want to bother her.”

But it was just peachy to bother the shit out of me.

I pull out of the parking lot. “What were you drinking?”

“Jägermeister.” She groans, bringing the bag closer.

And I laugh out loud. “Hope you enjoyed it—chances are you’ll never drink it again.”

When it comes to mild alcohol poisoning, the body may forgive but the stomach never, ever forgets.

She holds her own against the urge to vomit, breathing slow and deep. “Is this when you lecture me about the dangers of underage drinking?”

I roll to a stop at a red light. “Nope. You already know you were stupid—you don’t need me to tell you that. I am curious though—what brought on the sudden binge?”

Her words are slow and careful, like she’s afraid if she talks too loud it will offset the delicate balance that’s keeping her from retching. “Matthew Applegate threw the party. He told me about it in school today. He’s a senior. He’s gorgeous and perfect and he seemed interested in me.”

Anger sparks, like the flick of a match—because I have no doubt the little prick was interested in some part of her.

“But when I got to the party,” she whispers, “he was all over Samantha Frey.”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say Samantha has a reputation for putting out? Big boobs, nice face—probably a cheerleader?”

Riley nods. “She was the homecoming queen.”

Oh man.

“And that’s when you made friends with the Jäger?”

She wipes at her cheeks. “It made me feel happy. I didn’t care about Matthew or my . . . I didn’t care about anything.”

I blow out a long breath and decide to hand out some advice. “Riley, boys your age . . . are really not worth your time. They’re selfish and stupid. It’s not their fault; they’re just programmed that way—but they’re still a lost cause. I think you should stay away from all of them until you’re at least . . . twenty-five. Or . . . have you considered being a lesbian?”

She looks at me blankly. “That is so offensive.”

I raise one hand. “Just trying to be helpful.”

Riley turns to stare out the window. After a few minutes her chin quivers and her shoulders tremble.

Here’s the thing—I don’t have a lot of experience with crying females. I’ve made a concentrated effort to avoid any situation that involves me, women, and tears. In case you haven’t noticed, empathy isn’t my strong point. And crying teenagers? This feels kind of like a bigfoot encounter—I’ve heard about it on TV, read about it in the papers . . . but this is the first time I’ve actually seen one close-up.

She wipes her face on the sleeve of her sweater. “I miss my parents.”

And my chest feels weighted. Heavy. For her.

“I know you do.”

“I wish they were here.” She sniffles.

“What would you say to them if they were?” I pull up the McQuaid driveway and put the car in park.

Riley thinks about my question and then the corner of her mouth tugs. “I would ask them how come Matthew doesn’t like me. They were always really honest with us, you know? They would tell me the truth.”

I look at her face. She’s a pretty girl, even tired and grieving. But there’s a fire in her, a fierceness, that will serve her well when she’s grown. I’ve seen it in women I’ve worked with—women like Sofia. One day, Riley McQuaid will be a force to be reckoned with.

“I can tell you the truth about that,” I say with a shrug.

She turns to me.

Gently, I wipe a tear from her cheek. “It’s because Matthew is an idiot.”

• • •

Chelsea opens the door before we knock. Looking just-fucked gorgeous with bed-mussed wavy hair and her do-me glasses on her face. She’s wearing a black tank top and silky red pajama pants. My dick is still pretty pissed, but the sight of her breasts peeking above the top of her shirt makes him consider speaking to me again. Eventually.

“We really need to stop meeting like this,” she says, her plump lips sliding into a familiar smile.

Riley hugs her aunt forcefully. “I’m sorry, Aunt Chelsea.”

She runs her hand down the back of Riley’s hair. “I know.” Then she turns her head in disgust. “Did you vomit in your hair?”

“Yeah,” Riley groans, sounding miserable.

Chelsea holds her cheek. “Let’s get you into bed—we’ll talk about this tomorrow. There will be grounding in your future.”

She tilts her head toward the family room. “Come on in, Jake. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

And she doesn’t have to tell me twice.

About twenty minutes later, Chelsea walks back into the living room.

“It was kind of cold, so I started a fire.” I gesture to the flickering flames that glow inside the brick fireplace. Heat seeps into the room like a mist, the crackle and scent of live fire comforting. “Hope you don’t mind.”

She gazes at the fire like a woman staring at a chocolate cake the day after she got off her diet. “I don’t mind at all—thank you. You’ll have to show me what you have up your sleeve . . .”

Up my sleeve, down my pants. I’ll show her anything she wants to see.

“. . . I haven’t been able to get it going—the logs smolder but don’t really burn for me.” The orange flames dance in her eyes as she turns to me, teasing. “I was a terrible Girl Scout.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I indicate the bottle of Merlot resting on the corner stone-top table.

She looks confused. “Robbie and Rachel didn’t keep any alcohol in the house.”

“I had it in my car.”

A smile tickles her lips. “Wow. Wine, a fire—you’re like seduction on wheels. Do you keep candles in the trunk?”

“I just figured you might enjoy a drink, maybe a little conversation.”

I get the feeling Chelsea hasn’t had a conversation with an adult in a long time.

“I’ll enjoy that more than I can say.” She sighs. “I’ll go grab the glasses.” Chelsea walks toward the door that leads into the kitchen but stops before exiting. Looking over her shoulder back at me, her reddish hair glowing like gold in the firelight, she raises an eyebrow. “So . . . you’re not trying to seduce me?”

I meet her gaze head-on. And wink. “I didn’t say that.”

“Good to know.”

Then she turns back around with a flip of her hair and walks into the kitchen with an extra swivel of that fine ass.

• • •

Later, I add another log to the fire and we’re both working our way through glass number two. Chelsea’s long legs are tucked snugly beneath her; one hand holds her glass and the other elbow is propped against the back of the couch, her head resting in her hand. The position exposes the smooth expanse of her neck, and I’m fascinated by the pulse that thrums beneath her skin. It makes me feel like a vampire—I want to put my mouth right there, I want to taste her and feel that spot throbbing against my tongue.

I asked her about what she was getting her master’s in, and the fucking crazy thing is, I’m actually interested in what’s coming out of her mouth—not just fantasizing about what I’d like to put in there.

“I’m an art history major.”

I snort. “So you paid thousands of dollars in tuition to look at pretty pictures?”

“No, Mr. Cynical. There’s so much more to it than that. Art tells us about culture, what was important to the people of that time. The things they valued, the things they hated or feared—their image of what was beautiful.”

I frown. “You sound like a philosopher.”

She frowns back. “And you sound like you don’t respect philosophy very much.”

“All philosophical questions can be answered with one concise statement.”

Chelsea refills her glass. “Which is?”

“ ‘Who gives a fuck?’ ”

She laughs, and it’s an amazing sound.

“Do you do . . . art . . . yourself, or just study other people’s work?”

Her cheeks blush. “I sketch, actually.”

My eyes are immediately drawn to the framed pencil sketch to the right of the fireplace. It’s an incredibly realistic likeness of young Riley, holding twin babies on her lap. I noticed it when I first walked in—you can practically hear the childish, smiling voice.

“Is that one of yours?” I point.

Chelsea nods, still shy.

“You’re good.” I don’t give compliments lightly.

Later, later—she talks about her brother.

“Robbie was fifteen years older than me. I was my parents’ midlife-crisis child. My dad had a heart attack when I was about Riley’s age. My mom passed a year later when I was in high school.” She sips her wine, a mischievous shine in her eye. “I was kind of a wild child after that.”

I raise my glass. “Weren’t we all?” I drink the Merlot. “So, you lived with your brother after your parents passed away?”

She nods. “Not here though. We were in a smaller place off Cherry Tree. It was just Riley and the boys then—and me, Robbie, and Rachel.”

“You and the kids kind of grew up together, then?”

“Yeah. Rachel was like a big sister and a second mother all rolled into one. She was incredible.” And there’s a mournful note in her voice.

Then she blinks, brightens. “She was the one who really pushed me to travel. Study abroad. I spent a semester in Rome, summers in Paris . . .” Her eyes drop from mine self-consciously. “God, I sound so spoiled. Poor little rich girl, right?”

I shake my head. “No. There’s a difference between privileged and spoiled.”

And Chelsea McQuaid doesn’t have a spoiled bone in her body. She knows she’s fortunate, and she appreciates every blessing.

“I’d love to take the kids to Europe one day. To show them how big the world really is.”

I chuckle, thinking of a Liam Neeson movie. If some idiot criminal tried taking one of the McQuaid kids, it’d be an hour, tops, before he’d be begging to send them back.

We continue talking, drinking—I lose time admiring the way her skin glows in the firelight. And before I know it, it’s almost four in the goddamn morning. Chelsea sets her empty glass on the coffee table and yawns.

“I should get going,” I say, even though I don’t want to. “I’ve kept you up past your bedtime. When does the human alarm clock usually rise?”

“Ronan wakes up around six. But . . .” Her eyes trail over my face, down my chest and lower. “But this was worth losing sleep over. Thank you for the wine—the conversation. I had a really great time, Jake.”

She has no idea the kind of great time I’m capable of giving her.

But not tonight.

“Me too.” I stand up and Chelsea walks me to the foyer.

Beside the door, we stand facing each other. And there’s a pull—like a fucking magnet—dragging me closer. “Chelsea . . . ,” I whisper—with no idea what I’m about to say.

I just like the taste of her name on my lips.

My heart hammers . . . and I lean forward . . . she raises her face and closes her eyes and—

“Aunt Chelsea!”

The blond pixie’s voice washes over us from upstairs, like a cold shower.

Goddamn it.

“I had a bad dream! Will you lay down with me?”

Chelsea steps back with a resigned groan, and I feel her pain. Literally.

“I’ll be right up, Rosaleen.” She shrugs at me apologetically. “Duty calls.”

I rub my lips together, making a frustrated smacking sound. “Yeah.”

She puts her hand on my chest; it’s warm and electrifying. “Thank you again. I really owe you now. Multiples.”

And I just can’t resist. “That’s my line.”

Chelsea giggles. “Good night, Jake.”

“Bye.”

I walk out the door and head home.