Stepping up close to me, she trails a finger along my jaw, smiling apologetically. “Sure thing, baby.”
“I’m not your baby,” I remind her, just because I feel like being an even bigger asshole than I normally am.
“What are you, then?” she teases me as she starts to work at my belt buckle.
“I’m the guy that fucks you when it suits me. Nothing more.”
She chuckles, because that’s not the first time she’s heard those words from my lips. But being the glutton for punishment that she is, she merely says, “My, my, my…you are in supreme asshole mood tonight. I don’t get why you have to be so mean.”
Stepping away from her grasp, I walk into the living room, grab a pillow off the couch and walk back into the kitchen. I resume my spot in front of her and drop the pillow at her knees.
“There,” I tell her, pointing down at the pillow with an evil smile. “So your knees don’t get sore. See…I can be a nice guy.”
And because Cassie expected no different of me, because this is actually a nice gesture on my part, she laughs in delight as she tugs open my fly and reaches her hand inside. With a few strokes, I’m ready for more and I push down on her head until she’s kneeling in front of me.
She looks up at me with smoky gray eyes that would really be quite beautiful if I didn’t know about all of the conniving she hides behind them.
“Let’s see if I can put a smile on your face,” she says and gives me a sexy purse of her lips.
I bring my hand up and skim my fingers tenderly across her cheek. I love the feel of a woman’s skin, no matter if poison runs in her veins. Sliding my fingers through the hair at her temple, I hold her gently as she leans forward and takes me in her mouth, content to let her do the work and for me to enjoy the ride.
Yeah…she’ll put a smile on my face. But that’s about the only thing she’ll give me that’s worth a damn.
Chapter 2
Sutton
Bending over in my office chair, I take the black Sharpie marker and color over the scuff mark on the heel of my pump. I’ve had these shoes forever and they’re looking a little ragged, no doubt. Unfortunately, they’re going to have to last me a little longer since I make peanuts and have more important things to pay for, like electricity and food.
The phone on my desk buzzes and I pick it up. “Speak to me.”
“Sutton, dear…I’ve got to run down to the drug store to grab some allergy medicine. Can you come cover the front desk for me for about ten minutes?”
Flipping my wrist, I look at my watch. “Sure. My two o’clock is twenty minutes late so I’m assuming he’s a no-show. I’ll be right up.”
Snapping the cap back on my Sharpie, I toss it on my desk. Grabbing the top file from my in-box, I walk out of my office and down the hall toward the main reception area of the Wake County Drug Crisis Center. I love my job, but our building is depressing as hell. It’s nothing but a square box of cinder blocks and steel with dull tile flooring and institutional gray paint peeling on the walls. About every five feet, a cheap poster is tacked to the wall with an inspirational message about finding the fortitude and strength to beat addiction. I can’t help but think how sad the contradiction is between the messages of hope and the depressing décor.
Reaching the end of the hall, I slide my ID card through the reader beside the steel door, hearing the snick of the lock, and push through into the lobby. At least here, the decor is a little more welcoming, with beige carpeting, faux-leather couches and an abundance of green plants. Our receptionist, Minnie, has a green thumb and took it upon herself to decorate the area as she saw fit. Of course, Minnie’s an institution unto herself and has been covering the front desk of our crisis center since before Moses was born.
“That was fast,” Minnie says as she pulls her purse from the bottom drawer of her steel, county-issued desk. She opens the purse, and I wait patiently for her to pull her compact mirror out and dab powder on her nose. Then she pulls out a tube of bright red lipstick and glides it on her thin lips while watching herself in the mirror. Finally, she smooths her hands over the sides of her silver hair, which is pulled back into a severe bun, and smiles at her reflection.
Minnie is old Raleigh and a Southern woman never steps outdoors without looking her best. Snapping her compact shut, she tosses it in her purse and stands up. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”
“I’m good,” I tell her, although I’m dying to ask her to pick me up a bag of Hershey’s Kisses with Almonds. They are my addiction. To put it in drug-crisis terms, they are my crank…my smack…my horse. But I’ve made a resolution this year to cut back on my chocolate intake and, ten months in, I’m not about to break. I allow myself two pieces a day, and I always reserve them for after dinner at home.