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THREE

CEE CEE

The office is almost empty. Friday nights almost everyone leaves early. There is a medicinal smell of a dentist’s office that even seeps into my clothes. First thing I do when I get home at night is strip down and run a nice bubbly bath.

The excitement of my Friday night routine is quickly fading.

“I need you to stay, CeeCee. I have two investors coming and I don’t speak Mandarin, do I?” Doctor Stinson’s picks his fingernails as he speaks, not even bothering to look at me.

The pressure builds. The tightness in my jaw only adds to the sensation that steam is about to shoot out of my eardrums.

I glance over for the tenth time in less than a minute to see the clock above the chairs in the reception area ticking just passed 5:02 PM. I’m supposed to be out of here on Fridays at 4:45 PM.

“No you don’t.” It’s all I can muster. I need the money, and that sucks, but my rent is due and the thrill and adventure of having nowhere to sleep at night is not on my bucket list. “When will they be here?”

Dr. Stinson, DDS is the owner of the clinic where I’ve worked for going on three years. It’s a low cost, often free, dental care clinic. But don’t give him too much credit for that, he’s no philanthropist. He gets all kinds of donations from his high-end friends to run the place, and from what I’ve picked up, there are a lot of other ‘investments’ going on under the guise of his ‘charity.’

He looks at me, making me shiver with disgust. He’s been doing that more and more lately. Not just looking at me, but looking at me, in ways I can feel and they don’t feel good. “They’ll be here shortly. You don’t have any other plans tonight, do you, Cecelia?”

He knows I hate when he calls me that. I’ve asked him on numerous occasions to please not use my proper name. But I never should have said anything because now he does it as a way of showing me who’s boss.

And actually, yes, I do have other plans. Might not seem like much to anyone else, but I do have plans. Which I like very much, by the way.

Almost every Friday, I first zip into The Sweet Spot when I switch buses.

It’s a huge indulgence to buy two donuts for just under nine dollars, but oh my god are they worth it. And today, there is an extra added sprinkle on top because when I’d stopped by there earlier, there was this guy there and I caught about a two-second look at him, but I just can’t get him out of my head.

Totally unlike anything I’ve felt before. A jolt. Or a thud that hit me square in the chest with one quick look. I shook it off and practically ran down the street to get away, but a small part of me is hoping he’ll still be there.

Then next it’s back to my dinky little apartment above the little grocery on Ferguson Avenue. I had an amazing night planned, too. Two of my favorite authors have new books coming out and I’m an Advanced Reader, so they send them to me for free before release and I read and leave a review.

I won a Kindle in a contest on Facebook last year so I stepped up from buying used books in the bargain bin. I’d read all night every night if I could, but books cost money and I have to actually function at work every day. So my Friday nights are slated with book boyfriends and Sweet Spot gourmet donuts. And they are worth every penny.

One more glance at the clock and my shoulders fall. I’ve missed my regular bus and the next one isn’t until 7:20, so I guess my usual Friday night donut date is cancelled. The shop closes at seven and looks like I’ll be lucky to even make the 7:20 at this rate. I’m in my mid-twenties and staying home is more appealing to me than any bar or club. And, since Mrs. Takashima is the closest thing I have to a friend, going out clubbing is not in the cards.

Dr. Shit-son saunters off gloating that once again he’s won the battle to show me who runs the show around here.

I decide to be productive while I’m waiting, so I transcribe some documents while dreaming of working at the UN or somewhere I don’t have to feel like my hat is in my hand with every paycheck. I know I’m smart. I should be working somewhere better, but my name is half made up, I have no legal status to work here and honestly, I’m as happy as I am miserable.

Being no one suits me just fine. Except for moments like this when I realize just how much my existence depends on the mercy of Dr. Stinson and his willingness to look the other way when it comes to my less than adequate documentation. I managed to get a forged State Identification card so it’s barely enough to get me by. I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

The one upside to working here besides a steady—albeit meager income--is that I love working with the patients. I know what it’s like to feel disenfranchised. To be in pain and know you have no way to pay for treatment or help just because you did not come through the right channels to live here. I don’t make judgements either way; I’m just saying that humans are humans. When they are in pain, I’m just glad I’m here to help.

But staying after hours to tend to yet another of Dr. Stinson’s investors? That’s not my idea of a fun start to the weekend. I keep looking up at the clock, fighting with the urge to put my foot down and tell him I’m leaving. I almost do it too, but then the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle.

By the time I’ve tugged the headset off my ears, Dr. Stinson is right behind me, and I can’t help jumping half out of my seat.

“Jesus, fuck, you scared the holy crap out of me.” My heart is in my throat and I twist forward and away, trying to crane my neck to see what the hell he’s doing standing so damn close.

“Nasty mouth you’ve got there, sweetheart.” The top of his bald head is beaded with sweat. He’s not much taller than me but he’s nearly twice as wide. His lips are always wet and make me want to hand him a tissue to dry them off.

A sweet, sour whiff of Scotch hits me on his breath. His eyes are glazed and his nose rivals Rudolph’s.

I slap my hands down on the desk and roll my eyes back. “Oh you didn’t just call me ‘sweetheart.’” I’m all about keeping my job, but I’m not about dealing with this bullshit when I’m staying after hours to work and he’s been sitting in his office drinking. What the fuck? Anyway, the way he looks now I think I could call his mother a whore and he’d have forgotten by the morning.

Dr. Stinson opens his mouth to speak just as the lobby doorbell dings.

“Your investors are here.” I snap and lean away from him in my chair and cross my arms. He looks surprised, like he wasn’t expecting them, and makes no move to go see who it is. I guess the drink has addled his senses. “Fine, I’ll greet them, shall I?” The sarcasm drips from each word but Dr. Stinson barely acknowledges my snippy tone.

I’m happy to move away from him, truthfully. He reeks of alcohol and it reminds me of my father the night I left my parents’ house when I was eighteen and pregnant. The smell takes me back there and the wound is opened all over again.

How long since I’d stepped off the plane here? Almost eight years? I lose track to be honest. It’s hard to remember. But that day…I remember the day I left in vivid, Technicolor detail.

Philip, my brother, had been my touchstone in life. My protector. The one that understood me. Never judged me. We loved each other in spite of our loveless upbringing and the years that separated our births. He was more a father to me than my own.

That night, when I’d dropped the bomb of my pregnancy, Philip wasn’t there to protect me anymore because he was gunned down just a few days before. I remember the look of sheer horror in my mother’s already red-rimmed eyes and for a moment I wondered if I’d done the right thing. Piling yet more grief on her shoulders.

The sting of my father’s hand as it met my cheek was almost a relief. If he’d done it for the right reasons I would have understood. But there was no emotion in his dead eyes. There never was.

Not even in the days prior to when they returned my brother’s body to the family home. When he lay in our living room for two days as the masses of family and my father’s loyal business associates came to call and give their respects. The grief that struck me and my mother dumb seemed to roll off my father like just another business deal gone wrong.

When he’d smacked me, it wasn’t out of shame, anger, shock, grief, nor any other emotion; it was just to let me know who was boss. I deliberately chose that moment of pain to tell them I was pregnant. I heaped it on them because I wanted all the hurt to somehow bind us together.

As though a lifetime of a father to whom I held zero value would suddenly change when I told him I was knocked up. He smacked me because he knew I expected something from him. Some sort of connection, something that said he cared even if it was just to be ashamed instead of indifferent.

And he could never give me that. Silly girl.

After he’d sent my mother out of the room, he told me he was sending me to live with his brother. It was the worst kind of punishment. I only knew of my uncle from a few family gatherings and when he and my father would meet to talk business. But he was a brute of a man. Not a soft part about him. He frightened me, the way he would stare and suck at his teeth while some young woman trailed behind him, eyes down, suffering oozing from her very being.

Yes, they. A different one every time. Young women, girls, really. And his eyes told me he knew no boundaries. He would touch my hair and laugh at my discomfort as far back as I could remember. And my father was sending me to him? I had to wonder why. To keep me safe? No, even he couldn’t possibly believe that.

Something else, but I knew better than to ask. All I knew was I couldn’t trade the devil I knew for his brother. I couldn’t endure that.

That night, I stole the wads of cash my father kept hidden in cigar boxes and in drawers around his office. I’d never touched the money before, never thought to. Insignificant change to him, of course, but to a girl who was about to flee away into a world where she knew no one, it was enough to buy freedom.

And where did it get me? Here, smelling the same old stench of alcohol on another man’s breath. Life has a way of going around in circles.

I take a deep breath and push the memories away.

I brace my hands on the edge of the desk, ready to roll my chair back, but Shit-son is still planted directly behind me. “Well? I can’t go if you don’t move.” My snarky tone is doing nothing for my job security, but he’s pushing me and when I feel the wall against my back, I come out swinging.

He finally takes a step back and I push off on the chair harder than I need, smirking to myself as I hear him huff, the back of the chair hitting him right in his big, fat gut.

I stomp toward the reception area wearing a look that could kill. I suppose it makes sense that I should be the greeter, since I’m the one that speaks Mandarin, but geezus, what a fucked up Friday. I’m a simple girl with simple needs: books, donuts, and peace. And apparently not even those am I granted today.

I plaster on a smile and grip the doorknob to the waiting room. The proper Mandarin greeting is already dancing on my tongue when I swing open the door, but the sight that greets me has me at a loss for words.

In any language.

“Hi. You’re CeeCee, right?” It’s him.

Donut shop dude.

In all his glory.

And I do mean glory. Suited, inked, and alpha.

All I can do is nod and fight to keep my jaw muscles from going lax and letting my lower mandible hang like dead weight.

“I’m Thorne. You’re late for your Friday night donut pick-up. So, we’re running a special. Free delivery to our VIP customers.” The rumble of his words throws a lasso around me and starts to pull.

My ovaries spring to life. I think I might have just conceived from the mere sight of the man holding out The Sweet Spot donut bag. Honestly, his smile could melt the polar ice caps.

“Wha…?” I manage and pray the drool pooling under my tongue doesn’t drip from my bottom lip.

I wasn’t much of a student in school, but I speak five languages fluently and a few others well enough.

I’m what they call a hyperpolyglot, which is an awful name for someone that has a knack for picking up languages. More than a knack really, I guess you’d call it a gift, but still, right now I seem to be struggling with English. So instead of actual words, I come up with ‘Wha…?’

Kill. Me. Now.

He licks the corner of his bottom lip, then his teeth sink in to hold back a grin. A gleaming white incisor digs into the lip I want to kiss. And I can see he’s trying not to laugh at me, which only turns up the heat on my flaming cheeks.

“Sorry,” his throaty, low voice hits me in some amazing places, “I know it’s a surprise.”

He sets the smile free that’s been tugging at the world’s sexiest lips and my panties are finished. I didn’t realize men like this actually walked the Earth in flesh and blood. Until now they only existed in my books.

I start checking off the long list of perfect parts of the donut delivery god.

Tattoos that have my mouth watering more than the donuts? Check.

Face sculpted from diamonds and iron ore? Check.

Eyes that swim over me, creating a desire I only thought lived in the spicy prose I love so much? Check.

A body with just the right amount of bulk and lean, with shoulders that look like they could handle the weight of the world? Check.

Not to mention, a gleaming motorcycle parked outside the front window. Black and chrome and bright yellow.

And what the fuck is he wearing? Not biker leathers. Oh no. Because that would be far too predictable, wouldn’t it?

No, what he’s wearing is only the most beautiful suit I’ve ever seen on a man, with just the right amount of sheen and all the right amount of fit. How could he have ridden here on that bike and still look like he just walked out of a London tailor?

Dr. Shit-son’s footsteps come up from behind and I hear him take a breath before speaking. “Who’s here?” he grunts.

Why he’s questioning who’s here when he’s the one that said we were waiting for his investors to come is just another in a long line of questions rolling around in my head right now. “Tell them we’re…Who’s this?”

The wall of man perfection hands me the bag and sidesteps around to extend a hand to Dr. Stinson.

“My name’s Thorne. I own The Sweet Spot where this lovely young lady picked up your order this morning.”

Owner?

As he holds his hand out and steps closer to Stinson, I see a shift in his eyes. They are not just blue, they are glowing, shocking blue. But they darken as he looks at Stinson, and he takes a long sniff before dropping his hand. The handshake offer is apparently off the table.

“I’m also her date this evening.” Man perfection stands up straight, staring down Stinson and daring him to speak.

Date?

“You ready to go?” Thorne eases a step back, looks down at me and licks his lips with a twinkle in his eyes. My own sort of sparkly twinges are growing between my legs. “You said to pick you up when I got out of the shop. So let’s go.” His eyes so warm until he shifts them back to Stinson with a look that shakes me down to my toes.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Stinson instinctively step back. This man, whoever he is, is dressed as impeccably as any fortune 500 CEO, yet he has brilliant colored ink crawling up his neck just above his white shirt collar. It extends down to his elegant long fingers and the backs of his hands, too. The energy he’s projecting right now has me absolutely terrified and at the same time wishing I could tuck myself under his arm and never leave.

I’m still processing what he’s just said when the look he’s giving Stinson shifts. His eyes regain the blue sparkle as he looks back down at me, leaning over just slightly, and the scent of what can only be sex appeal and dominance has me drawn into his force field. “Ready?” He winks at me and I think I just died. “Come on, babe. You know I’m greedy when it comes to my time with you.”

He smiles this time toward Stinson as I walk backward toward my desk. I don’t even hesitate. I just grab my purse and shrug inwardly. I am either incredibly foolish or incredibly lucky. But either way, there are some opportunities that are just worth the risk.

“I’m ready,” I announce and give Stinson an extra grin. “Sorry. I totally forgot I had plans tonight.”

When the magnificent, tattooed James Bond places his hand in the small of my back and opens the door for me, I’m placing all my bets on the lucky side of that equation.