body again.
She glanced at him, her expression kind of beaten down. “Is there even any point dating? I mean, at some point I gotta tell the guy, don’t I, Jesse? Tell him I can’t have any more kids?” Pollan had done that to her, too, when he got out of prison. “What man’s gonna want me?”
Jesse felt guilty as hell for having relied on the law rather than stopping Pollan himself, years earlier than he had. “Jeez, Con, you can’t think that way. You and Juanito are great. Any guy’d be damn lucky.” He went over and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Night. See you Monday.”
“Night. And thanks, Jesse. You’re the best.”
Not hardly. It was his fault Con couldn’t have kids.
As Jesse rode home, he thought about stopping for a drink at Low Down. Hang out with the guys, shoot some pool. But then he’d probably settle in for a few more drinks, maybe screw up tomorrow. His lawyer had told him to be careful, and he guessed he ought to listen. If it hadn’t been for Barry Adamson, his butt would be cooling in a prison cell right now rather than hugging the leather seat of his Harley.
Riding the bike was great, but there was one thing that would make it even better. A warm, sexy female on behind him. He could just imagine . . .
Arms tight around his waist . . .
Chapter 6
M aura’s arms, squeezing him. Her face snuggled into his shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.
Her breasts pressed into his back and she nipped his neck. He didn’t have a helmet, either, he realized. His hair blew back in the wind and hers did, too. Even though he was riding the bike, somehow he could see the two of them from the outside, with that flag of fiery hair streaming out behind them like a flame.
Her hands were clasped across his belt. He took one of them and moved it down, spreading it across the front of his fly where he was already hard for her.
She accepted the invitation, pressing tight, sliding her hand up and down. A horn honked and—
“Hey buddy, get a move on before it goes red again!” someone hollered.
He gaped at the light, then gunned it and roared away. Why the fuck couldn’t he fantasize about Gracie, not Maura? Tomorrow, maybe he’d see if Gracie felt like seeing a movie. See if she could drive Maura out of his mind.
Back at his apartment, he peeled off his jacket, hung it up, and sank down in his comfy old recliner. He flicked through the movie channels, looking for distraction. Though everything else in his apartment was what Con called “bachelor minimal,” his television was a fifty-incher, and state of the art.
He paused, recognizing a scene from Crazy, Stupid, Love, the movie that said lucky people have soul mates. Emma Stone looked a little like Maura, with her beautiful face, greenish eyes, and red hair. Except Maura’s eyes were more striking and her hair more of a reddish-gold, and silkier . . .
Shit. He flipped channels again and the strains of Moon River filled the room. He groaned. Audrey Hepburn. Hell, it seemed that tonight everything was going to remind him of Maura Mahoney.
Crazy, Stupid, Love or Moon River ? If any of his guy friends caught him watching this shit, he’d never live it down, but the truth was, he liked a good chick flick just as much as action adventure.
Holly Golightly stood on the deserted street outside Tiffany’s in her cocktail dress and high-piled hair, drinking her breakfast coffee and munching a croissant, gazing in the window. He had to grin. This movie got to him.
Maybe because they were all losers. The girl who took money from men, the gigolo who lived off an older woman, even the no-name cat. Losers like him, yet together they found, or created, something that mattered. If there was hope for the three of them . . .
He grabbed a beer from the fridge, then sprawled on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table.
Back at her apartment, Maura plunked her autographed copy of The Search for the Real Nefertiti on the coffee table.
She glanced at him, her expression kind of beaten down. “Is there even any point dating? I mean, at some point I gotta tell the guy, don’t I, Jesse? Tell him I can’t have any more kids?” Pollan had done that to her, too, when he got out of prison. “What man’s gonna want me?”
Jesse felt guilty as hell for having relied on the law rather than stopping Pollan himself, years earlier than he had. “Jeez, Con, you can’t think that way. You and Juanito are great. Any guy’d be damn lucky.” He went over and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Night. See you Monday.”
“Night. And thanks, Jesse. You’re the best.”
Not hardly. It was his fault Con couldn’t have kids.
As Jesse rode home, he thought about stopping for a drink at Low Down. Hang out with the guys, shoot some pool. But then he’d probably settle in for a few more drinks, maybe screw up tomorrow. His lawyer had told him to be careful, and he guessed he ought to listen. If it hadn’t been for Barry Adamson, his butt would be cooling in a prison cell right now rather than hugging the leather seat of his Harley.
Riding the bike was great, but there was one thing that would make it even better. A warm, sexy female on behind him. He could just imagine . . .
Arms tight around his waist . . .
Chapter 6
M aura’s arms, squeezing him. Her face snuggled into his shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.
Her breasts pressed into his back and she nipped his neck. He didn’t have a helmet, either, he realized. His hair blew back in the wind and hers did, too. Even though he was riding the bike, somehow he could see the two of them from the outside, with that flag of fiery hair streaming out behind them like a flame.
Her hands were clasped across his belt. He took one of them and moved it down, spreading it across the front of his fly where he was already hard for her.
She accepted the invitation, pressing tight, sliding her hand up and down. A horn honked and—
“Hey buddy, get a move on before it goes red again!” someone hollered.
He gaped at the light, then gunned it and roared away. Why the fuck couldn’t he fantasize about Gracie, not Maura? Tomorrow, maybe he’d see if Gracie felt like seeing a movie. See if she could drive Maura out of his mind.
Back at his apartment, he peeled off his jacket, hung it up, and sank down in his comfy old recliner. He flicked through the movie channels, looking for distraction. Though everything else in his apartment was what Con called “bachelor minimal,” his television was a fifty-incher, and state of the art.
He paused, recognizing a scene from Crazy, Stupid, Love, the movie that said lucky people have soul mates. Emma Stone looked a little like Maura, with her beautiful face, greenish eyes, and red hair. Except Maura’s eyes were more striking and her hair more of a reddish-gold, and silkier . . .
Shit. He flipped channels again and the strains of Moon River filled the room. He groaned. Audrey Hepburn. Hell, it seemed that tonight everything was going to remind him of Maura Mahoney.
Crazy, Stupid, Love or Moon River ? If any of his guy friends caught him watching this shit, he’d never live it down, but the truth was, he liked a good chick flick just as much as action adventure.
Holly Golightly stood on the deserted street outside Tiffany’s in her cocktail dress and high-piled hair, drinking her breakfast coffee and munching a croissant, gazing in the window. He had to grin. This movie got to him.
Maybe because they were all losers. The girl who took money from men, the gigolo who lived off an older woman, even the no-name cat. Losers like him, yet together they found, or created, something that mattered. If there was hope for the three of them . . .
He grabbed a beer from the fridge, then sprawled on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table.
Back at her apartment, Maura plunked her autographed copy of The Search for the Real Nefertiti on the coffee table.
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