Fury on Fire

  Heat flared in her cheeks. She fired off another text. I believe your bedroom wall borders mine. Please have a little common courtesy. Some of us have to get up early in the morning for work.

  How old are you?

  She blinked at the out-of-nowhere question.

  What does that matter?

  Trying to get a visual. Couldn’t tell underneath that junk on your face yesterday. You sound like you’re seventy.

  Seventy! Was he serious? She replied: I’m twenty-six.

  Wouldn’t have thought it. Why am I not hearing your bed frame knocking the wall? Her mouth dropped. He followed that up with a single word: Prude.

  She shook her head. He was baiting her by calling her a prude? Was this junior high? She was too mature for this. It wouldn’t work on her. It shouldn’t.

  She texted back: Let’s try to be civil. I would appreciate it if you keep the noise down.

  She would also appreciate it if he wore some clothes. If he kept his penis under wraps so she didn’t salivate like some horny stranded-on-island woman.

  To be fair, it’s not me doing all the shouting.

  She snorted. The ego on this man. Sadly, from what she’d seen of him, she knew it wasn’t undeserved though. Really?? I am sure you can control yourself.

  The giving of orgasms? I’m sure I can’t.

  Oh. My God. Just the mention of orgasm made her stomach muscles flutter. She rolled onto her back on the couch, the TV long forgotten. She splayed her hand over her abdomen to try to quell the flutters there.

  Dancing dots appeared again. Her pulse hummed faster in her veins as she waited for his reply.

  Not every woman is open to wearing a ball gag. I can try . . .

  Oh. My. God. He was the devil.

  She slammed the phone down on the couch beside her and stared up at the ceiling. Why was she even trying to talk to him? She swung a glance at her nearly empty wine glass. Drinking and texting. Definitely bad idea.

  She snatched up her phone and went to his name in her contacts, changing it from Cock of Wonder to Orgasm Giver. Then, shaking her head, she dropped her phone back down on the couch and released a forlorn sigh.

  Deliberately not looking at her phone again, she headed upstairs to take a shower. Turning it on, she tested the water until it was the desired warmth. Stripping off her clothes, she stepped under the spray. Her body throbbed in places that had felt numb for the last few years, as stunted and forgotten as shriveled-up weeds alongside the highway. Now those places stirred with life.

  She flattened her palms against the shower wall and let the water beat down on her. She blew out a breath against the downpour.

  Her head still felt delightfully woozy. That sensation combined with the tingle at her core had her lifting a hand from the wall. She slid her fingers down her stomach and between her legs to one of those places that suddenly shouted with life and need. At the first brush of her fingers, she shuddered.

  She parted her slick folds, unerringly making her way to that little nub of pleasure. Her breathing hitched and she swallowed water. She was merely wet from her shower. That’s what she told herself as she stroked and rubbed her clit until her legs felt like rubber, ready to give out under her. It wasn’t as though texting the hot felon who lived next door had anything to do with that. He wasn’t why she was suddenly masturbating in the shower. Her orgasm, usually so elusive even when self-delivered (not that she had them any other way), swelled up on her. Her fingers worked faster and she bowed her head under the spray of water until she was gasping. So close. Almost . . . there . . .

  She latched onto the memory of North Callaghan with his ridiculous body standing in front of her.

  BAM! She was there, crying out and shuddering, her thighs clamping together on her hand.

  Several moments passed before she lifted her head. Water sluiced over her face, trailing down her overheated cheeks. That was incredible. And awful. She’d gotten off to the thought of her next-door neighbor . . . the very guy she had just learned was an ex-con. He was not fantasy material! Her date with Brendan couldn’t come soon enough. He was the stuff of fantasy. A man worth dreaming about because he could become her reality. Maybe. That’s what dating would find out anyway.

  She turned off the shower, then grabbed a towel hanging off the rack and pulled it around herself tightly. She stopped in front of the sink and stared at herself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the woman gazing back at her. She was bright-eyed and flushed. Like a woman well pleasured. God. What might it be like to actually have a real man between her legs? A man like the one next door? The man next door?

  Shaking her head, she turned away from her reflection. Clearly she needed to get that thought out of her mind.

  TEN

  He was texting her.

  And rather shockingly, she was texting him back.

  Maybe texting her wasn’t the smartest move after giving her a peep show, but she had left him her number. Two times. And he had memorized it. Numbers stuck in his head that way. Math had always been his subject. In college, he probably would have chosen a major with a strong math emphasis. He’d just been starting to think about that, about his future in college, when everything came to a grinding halt.

  She was feisty. He’d give her that. Instead of calling the cops on him for indecent exposure or whatever appropriate charge, she was talking to him. Because she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she would like to think.

  He didn’t know what to think about that. She was more than a faceless prude with killer legs and a stick up her ass. It all seemed contrary to the ideas he had formed about her, but he had actually enjoyed himself during that text exchange. It had been . . . fun.

  An uncomfortable tightness wrapped around his chest and propelled him outside into his shop. This time he wore clothes. Even so, he forced himself not to glance, not even once, at her bedroom window.

  He slid his helmet on and picked up his cutting torch. He didn’t know what he was creating, but that was usually his process. Equipment in hand, he simply went to work. Welding emptied his mind in a way that he so desperately needed. He felt clear-headed and free of all the usual shit weighing him down. He found a stillness in those moments that eluded him the rest of the time.

  Sparks flew as he cut, bent, burned and manipulated the metal until it became something that resembled art. At least he hoped so. He hoped that when he was done, it would be fashioned into something someone would pay good money for.

  An hour later he surfaced from the stillness to call it quits. He closed up his shop, locking it with a chain, and then walked across his yard, his gaze unavoidably drifting to her upstairs window. It was impossible not to look up on the walk back. She was still awake. Light bled out through her closed blinds.

  Entering his house, he went for his phone to see if she had texted him any more.

  Nothing. Not surprising.

  Before he could consider it, he started typing.

  So you only wanted to talk to me to complain about the volume?

  He set his phone down and stared at it for a long moment. Waiting.

  “Shit.” Shaking his head, he turned away with a grunt of disgust. He couldn’t leave well enough alone. The question was a lame excuse to keep engaging with her, to reach for the pleasure he had found texting her earlier.

  For all he knew, she wasn’t anywhere near her phone. He wasn’t going to stand staring at his screen like some idiot pining for a girl to text him back. He moved into his kitchen to get a drink, but the sound of his phone buzzing had him turning back. He snatched it up.

  I actually had a list of complaints.

  He snorted and felt himself smile. Of course she did. He replied: What else?

  Three dancing dots appeared as she started typing. Could you please refrain from parking your bike on my side of the driveway?

  Huh. Yeah. He did do that. Just habit, he supposed. The place had been vacant for a while and he was used to hogging both driveways. He texted: Nothing el
se?

  The three little dots appeared and then went away as though she changed her mind about commenting. He grinned and typed. Don’t be shy now. You’ve come this far.

  Maybe wear more clothes . . .

  He laughed and then glanced at their shared wall, wondering if she could hear him. So you were looking.

  Just for a second.

  Liar.

  You’d like to think I stood there spying on you.

  I saw your shadow.

  You’re wrong.

  Chuckling, he decided to let her cling to the lie. He next texted: Summers are hot in Texas.

  Another text popped up. I’m perfectly aware of that. But I don’t walk around naked. He could practically hear the indignation in her words.

  Maybe you should. I wouldn’t mind.

  More dots appeared and then disappeared.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” he said under his breath, his thumb stroking the side of his phone. “Don’t go all shy.”

  She took the bait. One naked neighbor is enough.

  Two naked neighbors would be better.

  Yeah, he was flirting. Only her next text proved that she was resistant to his efforts.

  We don’t know each other. You haven’t even seen my face.

  Easy to rectify. Open your door. Show me your face.

  She took her time replying and he wondered if she was actually giving the proposition some thought. Something that felt like hope swelled in his chest. Finally, her reply popped up on his phone: I don’t think so.

  Why? You got something better to do?

  I’ve got a bottle of wine and a Cupcake Wars marathon.

  Sounds boring.

  You’re clearly not a fan of wine. Or cupcakes.

  Oh I like cupcakes. I eat them all the time. He was not talking about cupcakes and she was smart enough to realize that.

  I bet.

  He couldn’t help himself. What are your cupcakes like?

  Rest assured. You’ll never know what they’re like.

  He was grinning now. In fact, he had been grinning this entire text conversation. He didn’t know the last time he had smiled for this long. He squashed his smile, but texted back: Now you have me intrigued. Is that your game?

  I don’t play games.

  Good to hear. Neither do I.

  Dots appeared and then vanished. He must have thrown her a little with that bit of honesty. And it was honesty. He was always direct with his women. Not that she was his woman. The dots reappeared signaling she was replying back.

  It seems like you play lots of games.

  What do you mean?

  I can hear you remember? Through the walls. Often.

  Oh. That? That’s called fucking.

  Do you just say whatever pops in your head?

  Like I said. I don’t play games.

  So you just say whatever you want?

  He sank down on his couch and adjusted his hardened cock inside his jeans. Hell, just texting with this woman got him turned on. He needed to get laid. Someone other than Serena apparently. He’d burned that bridge.

  He continued texting. I thought we were being direct. You were the one to point out that you can hear me fucking.

  Actually I can’t hear you. Only the women.

  Wow. You really are listening.

  It’s hard not to . . .

  I make sounds. You just got to be closer to hear them. I say all kinds of things. Would you like to hear me? Yeah. He just went there. And he kept going. Why stop now? After what he’d already done tonight this was the least outrageous thing. He added: You like dirty talk Faith?

  That’s none of your business.

  His thumb again stroked the side of his phone. He was going to take that as a no. She had never dirty-talked before. Somehow that didn’t surprise him. The things to come out of his mouth would probably horrify her. His fingers hovered over the keys, tempted to type more, to keep flirting, to keep doing whatever it was he was doing with her.

  No. Shaking his head, he set his phone down on the counter and slid it firmly away. It might start out fun and good but it would turn messy. With a good woman like her that was inevitable. He had a flash of himself standing naked in his backyard, one hand on himself as he gazed up at her window. Messier than it already was. She lived next door to him. It would be hard to avoid her when things went south—and things inevitably would. Because nothing fun or good ever lasted.

  ELEVEN

  It was Saturday night and North was going to get laid. He was done talking about it. Finished thinking about it. Since he’d been paroled a week hadn’t passed without some action. It was time to make it happen.

  He decided he would pay a visit to Joe’s Cabaret—even if it meant he might have to run into Serena again. The place was easy if he was looking for a quick fix. He could also check in on Piper again while he was there. Two birds, one stone.

  He’d worked later than usual at the garage finishing up a frame for a custom chopper his boss needed yesterday. He parked his truck in the driveway beside his bike. Faith’s car was already there . . . probably where it would sit all night. She didn’t have much of a social life as far as he could tell.

  He’d just reached his front door when a gleaming black Audi pulled into Faith’s driveway. He hesitated, watching as a guy got out from behind the wheel. A loafers, chinos and polo shirt kind of guy. He wore a blazer over the polo shirt. Even at dusk, it was hot as hell to be wearing a blazer when you didn’t have to. He held a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Yellow roses. If that didn’t scream first date he wasn’t sure what did. Not that North brought flowers to any doors these days. He might not date, but he’d bought wrist corsages before—his junior and senior year. One might have even been yellow.

  Fancy Pants spotted him and nodded a greeting in his direction, smiling politely even as his gaze skimmed and assessed North in his work clothes. Clothes that consisted of well-worn jeans and a grease-stained T-shirt with the garage’s logo on his chest. It was a cursory inspection, but one that seemed to say beneath me. Or maybe North was projecting because he felt that way? Because you are. He was good for fucking a woman and getting her off . . . but not dating. Not marrying. Not being the kind of man a girl took home to Mom and Dad.

  North nodded back at him, jerking his chin up once in stiff acknowledgment. He shut the door but didn’t move away from it. He didn’t walk into his house and do his normal things like a normal human being. No, he turned around and peered through the living room blinds, straining to see as much as he could of the man walking up to Faith’s front door.

  The guy moved out of sight, but that didn’t prompt North to move away. No, he waited. He heard the knock at her door. He heard the door opening. He heard the low rumble of voices. A man’s deeper voice followed by a softer female voice. His body tensed, leaning toward that sound—Faith’s voice. It was her.

  And still he waited. Listening. He heard the door shut. Keys jangled in the lock.

  Fancy Pants came into view, walking back down the driveway (minus the flowers) with Faith following him. North gazed at the back of her head. At the sleek fall of brown hair that fell a little past her shoulders. Still no view of her face. Damn it. How hard could it be to see what she looked like? The irony wasn’t lost on him that she had seen him. All of him.

  She was wearing a dress. A little black number that looked like definite evening attire. Date attire. Not something she would wear to the office doing whatever it was that she did. Except those shoes. She still had on sexy shoes. Black heels with laces that wrapped around her ankles and tied off in a little neat bow. Her legs were still endless, still perfect, in his mind, for wrapping around a man.

  Fancy Pants opened the passenger side door for her like a gentleman. Because he was a gentleman. That was the kind of man she would date because that was the kind of man she deserved.

  She slid into the car with her face averted, impossible to see in the fading dusk. He still had no view of her face. Still.

>   North changed his mind. Instead of Joe’s Cabaret, he decided to go to Roscoe’s, his family’s bar, which Knox ran. Knox had offered him a job there when he got out, but he’d declined, feeling the need to distance himself from his brother and the rest of the family.

  Two years ago, he had been angry at the world when he was paroled. And wrong or right, a lot of that anger had been directed at Knox. He’d needed time and space from his brother, who had somehow managed to build a pretty nice life for himself. Maybe he still needed that space. Maybe he always would. It was for the best. North had found his own path. He liked his work at the garage and the freelance projects he did on the side. He was his own man. No longer Knox Callaghan’s kid brother. He faced the world alone and stood on his own two feet. Just as he’d had to do in those last four years at the Rock.

  He didn’t mind visiting Roscoe’s now and then though. His drinks were on the house. Knox, Aunt Alice and any of the other servers on shift never charged him. Saturday nights were always hopping. Plenty of pretty barflies for him to hook up with for the night.

  He was eyeing his choices when Knox started in on him. “Hey, man, what about dinner. Tomorrow night? Briar will cook up something good.”

  Of course she would. His brother’s wife was Betty effing Crocker. North was on his second beer, eyeing a petite blonde dressed in a micromini denim skirt that alerted the world she was wearing a pink G-string—the polar opposite of his uptight neighbor, and that was a good thing. He didn’t need to think about Faith Walters with her nice clothes out on her date. Maybe Fancy Pants would take her back to his place and they would have polite, nice-people sex. Lights off, missionary-style, quiet and civilized, those long legs of hers probably flat on the bed, neglected and unappreciated.