Counterfeit Love Page 3

  "In the grand scheme of things, it's cheap," she countered, answering me, but speaking to her friends. "Don't let his shabby little office fool you, he's rolling in it. And he is going to help fund us."

  "See now, here is the part where I need to interject," I piped in again. "Dollface, I never said I was going to fund shit."

  "Oh, but you will say it," she shot back, a wicked little smirk pulling at those pouty lips of hers. "And do you want to know why you will say it?"

  "Is it just me, or is she terrifyingly creepy when she makes veiled threats like that?" Vance said to Ferryn.

  "Yeah, angel, I'd like to know why I would say something like that." Unlike Vance, I didn't find her intimidating. Just interesting. Beautiful. Maybe a little enigmatic.

  "Because if you don't agree to fund our little mission," she started, gaze slipping to me once again, and there was some impact with it, right in my gut, something visceral, undeniable, and completely foreign to me, "then I am going to need to make a little call." She leaned forward at that last bit, reminding me of my third grade teacher when she wanted to bitch me out in that whisper-yell voice only maternal figures seemed capable of. "Do you know who I have the number for, Finchy?" she asked.

  That nickname was meant to be demeaning. I shouldn't have been into it. But I found I liked the way it sounded in that honey-sweet voice of hers.

  "No, doll, can't say that I do."

  "Does the name Ewan O'Neal ring a bell?" And damn if she wasn't sexy as hell when she was delivering a death blow.

  I felt the color draining from my face; the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck raised, sent a chill through me.

  "I thought that it might," she told me, nodding. "Anywho, you've done a pretty good job of avoiding him thus far. It would be a real shame if he learned where you are hanging up your cap these days."

  My gaze held hers, trying to gauge her actual feelings beneath the almost giddy mood she seemed to be in.

  I don't know if it was a power move on her part, but she refused to break eye contact first, leaving me to do it. I took the chance to glance over at Ferryn and Vance, trying to read something on their faces, but they seemed to be focusing on Chris too.

  "That would be a shame," I agreed. "And what mission do you want help funding?"

  "How do you feel about human trafficking, Finchy?"

  "Look," I said, holding up a hand. "I might not be the most moral of men, but I draw the line at that fucking shit. I'm not getting involved with trafficking. Not even for you, dollface."

  "We don't traffick people," she snapped, tone biting, pissed that I would even think that of her. "We take down traffickers."

  To that, my gaze slid over to Ferryn, a chuckle moving out of my chest. "That makes a lot of sense," I agreed, thinking back to my interactions with Ferryn in the past. She had been hard as nails and sharp as the blade she always had on her. A woman roughened that much had to be that way for a reason. Apparently, that reason was that she was someone who executed the scum of the earth. "Well," I agreed, slowly getting to my feet, "it is important to be altruistic. I think we have a deal. Chris, was it?" I asked, reaching my hand out to her.

  I wasn't a man of elegant words. I couldn't describe the horror that overtook her face as her gaze moved down to my outstretched hand, but I knew it was there. Raw and pulsing, a wound not healed over.

  "We got a deal," I said again, curling my hand into a fist and quickly bumping it to hers, hoping that look on her face would go away, not liking it there.

  "Perfect," she said, pulling herself together so quickly that I found it hard to believe the horror was even there a moment before. "I am going to need a number to reach you at."

  She was all business again, but I couldn't help but think it was a bit of a cover. Because she had exposed too much. "You want my number, angel?" I asked, smile suggestive, wanting to lighten the mood.

  As I expected, she ignored that entirely.

  "We are going to need to do something about your security here. I mean, I don't want our money just walking off if the local delivery guy spots all this cash lying around," she declared, shaking her head. I kinda liked the tangent she was on, so I didn't bother reminding her that it wasn't our money, it was mine.

  "And, really, smoking?" she asked, picking up a pack of my cigarettes from the table. "Are you literally trying to burn up all this money?" she asked. "I will write you up a PDF about all the changes that need to be made," she prattled on, locating my cell, picking it up, and swiping through it.

  Finding what she was looking for, she pulled out her own phone, typing my number into it, taking me entirely out of the equation. "And I expect the changes to be implemented immediately upon receipt of said PDF," she declared, moving away from me, dropping my phone.

  "Yes, ma'am," I said to her retreating form. Her hands were already quickly typing on her phone, probably working on that PDF that she threatened me with.

  "Told you I had it all worked out," she said to Ferryn and Vance on her way out.

  "Like your friend there, babe," I said to Ferryn, feeling a little whiplashed from the whole interaction.

  "She's my cousin," Ferryn corrected.

  "I think I might like getting bossed around by your cousin, babe," I told her, smirking.

  "Well, that works out. Because she's really good at bossing people around."

  I liked the idea of that.

  I couldn't say I was that particular about women, personality-wise. I wasn't exactly a one-and-done sort of man, but I also wasn't one who spent so much time around a woman that her quicks and personality traits might appeal or repel me.

  Fun and short-lived; that was how I liked it. A nice weekender, if you will. Maybe a fuck-buddy situation. Nothing deep, though.

  So, I really wouldn't have realized yet I would be so into the idea of a woman that bossy, that intimidating, that intelligent telling me what to do.

  If you would have said a week ago that I would stop smoking wherever I damn well pleased because some chick was going to put a line item in a PDF, I would have had a nice laugh at your expense.

  But that was before Dream Girl walked into my place, and threw her attitude around, along with that milk and honey scent that seemed to be coming out of her pores.

  Ferryn and Vance left to go into their apartment, having loud sex that the thin walls of the apartment building did nothing to muffle, making it impossible for my mind not to wander.

  To ideas of naked bodies tangled in a heap on a bed, boneless, exhausted.

  It would come as no surprise to anyone that the body and face of the other person in that imaginary bed belonged to Chris, the woman who, apparently, now had my balls in a vice grip.

  I had a feeling she was the sort who would squeeze, too.

  And yet I found I wanted to experience that anyway.

  'Cause that wasn't fucked up at all.

  Chapter Three

  Chris

  He was attractive.

  You know, in a Da Vinci style Golden Ratio way. His features all worked together. Nothing was too close together, too wide, too narrow. All the parts had the right mathematical equation that equaled physical attractiveness.

  I guess some might actually take a few points off for that rather menacing scar down his cheekbone. Then again, science says that when a person's face is too symmetrical, they fall into the 'uncanny valley,' which means normal people almost see them as inhuman, alien, robotic, like something isn't quite right with them.

  The scar gave his face character.

  And kept him from, you know, looking like an alien.

  So, yeah, according to science, Finch was attractive.

  The girls a few tables away--much too young to be eyeing a guy his age, I might add--certainly thought he was attractive, evidenced by the giggling and blushing if he so much as looked in their direction.

  They even seemed to think he was attractive when he was shoveling pasta in his face. And, let's face it, next to no one was attractive when they were trying to suck a noodle into their mouth.

  Why we were currently sitting in a diner three towns outside of Navesink Bank at midnight on a Saturday was completely beyond me. All I knew was this was the time and place he agreed to meet me.

  Normally, I was the one setting up meetings, making plans. And, typically, those meetings would take place in daylight in a public place, out in the open. Parks were a particular favorite of mine.

  I hadn't even put up a fight about it, though. Which was weird. I liked things my way. And I would typically go toe-to-toe with someone until I got it.

  But his text had come through, and before I knew what I was doing, I was telling him I would be there.

  So.

  Yeah.

  We were at the diner.

  He was eating spaghetti, the meatballs long gone, and I was nursing a cup of bitter coffee.

  "Order something," he demanded, not for the first time.

  "I had dinner."

  "Dinner was four or five hours ago, dollface," he reminded me. And I had to admit, my stomach was starting to grumble at his food. But I was having a hard time accepting that one could conduct a business meeting while pouring syrup over pancakes. "I saw you eyeing that breakfast menu," he told me, leaning back, taking a breather from his food. "Now, I just gotta figure out what you wanted. Eggs? Are you really an eggs at midnight at an all-night diner kind of person? I don't think so," he answered himself, head tipping to the side, gaze directed at me. "No. I think you're the kind of girl who goes for sweets when she's cheating from her normal routine. I think you want something slathered in syrup."

  I didn't want to be impressed that he guessed that. Logic told me that it was just a matter of elimination. And that the breakfast menu had a limited sele
ction of foods. Eggs, carbs covered in syrup, or oatmeal. And nobody ordered oatmeal at a diner.

  "Finch, we are here to talk business."

  "I'm here to eat a meal across from a beautiful woman. The business shit is just how I got you to agree to come here."

  "Business is the only thing that is important. Right now," I added, already hearing my therapist in my head telling me that work could only account for so much of your happiness. Yada yada yada.

  "Angel, you need to live a little," he told me, the smile on his face deceptive because his words were a little sad. Almost--and I hated even to think it--pitying. "'Scuse me, miss," he called to the passing waitress, a woman old enough to be his grandma, but she blushed when he shot her that smile of his. It was a good one, his smile, I would admit to that. He had perfectly straight teeth, almost toothpaste commercial white despite being a smoker.

  "Would you like some more orange juice?" she asked.

  Yes, Finch was drinking orange juice while eating his spaghetti and meatballs. Clearly, he was some sort of sociopath.

  "That would be great. And I think the lady would like a stack of pancakes."

  "I will be right out with that for you," she told him, not even sparing me a look. "Tell me I was right, doll," he said to me as she left.

  "Don't sound so proud of yourself," I demanded, wanting to sound reproachful, but I wasn't sure I managed to get that into my tone. "It was the only option."

  "Oh, I disagree. There were waffles, French Toast, crepes, and about five different kinds of pancakes to choose from. But I get the feeling you're a classic kind of girl."

  I was.

  When it came to food, in nearly every way.

  I liked vanilla ice cream and oatmeal cookies and cheese pizza. Nothing fancy. Nothing new and foreign to my taste buds.

  I'd been told it was part of my coping mechanism, to over-prepare for things, and stay squarely in my comfort zone.

  There was likely a lot of truth in that.

  "Now that I am going to eat, will you talk business with me?" I asked, sitting up a little straighter as that penetrating gaze of his bored into me, looking for something. And I found myself more than a little scared that he might find it.

  "There are so many other things to talk about though, aren't there?" he asked, shrugging. "Like the weather. Your favorite kind of animal. How you take your coffee. The song you're most embarrassed about liking. What your name is."

  "You know my name."

  "Your full name, angel," he countered. "No woman is named Chris."

  "Christienne."

  "Beautiful," he told me, eyes looking almost a little soft. If soft eyes were a thing. "And the rest?" he prompted.

  I didn't know him well. In fact, I didn't know much about him personally, just basic facts about his criminal career. Somehow, I knew that he was every bit as stubborn as I was.

  It would lead us nowhere if all we did was butt heads, though, so I went ahead and gave in. Just this once.

  "It has been rainy," I said.

  "Yes, but do you hate the rain, or are you the type to sit in the windowsill and watch it with dreamy eyes?"

  There were no windows at Hailstorm, but I understood the sentiment. "I like the rain," I admitted. "I don't have a favorite animal per se. I like a lot of them. This girl at Hailstorm has chickens. And they're actually a lot more interesting than I could have known."

  "You like peckers, huh?" he asked, making a snort burst out of me.

  "That was cheesy. Even for you," I told him, adding an eye roll for good measure. "I take my coffee with cream."

  "Even when you're alone?" he asked. "You don't slip some sugar in there when no one is looking?"

  Damn him.

  He was good.

  And it was unnerving.

  I really, really hated being unnerved. I didn't like being the one under the microscope. I couldn't tolerate not being in charge of the conversation. It made me anxious. And anxiety always manifested in hyper-realistic nightmares. It was a vicious cycle I tried very hard to avoid.

  It was why I was so anal, why I had regimented schedules, why I did things by my rules, in my time.

  And here this guy was, a virtual stranger, taking it all away from me.

  The strangest part?

  I was letting him.

  "Sometimes, I like sugar," I told him.

  "And what song do you listen to in private that you would get all pink in the cheeks if someone walked in and found you singing to it?"

  "The soundtrack to Aladdin," I admitted.

  "Disney, princess? There's nothing embarrassing about Disney," he told me just as the waitress came back with the pancakes, dropping them down in front of me, but keeping her focus on Finch. "Can you do me a huge favor, sweetheart?" he asked, reaching for the cold glass container of syrup.

  "Sure thing, dear," she agreed. I couldn't see her face, but I bet she was giving him a shameless smile.

  The power this man had over women...

  "Could you warm up this syrup for me? It's not the same when it's cold, is it?" he asked, handing it to her.

  "You didn't have to do that," I told him as she walked away to do that for him. Because of course, she did. I highly doubted it had anything to do with her tip, either.

  "Of course I did. You're too good for cold syrup, love," he told me, gaze lowering to my plate, watching as I scraped off the butter. "No butter. Interesting."

  "It makes the syrup taste weird," I told him, not knowing why I was engaging in small talk with him. As a rule, I wasn't a small talk type of person. "Don't look at me like that," I demanded, hearing a strange almost... husky edge to my voice as I looked up from wrapping the butter up in a napkin to find his deep eyes on me once again.

  "Like what, doll?"

  Like he liked what he was looking at.

  "Like you're trying to figure me out," I told him instead. It was partially the truth, anyway. I was in the camp of half-truths being better than full lies.

  "Oh, but I can't stop looking at you like that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I can't stop myself from wanting to know more."

  "You don't even know me," I objected. "Thank you," I told the waitress, tone just a little pointed when she dropped the syrup off at Finch's elbow instead of my side of the table.

  "She can't help it if she likes me better," he said, lips twitching.

  Our hands went for the syrup at the same moment, his hand landing on top of mine on the handle.

  The impact was immediate, familiar in a way I didn't like. The gut-punch of panic, the need to yank my arm back. This time, so fast that the container wobbled and fell off the side of the table, making Finch lean down to grab it with impressive cat-like reflexes.

  His gaze stayed on the container as he carefully wiped it with a napkin before carefully pushing it across the table toward me, gaze on mine.

  "No," he agreed. "I don't know you. But I would like to," he added.

  There was an immediate reaction to that as well. Something far less sickening. But no less panic-inducing.

  Because I shouldn't have been feeling something akin to, I don't know, hope? Anticipation? A combination of the two, maybe. Not about any man. Let alone this one I barely knew.

  That wasn't how I worked.

  I didn't tick that way.

  Maybe, once upon a time, I did. I had been normal once, Average. Capable of warm and tinglies. Someone who could be interested in the opposite sex. Someone who would be pleased when an attractive man was interested in her.

  But that was not the woman I was now.

  There were many things I was simply not capable of--as much as it killed me to admit that--and wanting a man to want me was at the very top of the list of things I couldn't do.

  "There's no reason for that," I told him, hearing the frigid, obnoxiously professional tone slip into my voice. "I am your boss," I added. Even though, right that moment, I didn't feel like it.

  "I think we're more like partners, angel," he countered.

  "Partners don't blackmail each other into doing things," I told him.

  "Might have done it out of the goodness of my heart without all that ugliness," he told me, picking up his fork again.