Pinups and Possibilities (7 page)

My brief conversation with Misty buoyed my spirits slightly. I’d made it clear to her that I couldn’t tell her exactly what was going on, but at least I knew she would keep Jayme occupied. It bought me precious time. Which was good, because Painter had turned up the radio and left it playing at an obnoxious volume for two hours as he drove through the pitch-black.

I was tempted to bait him back in to a conversation. My mind was ripe with clever retorts about the duct tape and his threat to hurt me, the perfect distraction from my worries, but the music was too loud for me to utter a single one of them.

Not a thug, my ass.

But if I was being honest with myself, I had to admit that I felt bad for goading him on, for mocking him about a lap dance. Even if I
had
done it to save myself. His skin felt good, pressed against mine. His collarbone under my fingers was sexy as hell. My heartbeat quickened as I thought about placing my fingers anywhere near it. And the heat of his lips over mine had been almost unbearable.

My need to say something finally got the better of me.

“Seventeen months,” I said softly without looking at him.

I didn’t think he would hear me, but at that exact moment the radio cut out and the car was filled with nothing but the sound of my voice. It was quiet and so nearly intimate, and it did nothing to ease the tension I was feeling.

“Sorry?” he said.

“That’s how long I’ve been dancing at Tangerines.”

Rock music blared out again, and he reached over to turn it off.

“You’re good at it,” he offered.

I kept my tone light. “Would you be able to tell if I wasn’t?”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “But your style is different.”

“Different than what? Your average stripper?”

“Did you go to school for it?”

“Where at? The Learn-to-Strip University?” I tried to joke and sounded bitter instead as thoughts of my mother and her training in classical ballet surface. “Yeah, I majored in not losing my panties before the first act and minored in the effective application of pasties.”

He chuckled. “If you hate it, why are you doing it?”

“Family business,” I muttered, then immediately wished I hadn’t.

His eyes swung my way, rested on me curiously for a beat, and then went back to the windshield wordlessly.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” I said.

“Wasn’t sure if you wanted me to,” he replied.

His dismissive tone sparked my irritation.

“I didn’t want you to,” I snapped.

“All right.”

I was silent for a minute, then sighed. After all, I’d initiated the conversation to start out with.

“Fine. Ask.”

“How is it the family business?” He somehow managed to sound dutiful and sincerely interested at the same time.

“My mom was a professional dancer.”

“Was?”

My shrug was far more casual than the emotions tumbling around in my heart. “It’s not a money-making job. And she had addiction issues. Gambling first. Cohen was her bookie. When she got in over her head, she danced in one of his clubs to make ends meet. It was only a short jump from there to drugs and before long…you know Cohen, so you can imagine how it went.”

“So does that mean Cohen is a family business, too?”

I stiffened. “No. Everything my mother was…everything she became…I’m not her. And whatever she had going with Cohen sure as hell isn’t on me.”

He eased off the gas just a little and glanced at me again. “So this is your mother’s debt?”

My mouth twisted. “If I tell you it is…will you let me go?”

There was the briefest hesitation before he answered. “Would you lie to me to
make
me let you go?”

“Yes.”

Shit.

I was failing miserably at helping myself.

“Has anyone ever told
you
that you aren’t very good at small talk?” he asked.

“I have no reason to be,” I stated.

“Everyone has a reason to play nice sometimes.”

“Ellis—my boss—doesn’t like us to talk to the clients.”

“Ah. That’s probably for the best,” he said.

“It keeps us safe.”

“What about when you’re not at work?”

I tensed again. “What about it?”

“Don’t you have to be polite to people? At the post office or the grocery store or the place where you buy your dresses?”

“Of course. But they’re not usually threatening to duct tape me up at every turn.”

“Goes with the job. It’s just a career hazard, I guess.”

“If you say so,” I replied with a snort. “How long you been doing it?”

“Threatening to duct tape you? Today’s my first day.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’ve been working for Cohen for six years.” His voice was tinged with poorly disguised bitterness.

“You don’t like it,” I stated.

“No.”

I turned his words on him. “Then why are you doing it?”

“Very funny,” he said.

“Oh, I’m deadly serious.”

“Are you?”

He hates Cohen as much as I do,
I realized, and I felt a little worse about giving him a hard time.

“Don’t look so sad, Mr…” I trailed off.

He hadn’t given me his name.

Why would he?
I asked myself.
I’m just another pay cheque, and giving me his name turns me into a loose end.

“I’m Painter,” he stated without hesitating.

I laughed in spite of myself. “Painter? What is that? Your day job?”

You’re obviously sleep-deprived,
I told myself.
Feeling sorry for the man who’s going to turn you over to Cohen Blue and teasing him about his name isn’t normal.

But then he grinned and it was worth it, just to see the genuine pleasure in his green eyes. The smile transformed his face. I admired his profile as he answered.

“Unfortunately, no, it’s not a title. My mom was an artist, and for some reason, that seemed like a good enough reason to name me after an art medium.”

“Wait. That’s your
real
first name? Not one you just give to Cohen’s…friends to throw them off?”

“Yep. Real name. Painter Garret Darren. And really, I’m lucky I wound up as Painter and not as something far worse.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “Just about anything. Sculpture. Van Gogh. Dancer.”

“Prancer? Vixen?”

He rolled his eyes. “Just so you know, I’ve punched people for mocking me about less important things.”

“Are you going to hit me, Painter Garret Darren?” I asked.

His face tightened, and I put my hand on his arm to let him know I was kidding. The thick muscles of his biceps made my heart beat a little faster before he shook off my grip.

“I’m not that kind of man, Polly.”

He twisted the steering wheel and pulled off the road. For a second I thought it was because he was mad, and then I spied a dimly lit gas station just ahead. We coasted up to one of the pumps.

Painter reached across my lap, pressing his elbow against my knees in a way that gave me a bit of an involuntary thrill.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Painter didn’t answer right away. He let his arm rest there, building up heat in my thighs.

“Does he hit you?” His voice was gruff.

The abrupt question caught me off guard. “What?”

“Does he hit you?” Painter repeated.

Had he spotted my black eye? I stole a glance in the mirror above me on the shade. No. It was still well covered.

“Well,” Painter prodded. “Does he?”

“Does who?”

“The dangerous man you have at home. The one you say you didn’t call.”

“No!”

“Because if he does…”

“He doesn’t. He’s kind and sweet.”

My sincerity seemed to satisfy him, even if it didn’t make him happy. “Good.”

He popped open the glovebox and yanked out a set of handcuffs. He held them up and dangled them in front of me.

“Let’s call this insurance,” he said.

“You’re going to handcuff me to…what? The steering wheel?”

“No.”

“Thank God, because—”

He cut me off. “I’m going to handcuff you to the toilet.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You told me yourself you’re a runner.”

I didn’t deny it, but I didn’t offer him my wrist, either. After a second he sighed.

“I thought you might like to use a real toilet. Since you wasted your last pee break on a phone call.”

I reigned in an urge to stick my tongue out him.

Somehow,
I thought.
This can work to my advantage.

I smiled sweetly. “Yes, please. I’d love to use a real toilet.”

He rolled his eyes. “Do I need to give you a list of rules along with the standard consequences for breaking them?”

“I think I can manage.”

Painter grabbed my purse from the backseat and tossed the cuffs into it. Then he let himself out, and came around to open my door.

“Such a gentleman,” I muttered.

He grinned. “From what I hear…ladies prefer a bad boy. So keep this in mind. I don’t
like
to hurt people, but I will, if I’m pushed to. Don’t risk anyone else’s safety by pulling something stupid, okay?”

“Do I seem stupid to you?”

“No. You seem a little too damned smart, actually.”

This time, I
did
stick my tongue out. “Can I take my purse so I can fix my make-up?”

“As long as you’re not planning on whacking me in the head with it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

He pulled me out by the hand and didn’t let go as we walked toward the service station store.

We stopped right outside the doors and Painter bent his head down to my neck. When he spoke, his warm breath made a trail of goose bumps rise up on my skin.

“I promise you, this isn’t going to be one of those movie-escape scenes where I leave you alone in the washroom long enough for you to climb out a window.”

“Fine.” I hoped he took my gritted teeth as an expression of irritation and not what it really signified—a maddening urge to turn my mouth toward his.

Painter plastered a cheeky grin on his face as he yanked me close and opened the door. He winked at the attendant before slapping a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter.

“Key to the men’s room, please?”

“Not the ladies?” The shaggy-haired cashier tugged on his eyebrow ring and gave us a puzzled look.

“My lady friend has a peculiar fetish,” Painter announced, and my face went hot.

The attendant nodded and tossed the key to us.

“What is
wrong
with you?” I hissed.

“Let’s call that payback for the phone thing,” he replied as he shoved me through the store and into the restroom.

“Isn’t chaining me here punishment enough?”

“You’d think so, but no.”

He fished the handcuffs from my purse and shot a meaningful look toward the tiny window above the toilet.

“As if my ass would fit through that,” I said.

“I know exactly what size your ass is,” he replied. “And there’s no doubt in my mind you’d squeeze it through there.”

I fought off another blush. “Whatever.”

He smiled and fastened my wrist to the metal pipes behind the toilet. Then he closed the door. I was able to reach the lock and to secure it, but I could still hear him shuffling around outside.

“I’m supposed to go while you’re out there?”

“Yes.”

I sighed, then realized I was still gripping my purse in my free hand. I stared down at it, feeling a bubble of hope build in my chest.

A bobby pin
. I had to have one.

I rattled the handcuffs to cover the sound of me tossing things from my bag to the floor. Painter’s laugh carried through the door.

“You can’t shake your way out of those,” he called. “They’re police issue.”

“Police issue?” I managed to reply. “Seems kinda classy for a seedy guy like you.”

Aha!

I had to bite my tongue to keep from cheering out loud as my fingers closed around a skinny piece of metal at the bottom of my purse. I pulled it out. It was a silver bobby pin, decorated with pearls. I stuck it into the cuffs, but the pearls stopped it just a little too short to pick the lock. I needed to pull them off.

“The cuffs were my dad’s.”

I stopped what I was doing and stared at the door. Had I heard him right?

“Your dad was a cop?”

“Never mind,” Painter muttered.

But I wasn’t going to let it go that easily. “He must love what you do for a living.”

“He’s dead.”

My heart squeezed guiltily. I knew the pain of losing a parent.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a hero. He died on duty and that’s exactly how he wanted it.”

“You didn’t get along?” I asked.

“We got along fine,” he replied. “But he wanted me to be the same kind of man he was, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite cut it.”

“He wanted you to be a cop?”

“Probably more than he wanted to be a cop himself,” Painter said.

“So why didn’t you do it?”

“I tried. I failed the entrance exam. Twice.”

“How come?”

“No aptitude for the work, apparently. Too free spirited. Too emotional. I think my dad took it personally that I failed. He never said directly that it made him angry or that I disappointed him but I always assumed I did anyway. So I did what I hoped was the next best thing. I became a private investigator instead. And that probably embarrassed him even more, I don’t know. Maybe I just wasn’t enough like him and just a little bit too much like my mother.”

“Your mother, the artist?”

Painter chuckled dryly. “Is that so hard to imagine?”

“Yes. I mean, unless she was an art forger. Or an art thief.”

“Because you still think I’m seedy?”

I looked down at my bobby pin. I’d pried off two of the tiny pearls and needed to get to work on the third one.

“Like I said before…who else works for a guy like Cohen Blue?” I asked.

“Guys who have no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

Painter paused and then answered, “That’s what everyone who’s always had a choice thinks.”