Under My Skin Read online

  She rolls her eyes. “Stop trying to distract me! I don’t care about the joke. Just tell me the rest of the story,” she demands.

  I wrinkle my nose at her. “Whatever. Your joke sucked.” She opens her mouth to say something, so I rush the rest of my explanation. “I don’t know how it happened. One minute, he’s giving me a ticket, then my poor car refused to start, so he had to give me a ride home because my cell phone wasn’t working and well…I guess I could have used his?” I trail off as the realization dawns on me as I’m talking. The implications of him orchestrating it just so we have alone time make my head spin and my heart race. Not good when I need to keep my cool.

  “Keep talking!”

  “Okay, okay, easy there. Thirty seconds after we pulled into the lot, I’m on his lap…” I frown. I know I must look as confused as I sound. As I re-tell this part of the story, it makes absolutely no sense. Tons of Dad’s friends have given me rides home after a mishap or two, and I’ve never ended up doing the bump and grind with them. Granted, if I had, it totally would have been May/December-ish, but there have been a few young ones throughout the years…then again, they’ve known my father, and they know what he’s like where I’m concerned.

  But if I really, really wanted someone, I could have gotten my way.

  Maybe I’m not so much of a straight-up hussy as Bertha thinks…

  My best friend interrupts my train of thought. “Well, you certainly looked like you were enjoying it.”

  “Voyeur,” I huff. “How long were you spying on me?”

  “Around a minute or so,” she replies cheerfully. “Bertha had a better view though.”

  I glare at the reminder.

  “I thought you said you despised his guts,” she says thoughtfully.

  “I do. We were just…” I trail off, unable to finish my thought.

  “Swapping saliva?” she interrupts wickedly.

  “Sophie Harlow!”

  “What? I’m right!”

  “It was just one of those things where you get caught up in the moment, that’s all.”

  “Caught up in the moment after he gives you a speeding ticket, hmm? Also,” she adds in afterthought, “you sound totally defensive right now. Like Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky defensive.”

  I ignore the first part of what she says and insist, “I do not sound defensive. You are just hearing a defensive tone because that’s what you want to hear. Stick to the facts, Harlow. You’re going to make a shitty lawyer if you keep that up,” I advise. I turn my attention to examining my week old manicure. The cheery coral is starting to chip despite the layers of top coat I’ve meticulously added every day. Definitely time to change polish.

  Inwardly, I’m dismayed when Sophie doesn’t change the subject. “Okay, so let’s go through the facts, shall we?” she starts in her most out-to-sway-the-jury voice. “Fact one, Miss Connor, you openly admitted to me, God, and anyone else who was nearby, your lewd and lascivious thoughts concerning one Mark Daniels after thoroughly ogling his ass, when you were unaware that said ass belonged to a grown-up Mark. Fact two, less than thirty minutes ago, you were discovered in an extremely compromising position i.e., his lap, with his tongue in your mouth and hand down your dress, in his squad car by two witnesses, one of whom is his grandmother. How am I doing so far Counselor Connor?”

  “It was a mistake,” I insist, manicure forgotten, but my defense sounds paltry, even to my own ears.

  She simply gives me the side-eye before picking up the remote and flipping to an episode of Seinfeld. “The sale at Dunkin Donuts is running until the end of the week,” she says, laughter in her voice.

  Bitch.

  Mark

  “Marsha, I want mine with a nice, healthy shot of whiskey, you hear? And make sure you put enough marshmallows and whipped cream.”

  Marsha, our waitress, turns to me expectantly but I’m busy staring at Grams in shock.

  “Close your mouth Mark,” she orders briskly. “I’m old, not dead. I can drink if I want to. After dealing with that aggravating twit, I need fortitude beyond what the good Lord can provide. Stop staring at me, and tell Marsha what you want to eat.”

  I look at her thoughtfully while I order a hamburger¸ fries, and shake. When Marsha leaves, I pounce. “Hot chocolate with whiskey Grams?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject young man,” she says, wagging her finger at me. “You have more explaining to do than I over my choice of nightcap. What were you doing with that harridan’s tongue down your throat, hmm? Wait—did she force herself on you? My eyes are still as sharp as they were when I was young, and from what I could make out, she was on top of you.”

  I choke back a laugh and roll my eyes. “Grams, I think you know I’m no angel.”

  Her rheumy eyes squint shrewdly at me. All of a sudden, it feels like I’m on the wrong side of the table in the interrogation room. “You still need to tell me what happened. And Father Donahue too, young man. I’m already praying to your maker for your soul as we speak.”

  Grams continues to mourn my moral downfall, and I stay quiet. Some time during her rant, Marsha brings her spiked hot chocolate with a wink. My food arrives a few minutes after. I keep my mouth full—the burger is delicious—and my attention on Gram’s monologue. Too bad luscious little Liz hasn’t figured it out yet, but dealing with Grams is like dealing with a young puppy. It’s better to cede control and let them exhaust themselves. Much better outcome for all parties involved.

  I only spent three weeks every summer with her, but we’re incredibly close. When I was stationed in Afghanistan, she learned how to use a computer and video chat just so she could see and talk to me— which is more than I can say for my own damned parents. My dad is career army, which means I’ve lived in fifteen different countries and learned to speak six different languages. When I was seven, mom decided she was unhappy being an army wife—and mother— and she skipped town. Dad decided my brother and I needed to have a ‘motherly influence’, but he didn’t want to deal with the trials of marriage again, so he started sending us to Grams for a few weeks during the summer.

  By the time my hunger is appeased, Grams is still waxing poetic on the merits of Liz’s friend Sophie while simultaneously lecturing me on the perils of interaction with Liz Connor. I lift my milkshake in one hand and raise the other towards Grams in a gesture for her to pause.

  She cuts off abruptly and waits for me to speak.

  I’m the only one she does that for. Even to this day, it makes me feel warm.

  “Grams, I don’t want Sophie.” I keep my words brief, but the implication of what I don’t say hangs heavy in the silence between us.

  It doesn’t take her long.

  “Don’t tell me you plan on courting that strumpet. Please honey, as my favorite grandson, I’m begging you. There are billions of women on this earth, and I’m sure a good portion of them are younger than me.” She ends on a pleading note, but the wicked light in her eyes doesn’t match the tragic tone in her voice.

  “You know,” I start slowly, “Brant would take exception to the favorite grandson comment. I bet you tell him he’s your favorite when I’m not here.” She blushes, and I grin at her. “You know, Liz reminds me of someone I know…”

  “Well, why the heck can’t you date her?”

  “I’m scared she might have a problem with alcohol. She takes whiskey in her hot chocolate.”

  She looks horrified for a few seconds and then understanding dawns. I suck down some of my milkshake through the straw and wait for my set-down.

  She doesn’t disappoint.

  “Marcus Jamison Daniels, if you dare compare me to her, I’m calling my lawyer and writing you out of my will!”

  The idea makes me smile. Grams knows I don’t want or need her money. Even if my absentee mother hadn’t tried to assuage her guilt by building us trust funds, husband by husband, the years I spent in the army allowed me to save my commission, go to school for almost nothing, and get by on the most mini
malistic budget. I’d also gotten lucky because when I’d bought my place, it had been a buyer’s market.

  I decide to tease her a little more. She pretends otherwise, but I know she loves the attention. “I should have figured you’d be a whiskey girl. Your maiden name is Jamison.”

  Two pink spots dots her papery white cheeks. “Mark, I already explained why I needed to have a little hot toddy,” she hisses. I flash a bright smile at her. She just shakes her head at me and calls me a rascal before turning serious. “You like her, don’t you?”

  I shrug. “Not sure. She runs off at the mouth a little too much.” When she gasps, I wink. “She intrigues me though. She seems…fearless.”

  She looks at me soberly. “Sometimes, I swear I don’t know if that girl is fearless as you say or just plain careless, but I’ve lived next door to her for nearly her entire life. Not to mention, I possess the great misfortune of having her in a few of my classes when I still taught, but the one thing she is not is stupid. If she’s as smart as I think, then she’ll realize what a catch you are. If she’s not—well, irrespective of either way, you should remember what she’s like and all the terror she put you through when you were younger. A leopard’s spots don’t move, you know,” she says seriously, completely botching the idiom.

  I remind myself that I’m not in Sheffield to date. I have a singular purpose and a job to do, neither of which revolve around hooking up with locals.

  I can’t afford any distractions, and if there’s anything to be said about Miss Elizabeth Marie Connor, it’s that she’s one hell of a distraction.

  Job to do Daniels. Focus.

  I remind myself of that until I go to bed at night, but it still doesn’t shake the memory of her mouth against mine.

  Liz

  For three days, the scene in Mark’s car replays on a constant loop in my head like introductory scenes of bad soft porn, but I need to be strong. It also helps that he hasn’t come around the coffee shop since then.

  It’s not like I crave a daily sighting of him or anything.

  In fact, I’m determined to forget all things hot cop, porny squad car scene, and Mark Daniels. Unfortunately, neither my brain, nether regions, or my libido feel like cooperating. Even a quickie with my Bullet doesn’t help.

  Ironic, isn’t it?

  My vibrator is called the Bullet, and I completely missed my target.

  I snort in disgust at the direction my thoughts have taken. What I need to focus on is finding myself a hot make-out partner guaranteed to make me forget he who shall remain nameless because if I think of Mark’s name again, I won’t stop thinking of him.

  Fuck!

  I totally just white-elephanted myself. For a smart girl, sometimes I am really dumb.

  I slip some shiny bangles on my wrists as I steel myself for tonight’s upcoming emergency girl’s night. It’s just me, Sophie, and her annoying-as-hell cousin Clarabelle (I’m not kidding, that’s really her name). Whenever we decide to go out, it’s either just me and Sophie or our duo plus Clarabelle. Sophie and I both decided to go to Yale for law school, which is a forty-five minute commute from our sleepy little Connecticut town. My parents and her mom were thrilled when we both got in—not so much when we announced that we were still moving out of our childhood homes and in with each other. Well, my parents didn’t mind so much, but Sophie’s mom thinks that I’m a bad influence on her.

  Our nearly decade long friendship hasn’t swayed her thinking one inch.

  It’s a nice arrangement when we need home cooked meals or laundry assistance. It’s not so great when we need to go out because most of our high school friends are in college or grad school in other states and our Yalie buds would rather travel into Manhattan or even to Greenwich to party than to come out to the boonies.

  If we need strength in numbers, Clarabelle and her annoying self is our only surefire option.

  And tonight, I need whatever reinforcements I can get.

  I’m jolted out of my musings when I hear sharp rapping at my bedroom door.

  “Come in,” I call.

  Sophie cracks the door open and slips in. She looks gorgeous in her off-shoulder kimono style top, indigo skinny jeans, and black leather-heeled boots. Her makeup is soft, enhancing her features instead of distorting them.

  “Pretty girl,” I smile. “Why’d you knock on the door? You know you can come in anytime.”

  She shoots me an exasperated look. “We don’t have enough time for me to list all of the reasons, but just because you think you can barge into my room unannounced doesn’t mean I’m going to lose my manners.”

  “We’re like sisters!”

  Her lips draw together in a straight line, but I can see she’s trying hard not to let the twitch at one corner turn into a smile. “I know, and I love you, but the last time I did that, I walked in on you giving yourself your monthly breast exam. Not something I need to see.”

  “Whatever,” I gripe. “I have a great set of tits, and I care about their health.”

  My best friend is a prude to the nth degree. Even when I describe my tatas by something other than ‘breasts’, she gets uncomfortable and blushes. Truth be told, that’s why I make it a point to be crude. I determined a long time ago that one of my purposes here on earth is to help her overcome her shyness.

  She rolls her eyes, but there are twin spots of color on her cheeks. She gestures at my outfit, “Looks like you want to share your elevated opinion about your lady parts with the entire bar.”

  My teeth sink into my lip. “Really?”

  The last time I wore a truly skanky outfit in Dunbar’s, Father Donahue had just been leaving happy hour. I thought the poor man was going to go into apoplectic shock the way his eyes bulged out of his head. The following week, his sermon had been about the merits of modesty in the journey towards spiritual righteousness, and he quoted passages from the Book of Judges. I’d tried to make myself inconspicuous by sitting between my two huge football player cousins in the back of the church, but his eyes unerringly found me each time he uttered the name “Delilah”.

  He’s an old coot, but his punishment had its intended effect. As a result, I’m paranoid about my clothing when I go out in our town.

  I glance down at my attire for the evening. I am wearing a sleeveless teal dress. It’s gathered at the neckline and hits me at about mid-thigh, but it’s flowy and loose, not form fitting at all. I could have explosives strapped to my body underneath this dress, and no one would be able to tell. The length and necklace-style collar are the only sexy things about it. Maybe the four inch gold sandals are a mistake?

  Sophie shakes her head at me, smirking. “No, it’s actually not that bad, although it does look like you purposely shrunk the dress material over your chest…and, your red lipstick is a bit daring.”

  I stare hard at my chest in the mirror. I hadn’t noticed it, but the material was a little snug. “Well, the dress is the right size. It’s not my fault I was overly blessed in the chest department,” I shrug. “Anyway, can you imagine what our tits are going to look like when we’re eighty? Do you think either one of us are going to want to show our racks off then? No. Let me tell you, the only redeeming thing about us dating-wise when we’re roomies in our luxury assisted living home will be the fact that we have dentures, and we can remove our teeth, so we need to make use of what we’ve got today, today. Carpe Diem and all that.”

  Sophie shakes her head but laughs. “Okay, enough about your assets and future sexcapades as a senior citizen. I came in here to tell you that Clarabelle is five minutes away, so we need to get going.” Normally, she’s not a big fan of going out, so her next statement is a surprise. “Tonight is going to be so much fun. I pity the guy you set your sights on.”

  And then she laughs and walks out.

  Mark

  It doesn’t take me very long to figure out that Liz is going to be a distraction whether she’s in my bed or not. Even though I’m supposed to be building relationships with the guys on
the force and becoming a part of the crew, I’m unable to get her out of my head. I even stop going by the coffee shop where she works, but it doesn’t help because I have the way she looks, the way she tastes—everything about her, memorized.

  I decide I need a distraction from my distraction, so when Drew invites me out to drinks with a couple of the guys from the department, I gratefully accept. I’ve been slowly getting to know the other guys through work, shooting hoops, and the surprisingly fun kickball team, but I haven’t learned anything yet. I’m hoping the alcohol loosens some tongues tonight, and maybe I can learn some valuable information.

  I arrive at Dunbar’s freshly shaven and in civilian clothes three hours after my shift ends and thirty minutes after reassuring Grams I won’t bring any brazen women back to my apartment. One beer in, I’m in the middle of some good natured Patriots ribbing while analyzing what I’m learning about each of the guys when I spot something that makes one fist clench, the other hand reach for my absent gun, and my dick rock hard.

  Less than thirty feet away from me is the loud-mouthed brunette bombshell I can’t stop thinking about. Her dress is tight across her rack, and I can’t help but remember that I had my hands cupping and squeezing all that gorgeous, firm flesh less than four days ago.

  It’s also impossible for me not to want to kill the asshole who looks like he thinks he’s going to be in my position tonight.

  She’s laughing up at him, her dainty hand casually resting on his shoulder while he leers down at her.

  His fucking eyes aren’t even on her face.

  But my eyes are everywhere.

  Her beautiful, wide mouth is painted red, but it doesn’t look garish. Instead, she looks like old Hollywood glamour with her long dark hair, thickly lashed eyes, and the cute dimples that crease her cheeks.

  Ever since I’ve met this chick, she’s had this crazy magnetic pull on me. All it takes is the sight of her with her beautiful head thrown back in laughter and the graceful arch of her neck exposed for me to think of sun, light, laughter, soul, and sex. I want to stand there and never look away.