Page 20 of Cockpit
“The goddamn contest.”
“Yes. It’s real. I promise. We’ve had ov
er seven hundred thousand votes come in for the first two rounds alone, and we’re hoping to double that for the next one.”
He snorts. “Great. Stellar. I don’t need your magazine or its attention. It seems you ran the contest so far without my knowledge or participation, and it’s done just fine. Keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll both be happy.”
“You’re going to win, but only if I can get your help. All I need are a few photos of you and a short bio—anything about yourself, really. The next round of voting starts at the end of next week, and I need your help to save the magazine.” I prattle on even though he doesn’t react. “Your son is adorable. He can be in the photos, too.”
“Absolutely not.”
There’s a bite in his tone that makes the bartender glance our way and leaves me staring at him. “Then your wife. We can include her in the photos, too, if you want.”
He winces. “No wife.” Those two words come out like a curse.
“I’m sorry for assuming—”
He stands abruptly and faces me so that our bodies are inches apart. His eyes bore into mine, a combination of confusion and defiance.
“What is it you want from me, Thorton?” There’s anger in his voice I hadn’t been expecting.
It takes me a minute to find my voice, to remember I’m here to convince him to participate, when all I can concentrate on is the scent of his cologne—clean—and the heat of his body as he stands so very close to me.
Speak, Sid.
“To put water under the bridge.”
Of course, I say nothing about the contest. The reason I’m here. There’s something about him and the unfiltered intensity in his eyes amid the dim bar light that makes this quiet man seem a little edgy and a whole lot dangerous.
I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat as I wait for his response.
“Fine. The hatchet is buried.” He leans closer so that his lips are by my ear, and the warmth of his breath sends chills down my spine. “Hope it doesn’t hurt your reputation to be seen with me like it did back then. That would be a travesty.” And with that, he waltzes away from me without saying another word.
I stand there for the briefest of moments, slack-jawed and surprised by his animosity when I shouldn’t be. What I should be doing is trying to make amends, maybe say I’m sorry, secure him for the contest—and I scramble toward the exit after him.
The cool night air is welcome as it washes over me after the stuffy heat of the bar. I take a few steps into the darkened alley and look for Grayson, but I don’t see anyone.
Hugging my arms around myself, I head toward the edge of the building. There’s nothing there but a few dumpsters against a chain link fence.
It’s when I turn to head back into the bar that I startle.
“Hey, there.” The man’s hair is disheveled, his belt buckle shines off what little light is back here, and his eyes are laced with a suggestion that makes my skin crawl.
My hands grab the strap of my purse where it rests against my chest, but I stare him squarely in the eyes and nod a greeting I’d rather not give.
He takes a stumbling step toward me. “You’re a sweet little thang, you know that? I bet you’d feel real good.”
My first thought is that his grammar sucks. My second is, why in the hell am I focusing on his grammar when I’m alone in an alley with a drunk man?
Because I’m nervous.
I shouldn’t be. The door to the bar is right there, and there is probably at least one other person somewhere close. Yet, even knowing that, fear slowly coats my skin.
When I take a step to my right to put more distance between us, he mirrors the movement and emits a soft chuckle.
Get a grip, Sid. You’re fine.
“You’re looking mighty sexy. Love them heels with that skirt.” A deep, guttural groan suggests what he’s thinking about wanting to do to me.
