The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,27
two days, and I still hadn’t been able to find her. It must be nice to have good friends. Because she certainly had those.
I’d stopped by The Alchemist so many times since Saturday that I’d swear they’d call the cops on me by now.
My private investigator, currently looking into our company’s ties to Chris Jackson, had taken on the additional task of locating the ballsy brunette that’d walked away with my father’s watch, and still, he’d barely got enough information about the dark-haired vixen that had swindled me.
Not an address. Not even a name.
No one was willing to talk.
Like the obligatory late-night shot of tequila on a school night, the silky-haired seductress had burned her way through my system, intoxicated me and left me with nothing but regrets.
A contrast from the Molotov cocktail of a woman who stole from me, Becky Callahan’s not the smooth scotch you sip on late in the evening while the sun sets over the city’s horizon; she’s that last ounce of bottom-shelf liquor at the bar.
I fucking hate tequila. But it’s the only drink I can stand this morning as I count down the last thirty minutes to the tuxedo-fitting appointment I’d actually taken with Jase and Lachlan.
Yup, Becky’s that last culminating, hard ounce.
Problem is… I’m not right now. Hard, that is.
With the twinkling lights of an early morning New York City beating on my body from the wide hotel windows, I slip my hands into the pretty blonde’s cheap extensions, my fingers gripping tight as her lips find my hips.
I twirl the still-full bottle of tequila from my fingertips as I lay fully-clothed on the hotel’s king-sized bed as Becky unhooks my belt, her pink lips prodding just above the leather strap.
The touch of her mouth is soft at first—hesitant, but quickly turns greedy.
She mumbles against my skin, her voice mingling in with the strings from Sinatra’s “The Best is Yet to Come” from the stereo.
“I thought you were never going to call again,” she murmurs below my belly button as she slips my belt off, letting it slide to the floor.
I take another swig of the tequila, a hand slipping between the back of my head and the pillow. I sigh. “And what would make you think that, Brittany?”
“Becky.” She corrects, but I don’t care. “I mean, you left me. Left me in your hotel room last time.”
“At least you got room service.”
“Yeah. Alone,” she whines.
“Could have asked the bellboy to join in.”
“Mmm. Dirty,” she coos, her fingers unzipping my fly.
“I meant to ‘join in on the eating….’” I pause. “Of room service.”
“Oh right, that.” But she has no idea what I’m saying.
I peek down to find her fully engrossed in getting her hands into my unzipped pants, but I find I don’t have the will to care. The neck of the tequila bottle twirls between my fingers, and I can’t help the guilt that I feel, my conscience tap-dancing on my drowsy thoughts.
My brothers’ words emerge in my mind.
The eternal bachelor.
Doesn’t believe in marriage.
Bad when it came to women.
I can feel myself freeze underneath Becky’s fingers as she moves in, her mouth starting to inch to the skin below my belly button.
But I can’t. I can’t do this.
Can’t be with her. Not right now.
Because all I can think of is the woman I’d rather have in bed with me at this very moment.
The mouth of the sultry brunette I’d recently left in my bed slants against my own, her tongue touching mine. Light brushes at first, then sweeping. I take control of her kiss, my fingertips traveling up her sides to tangle in her silky chocolate and caramel-colored hair.
She tastes just as sweet as the chocolatey hue of the strands on her head.
Pure temptation with a hint of tequila.
I’ve got the imaginary taste down to a science. Well, that, and the vision of the missing half a million dollar watch she’d lifted from my nightstand.
Not to mention the note she left behind, the dark ink wet even hours later when I found it, written in haste, its script scribbled and long.
The image of it was engraved in my mind long after the scent of her perfume left my pillows.
I close my eyes and still see it, still feel that thread of fear that twisted down my spine when I arrived at my apartment to a hysterical Maria, my nightstand in practical pieces on the floor.