

Copyright © 2014 Max Henry

Published by Max Henry

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians or artists mentioned in this book.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Published: May 2014, by Max Henry maxhenryauthor@outlook.com

Edited by: Max Henry

Cover Design: Rebecca Berto of Berto Designs

Formatting by:  Max Effect Author Services

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Stephanie Drake pushed the ever growing pile of paper that cascaded from her in-tray back in line. Her boss, Greg, fed from the look his employee's gave him when he dumped their final workload on them at four o-clock on a Friday. She watched as he swaggered from desk to desk, through the maze of sterile cubicles that made up the offices of Shank and Leamer. Every detail about the smug prick irritated her beyond reason. Possibly due to the fact he had tried a lame pass at her the first week of her employment.

Three rows up, Cassidy poked her head around the mid-height, grey partition, and checked the coast was clear before she snuck out, and bolted to Steph's hidey-hole. Steph giggled as the curly blonde stepped in, and crouched beside the chair to obscure herself from view.

"What an ass." Cassidy swept her loose locks aside as she spoke, and absently pinned them back.

"I wonder some days how he manages to stay married."

Cass rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well. None of us have met 'Mrs Greg', so who knows, she might be just as up herself as he is?"

Steph snorted at the assumption. "You're probably right."

"So?" Cass shuffled about until her back leant against the desk drawers. "What are your plans for tonight?"

Steph shrugged. "Not sure."

"Come on. Davey boy must have something organised? He always does."

"Dave broke up with me last night," Steph replied flatly.

"Aw, babe." Cass tipped her head to the side, and pouted. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He was an ass about it, so I guess it was better now than later."

"What'd he say?"

Steph's eyes roamed over the memos and notes stuck to her cubicle wall. "He said he didn't feel that way about me anymore; that he felt like he had to force sex with me."

Cass drew a sharp breath, and stood. "You're kidding?"

She shook her head. "Apparently I'm 'not long-term material'."

"What a bastard."

A smirk pulled at the corner of Steph's lips as she nodded to her friend. "I threw his x-box out the door as he left." She stifled a laugh at the memory.

Humour twinkled in Cass's eyes, and she leant in for the rest of the gossip.

"It left a dent in the hood of his car." Steph's smirk grew to a grin.

"Good girl." Cass clapped. "That monkey loved his damn BMW more than you."

Her grin faded, and she looked away again. "He loved a lot of things more than me."

"Well," Cass started indignantly. "I think you need a pick-me-up."

"Ahem." Both girls whipped to face Greg as he leant over the top of the partition. "Busy girls?"

"I'm on my way back to my desk, Mr Daniels." Cass stopped short of batting her lashes at the man.

"Good to hear, Miss Pratt."

Steph eyeballed him as he swaggered back to his office at the end of the walkway. She turned back to Cass who wore a devilish grin. "What?"

"Dress, heels, and hair. All done by eight. I'll pick you up." Cassidy circled Steph's chair, and paused in the walkway to waggle a finger in her direction. "No excuses."

Steph's back straightened as she drew taller, and slapped the side of a stiff hand to her brow. "Yes, Ma'am."

With a glance in Greg's direction, Cass chuckled and headed back to her cubicle. Steph pushed the office chair out from the desk, and propped her heeled feet against the edge. Her shirt bunched as she slouched in her seat to hide behind her knees.

Cassidy meant well, and as much as Steph knew guys like Dave were better off somebody else's problem, it didn't stop the heartache at ending a two year relationship. Sure, the guy was a complete tool, but he had been her tool. Massive ego aside, he had been a great provider, and cared for her when he was home. It was the times he was out—without her—that was the issue. Dave was a looker: six-four, built, sandy blonde hair, and deathly handsome in a suit. So no wonder every time he went out—with or without her—the guy would turn every female head in the room.

He said he'd never cheated on her—and he was right, as far as she knew—but his self-awareness was the killer. He knew he was a catch, and he knew he was wanted. He just didn't want Steph as much as he wanted to be chased. Two days before New Year was no coincidence when it came to timing for his break up. She held no illusion as to the fact he would be out on the prowl for his next conquest tonight. And he wouldn't be short of offers.

Steph dropped her feet to the floor with a dull thud, and picked up the stack of forms Greg had given her. All she could hope was that wherever Cass planned on taking her tonight, they went somewhere new. Because like hell she wanted front row seats to the public maul of some new woman by Dave.

Steph's eyes rolled back in her head as she threw the bobby pins onto the bathroom counter. Anyone would think that the amount of times a woman had to do her hair in her lifetime would automatically qualify for some sort of skill by this stage. But no, not Steph. Countless times she had done this exact style, but every time her hands fumbled like a ten year old girl with her first training bra.

Pent up frustration bubbled dangerously close to the surface, so she decided against a gazzilionth attempt, and headed for the kitchen. A cursory glance at the clock said she had twenty minutes until Cass arrived. She pulled a stemmed glass from the cupboard, and poured herself a cold wine from the fridge. What was she doing? Her heart lay in tatters somewhere next to the couch where she had argued with Dave the night before, and yet she was about to hit the clubs with her closest friend. You've finally gone insane.

Steph sipped at the refreshing drink, and quelled the doubt in her head. It's time I looked after number one, you know. She placed the glass down on the bench-top and stared at it. Had she drunk all that already? A sure sign she was seriously distracted. With a chuckle, and a shake of her head, she wandered back through her one bedroom unit to the bathroom, ready for battle. A tired, and disinterested face stared back at her from the mirror as she sighed, and grabbed the tail comb once more.

By the time her locks had been wrestled into some semblance of the style she tried to achieve, a knock at the door echoed through the sparsely furnished place.

"Coming," she called out.

Cass's voice carried back to where she stuck in the final bobby pin. "It's okay, I let myself in."

"Pervert. You wanted to catch me in the nude." She laughed, and then glanced to the reflection of Cass as she joined her in the room.

"Busted. You know my perversion too well. I may have to silence you."

"Try, wench." Steph grinned. "I have a million pins in here, and I only need one to take you out."

Cass laughed, and rested a hip on the shower door. "Seriously though, I love how you do your hair. I wish I could do victory curls."

"Dedication, babe. You've got to be happy to spend hours before the mirror, and end up with numb arms from them being over your head for so long."

Cass smiled, and reached out to tuck Steph's tag in. "If only you were as good at dressing yourself."

"Hey." She laughed. "I've gotta let you have something, right?"

"You're too kind," Cass drolled.

"Where are we going tonight, anyway?" Steph flicked her gaze to Cass briefly, and caught the sneaky grin.

"Nowhere Dave will be. I thought we could go over the south-side for a change."

"And get ourselves mugged?" Steph's eyes shot wide. "Are you serious?"

Cass dropped her shoulders, and shook her head. "We'll be fine, hon. As long as we stick to the well-lit, public areas, what could go wrong?"

She raised an eyebrow at the phrase which could tempt fate. Great, now we're jinxed.

"Anyway," Cass slapped her on the shoulder. "Have you got your shit together, or what? 'Coz I've got the taxi still outside for us."

Steph took a last look at her reflection, and drew her face into a mask of confidence. Her heart wanted to curl up on the couch with a snuggly blanket, and trashy late-night TV. But this would be good for her, right? Get back on the horse and all that?

She whipped through the unit to collect her bank card, and ID, then stuffed them into the side of her bra. She took hold of the doorway for balance as she shoved her feet into her trusty pumps. If she was about to do a marathon effort on her feet, then damn it all if she wouldn't do it in comfort. Besides, who the hell at a club paid that much attention to other people's shoes?

Cass waited in the back seat of the taxi as Steph shut the front door, and double-checked it. She shoved the key in her hidey-hole—behind a loose brick that literally came right out of the wall—and hustled down the stairs to slip in beside her buddy.

"Orchid Ave, thanks."

Steph looked across at Cass as the woman casually ordered the driver to take them to 'the' place to be. By far, the two of them weren't country pub-crawlers by any account, but this was way over what they normally got up to.

"Are you insane?" she hissed.

Cass shrugged and mouthed 'What?'

"You know how much they charge for a drink along there?"

Cass pursed her lips to stifle her smile. "Over-compensated by the quality of male you get in such clubs."

Steph rolled her eyes, and buckled her seat belt. "I think I had my fair share of Mr Handsome with Dave, thanks."

"Girl, you're a stunner. Why not use what you were born with to your advantage?"

"And what?" Steph asked. "Nab another douche who spends more time at the beautician than I do?"

Cass frowned, and huffed out her nose. "Admit it—he was a stallion in the sack."

"There's more to a relationship than sex." She ducked her chin as the driver made eye contact in the rear-view. "Maybe I want somebody who I can talk to for hours at night. Somebody who wants to buy me flowers. A guy who thinks I'm the most beautiful girl in the world?"

"Sweetheart." Cass dropped a hand on Steph's arm. "Do you still believe that Disney crap?"

She laughed idly at her friends tease, but truthfully she did believe it. Looks weren't the whole package. She wanted intellect as well. A man who could match her curious mind blow for blow, and give her deep and insightful discussions about life. You're a nerd. Maybe she was, but hey, looks didn't help her when Dave sat across the table, and spent an entire dinner with a phone in hand, browsing social media sites. Granted, the guy had her lust-fuelled for him in the bedroom. But it wasn't because Dave was Dave; it was purely because Dave was hot.

Steph needed more. She wanted to feel the buzz as she looked over her man, and admired him for who he was to her, not who he was to the world. She wanted a connection. She wanted Disney.

Suburbs stretched on as they travelled in silence, the scenery a blur of familiar imagery the two of them had seen a million times before. They reached the start of Orchid Ave, and Cass broke the tension. She elbowed Steph in the arm, and pointed at a group of guys who milled in a queue.

"See? I told you it was high-end stuff round here."

Steph offered a wan smile, and looked back out her window at a couple of drunk girls who wobbled along, much to the amusement of such 'high-class' fellas. She died a little inside at the thought of what was to come: ogling, grabbing, leering, and lame come-ons.

The driver double-parked alongside a flashy, black Range Rover, and turned to address them both. "Will this do you?"

"Perfect, thank you," replied Cass, and handed over a few twenties.

The driver sorted Cass's change as Steph reached for the handle, and opened the door. A rush of chatter, and thumping bass assaulted her ears. She swung her legs out and rose to full height, before she tugged the hem of her blouse down. Cass emerged from the far side of the taxi, and beckoned her with a grand sweep of her arm.

"Come on, hon. It's not far this way."

Steph stepped onto the sidewalk, and twisted to avoid a shoulder barge from a tall guy who didn't watch where he stumbled. The girls wove through the packed pavement, then stopped outside a large, crimson door. The finely carved entrance looked to be at least eight foot high, and was guarded by a bouncer who looked the same from her vantage point several steps down.

Cass ignored the queue and ascended the narrow flight, before she came to an abrupt halt in front of the huge man. He glanced down at her with a fiercely stoic face.

"Hey, Gary," she chirruped, and pushed up on her toes to give the man a peck on the cheek.

His stone expression broke as it gave way to a huge, dimpled grin. Gary leant down and pulled her into a brief hug. "Cassie. It's been too long girl."

"Where the heck did you disappear to?"

"Oh, you know." The bouncer shrugged. "Ran with the wrong crowd. Needed to lay low for a while."

Cass patted his elbow. "Well, it's good to see you back."

Gary turned to the side, and reached over to push the giant door open. "Enjoy your night, Miss Cassie."

Steph hurried up the steps to follow her friend into the dim corridor beyond the massive door. "Where do you know him from?" she asked, as Cass walked down the tiled passage like she had been to the place before.

"Don't ask me, and you won't have to wish you hadn't."

Steph paused to stare after the girl who transformed into a mystery, right before her eyes. Granted, neither of them had ever shared a heart-to-heart about their pasts, but what else hadn't Cass told her? The metal tips of Steph's heels clicked as she hurried to catch up before she lost sight of Cass. The woman pushed through a glass-beaded curtain, and the beat that echoed in the entrance hall grew into a deafening roar as they crossed the threshold. Mainstream, on-trend people mingled with unique, eclectic types. Each of the various tables appeared to represent a different thread of society. Selective profiling seemed to not apply in this joint.

"Drink?" Cass shouted over the music.

Steph nodded, and pointed to herself to indicate it was her shout. She edged through a throng of people to get as close to the bar as possible, and then planted a hand firmly on the marble top to secure her spot for service. Cass pushed in behind, and stood with her chest pressed to the back of Steph's shoulder to stop them from being separated.

The serving side of the bar appeared empty. A man to Steph's right moved away; frustrated at the wait by the look on his face. She took up his spot to lean over the counter and look either direction for a bartender. To her left, at the far end, a guy in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, body-blocked a shorter woman who stood with her back to the crowd. Steph watched as the woman swiped at her eyes with the back of her hands, and the man continued to lean over top of her and jab a finger angrily toward the back of the bar. The woman bolted through a 'staff only' door and disappeared. The man dipped his head, and pinched his nose.

"What's going on?" Cass called out from behind her.

Steph dropped back from the counter, and leant over to speak in her ear. "Looks like the bar staff had an argument. Who knows how long we'll have to wait now that one of them has stormed off."

A rough hand touched her wrist, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention. Steph turned, and connected with the striking blue eyes of the sole bartender.

"What ya after?" he asked.

She marvelled at the way he managed to throw his voice to her over the bass-heavy music, without the need to shout. He had an accent, but the background chatter made it difficult to pick. "Two vodka martinis," she shouted back.

He nodded, and tattoos peeked out from under his crisp collar. Steph glanced over her shoulder at Cass as the guy prepared their drinks. Her friend blatantly wore the expression she hoped she didn't – lust. As she suspected, people stood impatiently either side of her post. Some eyeballed her with contempt as the bartender added the final touches to their martinis.

She closed out the stares of the other patrons, and watched the sullen expression the bartender kept as he moved about the service area with an obvious ease. Steph was used to the staff at such popular bars being magazine-model material; all crisp style, and classic good-looks. Granted, this guy was seriously hot as well, but he was by far not what anyone would call 'ordinary'. Small pictures adorned each of his fingers, between each joint, and extended over the backs of his hands. Steph perused him like a piece of fine art as she traced the line work up each arm, and admired the detail in the work. The murals moved closer, and she raised her eyes to see him regard her with casual disinterest as he pushed the drinks toward her. She reached into her bra for her card, and the bartender's eyes followed. They lingered a moment too long to simply track her action. She presented the plastic to him, and he held up a hand, a seductive twist to his lips.

"My shout," he called.

Odd. Her brows furrowed for a moment, until Cass leant over her shoulder and called, "Are they seriously on the house?"

Steph nodded as she slipped the card away. She gave the guy a thankful smile and reached for the glasses. The bartender leant back with a smug smile, and folded his arms across his chest. He watched her turn away, even though the impatient patron next to her raised his hand to snap his fingers in the bartender's line of sight. Rows of people who had stood behind her, now moved like a tidal flow to fill the space she left. Steph paused while Cass looked for a spot to sit, confused as to why he gave her free drinks. Horror built, then subsided when she looked down to check her top was in place, and found no obvious wardrobe malfunction. Well, thank Christ for that. Cass flirted her way into a gap at a near-by table, playing the 'we-just-need-to-rest-our-feet' card. Steph glanced back to the bar, unable to locate the tattooed hottie for the hoards of people who awaited service.

"Babe, what are you doing?" Cass asked. "Come sit down."

Steph snapped her dazed focus back to her bubbly friend, and the pair of semi-executive types that lavished the blonde with attention. She slipped into the free seat, and cringed inwardly at the blatant one-liners the men threw Cass's way. Why did grown men feel the need to beat around the bush with their intentions? Was it so hard to come out and say "I like you. Wanna go on a date?" To simply spiel off the same old tired lines sure didn't do their chances any good—well not in her eyes, anyway.

Cass laughed exaggeratedly at one of the men. He slipped a hand over hers, and gave a gentle squeeze. The spectacle left a sour taste in Steph's mouth, despite the fact she'd already downed half her martini. She took the opportunity a pause in conversation brought to leave.

"Where you going?" Cass asked.

"Ladies." She thumbed in the general direction.

Cass nodded, and turned back to the man closest to her as he picked up their discussion. The crowd roared at the end of the DJ's set. Women moved en masse towards the restrooms, and Steph growled. Damn you, Murphy and your stupid laws. She started for the corridor, determined to beat at least half the rush, when a low chuckle from her right drew her curiosity.

"You're out of luck, I'm afraid."

Irish. He was Irish.

Steph twitched a smile at his observation, a little perturbed by the intensity of his gaze as the bartender casually leant against the end of the bar. He watched her with mild amusement as she faltered on the spot, unsure if she should continue, or stop to talk.

"What's yer name?"

"What if I don't want to tell you?"

"Ah, but ya will." He scratched at his chin to hide his beaming smile.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she took a step toward him. "What makes you so sure?"

He reached out a tattooed arm, and wound a finger through the loose ends of her hair before he brought it to rest on her collarbone. "Because." He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, and she caught the glint of a piercing. "I can see yer blush through yer tattoo."

Steph looked down at the angel which adorned her chest, and giggled awkwardly. So you can. "You first then. What's your name?"

"Irrelevant."

"Is it?" Her heart stampeded inside the confines of her rib cage as he wound his index finger through her hair once more. "I would have thought that the age-old rule of not talking to strangers vouched for the relevance?"

"Ya like breakin' rules then, Cutie?"

Heat engulfed her neck, up to her ears. "I like to be different."

"Aye, I can see that." His finger dropped the strand of hair to trace the lines of her tattoo. Electric tingles fired across her chest as he wove the details of the angel wings, and then stopped when the pad of his finger connected with the cup of her bra.

Steph let slip an involuntary moan as her skin broke out in a rash of hyper-sensitive goose bumps. The brazen way he did what he wanted to her made every intimate part of her spark. "Steph," she whispered.

"Pardon, Love?" He drew her chin up with the same finger, then slipped it down to take her neck in a gentle choke hold.

"My name is Steph." Her throat rubbed over the palm of his hand with every word she enunciated.

He looked her over, and drew his thumb up to rub her bottom lip. "Well, Steph." He dropped his hand from her flesh, and stepped back to lift the partition into the bar service area. "It's been a pleasure to meet ya."

Bastard! He'd played her, and he'd won. The damn bastard had got her name. But hell, for the way he left her a blubbering mess of tangled thoughts, the shame was worth it. A pang of jealousy fired the moment she noticed the ease at which he fell back into serving the patrons—like they hadn't even spoken. How could he slip back into his work, so effortlessly, so unaffected, when her underwear was on fire? She marvelled at what a mess the guy had made her through conversation alone. Steph had to give him credit for that. Lucky for her, he had been blessed with an Irish accent. The way he sounded his 'r's and 'o's made her want to beg him to sing 'Row, Row Your Boat'.

"You okay?"

She whirled on Cass, flushed at being caught out in her indulgence. "Um, yeah."

"You look stunned? What happened?"

Thank God. Cass obviously hadn't seen their interaction, then. "I can't believe how long the line for the ladies is," she lied.

"Right? It's insane." Cass smiled, and crossed over to the bar for another drink. She gestured to the empty glass, and Steph nodded her head.

Barely half way across to the far side of the club, she caved at the desire for one last look. She needed to be sure she hadn't dreamt such a sexually-charged exchange. Steph glanced over her shoulder, warm all over again as the smoking-hot barman ran his tongue across his lip piercing while he held eye contact with her. She pulled her chin to her chest, and hustled the last metres to tack on to the end of the queue. As she shuffled along with the other frustrated women, she ran over what exactly it was about him that had her so flustered. Men had never had that effect on her before now. Perhaps it was the tattoos, and the piercing. After all, weren't most women attracted to the bad boy types? Yet the intensity of his blue eyes left her sure that wasn't the reason. There was an intrigue in his look, his style that had her drool at his feet like a hungry dog. The confidence he displayed through the effortless calm he exuded as he spoke seemed natural. The guy had mastered the James Dean-esque art of looking like a rebel; like he didn't give two shits what anybody thought of what he wanted—he'd do it anyway.

He was different from the crowd, and that was seriously sexy.

As the evening drew on, Steph couldn't stop the lead balloon of disappointment that dragged her mood to the floor when the bartender didn't make any further attempt to speak to her. She shamefully did what she could to instigate another interaction: passed by the bar with no real point, laughed excessively loud, even took her empty glass to the bar. Not a single thing worked. He remained deathly focussed as he served drink after drink, and flashed that oh-so-gorgeous smirk at a few women who hung around after he passed their alcohol over. Cass had her on the dance floor several times, and it had been fun. But the more she saw him enjoy his evening like their talk hadn't happened, the more she grew angry at herself for allowing his hands to caress her. She had let him damn-well seduce her. Are you that easy? She knew she wasn't, but it didn't keep the doubt from assailing her until she began to think she really was a two-dollar hooker.

"What's the matter, babe?" Cass asked. "Has a night out not been the right idea?"

Steph cringed at the thought she may have come off as ungrateful. "Not at all, hon. It's been great. I haven't thought about Dave at all, to be honest." Yeah, but let's not say why.

"Then why the sour face?"

She shrugged, unable to come up with a suitable diversion from the truth.

The executive type that had eyed Cass all night chose his moment to make a move as they downed a final drink at the table. "Would you ladies like to meet us for lunch tomorrow?"

Cass turned, and gave Steph an enormous grin. She had to admit the guy seemed genuine enough, once she got past the lame come-ons. Apparently he was a marketing exec for some office not far from theirs.

"I can come along with you if you want company," Steph ceded.

"Thanks, babe." Cass spun in her seat to face the guy. "We'd love to."

Steph sat back and let them work out details. She had no interest in lunch, and neither did the exec's friend by the bored look he had. But, she knew Cass wouldn't have gone without a chaperone, and she wasn't the type to let her friends down.

The guy exchanged numbers with Cass, and gave her a polite kiss on the cheek as the girls stood to let them out of the booth. Steph shared a forced smile with the guy's wingman, and gave Cass a tug to sit back down. The men left, and laughed between themselves. She picked up the vessel before her, and sculled the last of the water.

"Are you going to tell me the truth about why you're not happy?" Cass asked.

Steph looked up to her, the glass still on her lips as she finished her drink. "What do you mean? She feigned, and placed the glass on the table once more.

"You hung about the bar all night like you thought somebody was going to drop their winning lotto ticket."

"I did not."

Cass raised her eyebrow. "Didn't you?"

She sighed. "Fine, I did."

Blonde curls bounced over Cass's shoulder as she turned her head to look past the lines which dwindled before the bar. "He looks a bit, I dunno, rough don't you think?"

"Don't stare," Steph exclaimed, mortified. "He'll know we're talking about him." She peered from the corner of her eye to catch sight of him slip out the back. "See? You scared him away."

"For crying out loud, Steph." Cass laughed. "He's not a bloody bunny-rabbit."

She snorted, and then laughed as well. The humour they shared whenever she went out with Cass was the reason why she had accepted the invite—not that she had a choice. So what if some smoking-hot guy had made a strange pass at her; one she rather enjoyed. She was out for fun with her friend, and to remember she didn't need Dave in her life to feel complete.

No—now she wanted a certain tattooed, bad-boy instead.

You're screwed. Utterly.

Yep, she had a crush. Like a giggly school-girl who watched the captain of the football team, she was ensconced in the magic of his movements. She'd watched the way his strong hands spun the bottles, the way he stuck his bottom lip out to huff his hair out of his eye as the night wore on.

"Come on, hon. Let's go home. Some of us need our beauty sleep before we go on a hot lunch-date tomorrow."

Steph smiled, and gave Cass a playful nudge as they rose from the booth. "Whatever. You'd look good in a potato sack."

"At least one of us knows how to dress."

The two of them laughed. The last of their drinks wore off as they walked the long corridor to the giant crimson door. Cool, early morning air pulled the first signs of fatigue from the pair as they exited. Cass gave a quick goodbye to the doorman while Steph descended the steps. The vivacious blonde then proceeded to rat about in her clutch for her cash as she joined her on the pavement. Steph raised a hand to hail a taxi, when Cass cursed loud enough to draw the attention from a group of people on the far side of the road. "What's up?" she asked.

"Those fucker's stole my cash," Cass wailed.

"What?" Steph stepped closer to help her check the tiny bag. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. My bag was under their feet all night."

"Assholes," she exclaimed. "Do you want to find a cop?"

"Hang on." Cass pulled her phone out and dialled the number the guy had given her. She stood, and drummed her fingers on her arm as she waited. "Oh! Bastards," she shouted.

"What now?"

"It wasn't his real number."

"Shit, hon. You got done." Steph failed to hide her amusement at the situation. Theft wasn't funny, but being blind-sided by such a pair of lame, one-line-loving guys was.

Cass wrinkled her nose as she thought. "Do you have enough for the taxi?"

Steph shook her head. The two of them had agreed that Cass would pay for the taxi with her cash to avoid card fees, and Steph would buy the last four drinks.

"Worth a shot." Cass smiled. "I guess I could call Dad?"

Like hell you will. "Are the buses still running?"

"No way. I'm not getting a bus at this hour, from here."

Steph itched her ear absently as she tried to come up with any option other than Cass's unforgiving father. If they accepted a ride from Mr Pratt at such a god-forsaken hour of the morning, they were certain to be given an ear-bashing. The guy was forever on at Cass about her safety, and the instant they explained why they couldn't afford the taxi, he would keep Cass under lock-and-key for a month.

"You ladies need some dosh?"

Steph turned toward the familiar voice, and squinted into the darkness.

"Excuse me?" Cass replied as the barman stepped out of the shadows, a cigarette between his lips.

"I was offerin' you lasses some cash to get home."

Steph blushed, and nodded. "That would be kind, thanks."

"Oh no." Cass held up a hand. "We're fine."

He shrugged, and reached up to pick the stick from his lips. "Whatever ya want."

Steph frowned at Cass, and mouthed 'Are you insane?' She took a step toward the guy as he threw the butt down to stamp it out. "Wait. I'll take you up on your offer. I can come back tomorrow and pay you back."

"I don't need the money." He screwed his Doc Marten into the pavement.

"What do you want in return?" Darkly inappropriate suggestions fluttered through her mind like confetti.

"Steph," Cass hissed as she caught her elbow.

She held a hand up to calm her friend, and waited on his answer. He smirked, a lusciously lopsided grin, and held up a roll of twenties. "Look familiar?"

"My cash," Cass cried out, and lunged for the roll. "It's got my hair-tie on it still."

"How did you..." Steph started.

"Let's say I know their type." He rubbed a hand over his hair, which he wore longer on top and slicked to the side. "Those fellas and me? We had some words."

"Oh my God." Cass threw her arms about his neck and gave him an awkward, one-sided hug. "Thank you."

He stood stiff as a board until she withdrew; his gaze never broke from Steph's. "It was nuthin'."

"Thank you," Steph repeated.

He held her stare from under hooded eyes, and then stepped up to her. The tip of his boots touched the toes of her heels, and she could smell his musky scent; bourbon, and cigarette smoke. The barman gently cupped her chin between forefinger and thumb, and tipped her head up to lay a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Stay safe, Cutie."

Her fingers idly traced her chin as he turned, walked away, and disappeared past the doorman into the club.

"What was that?" Cass cried out as she stepped in front of Steph's face, hands firmly on hips.

"I'm not sure," she replied.

At least this time she told Cass the truth.

****

Pete held his fingers to his nose, and drew in the sweet scent of the goddess he'd walked away from. That in itself took every ounce of self-control he could muster. The girl was intoxicating; heavenly to look at, and even more angelic when she spoke. When was the last time a girl had him in a daze like this? A foreign pull low in his gut told him the answer may be never.

He drew a seat in the staffroom, and flicked open the first wallet he'd taken from those shameless fuckers that stole the blonde's cash. The boys had denied it flat-out, until Pete snatched the biggest asshole's shirt in his fist, and pointed out the bar had security cameras. Little punk's had no idea who they dealt with, so had no clue he would pick-pocket their own wallets in the process of kicking them out.

He drew out the driver's licence, and looked at the name. Figures such a jumped-up little monkey would have a name like that. He retrieved his phone from his pocket, and flipped through the rest of the wallet while he thumbed to the number he needed. Pete hit dial, and waited. He pocketed thirty dollars from the bill-fold, and snatched the credit card from both wallets.

"Pistol, mate. Haven't heard from you in a while."

"Yeah," Pete answered. "Been occupied."

"Haven't we all. What can I do you for?"

Pete flicked his lip ring with his teeth, and smiled. "I've got a job for ya."

"Yeah?"

"Credit cards. Drain 'em. The fucker's deserve it."

****

Steph pulled the sheet up over her head and groaned. Waking up the day after a long night out was never fun. Especially when the shrill resonance of her mobile ring-tone was the reason for the disturbance.

She dropped her legs out of bed, and sat on the side as she reached for the phone. She slid the screen, pushed the speaker button, and set it down on the nightstand again. "Good morning, Mum."

"Only just."

"What time is it?" She rubbed her eyes, then stretched.

"Almost eleven-thirty," her mother remarked dryly. "Out all night were we?"

"For the most part."

"I take it Dave isn't home then if you managed such a big sleep-in?"

"No, he's not." She couldn't be bothered with the effort it took to recount all over again what had happened. Especially to her.

"Well, I called to let you know the Peterson's are having a BBQ tonight. Your brother will meet us there, and I thought since you're relatively close you might want to do the same."

"Yeah, sure. What time?"

"Five onwards. Take whatever you'd like to drink. I'll bring a dish for all of us."

Steph scrubbed her hands over her face before she answered. "Right, I'll see you then."

"Bye, dear."

She disconnected the call, and flopped back on the bed. The Petersons were family friends, and one bunch she didn't mind making the time for. Their two sons had attended the same Primary and Secondary school as Steph and her brother, and the four of them still kept in touch. Thankfully, Dave wasn't one for being social as a 'couple', so there should be no questions about his absence. With a woodpecker hammering away on the inside of her skull, the day wasn't the best one to field twenty-questions from her mother on the split. Steph sat up and grabbed her phone to send a text to Ivan, the Peterson's oldest.

You going to be at your parents tonight?

She tossed the mobile on the bed, pushed off, and sighed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Sleep dishevelled hair, and worn PJ's gave her a rough appearance that could shock a blind man first thing in the morning. She dragged her feet into the en suite, and ran warm water over a face cloth. Doing little to refresh her appearance, she returned to the bedroom as a message sounded.

Sure will.

She punched in a response.

Awesome. I'll bring your hoodie.

A spring clean in her wardrobe a few weeks back had turned up a long lost hoodie of Ivan's that she had forgotten she borrowed. Steph reached into the shelves, and pulled the sweatshirt down. She ran her thumb briefly over the Fox logo, and then tossed it on the bed with her phone.

She went through the motions: showered, ate, and eventually settled into the sofa with a bowl of apple wedges to watch re-runs of The Biggest Loser. As terrible as it sounded, the guys doing a number on Cass last night had been a blessing in disguise. They gave her the perfect excuse to lounge for the afternoon and get her pitiful grief under control. Only a singular box of Dave's things remained at her unit, and she'd placed it at the front door signalling she wasn't in the mood to talk, if and when he came to get it.

The hours slipped by until Steph glanced at the microwave from her position sprawled lengthways on the sofa, and grunted. It was time to get her ass off the seat, and into attire respectable of a BBQ at a prominent magistrate's house. She picked a ruffle-neck blouse to cover her tattoo's since her mother preferred they weren't so 'on display' when they were in the company of friends. Steph teamed the blouse with a pencil skirt, and bordello's, then finished with a high pony-tail wrapped in a scarf. She took a last look at herself, and shrugged. Best I can do.

The Petersons lived four blocks from where she lived, which was about a ten minute walk on a good day. But when she wore a tight skirt that restricted her stride, and heels that defied gravity, the walk became closer to twenty minutes. She passed tidy front gardens—weeded, and pruned to perfection—with Ivan's hoodie draped over one arm. A bottle of Moscato filled her handbag, which she slung over the opposite shoulder.

A block shy of the Petersons, she approached the final intersection she had to cross. The burn on her heel signalled a blister already formed from the unbroken shoes. She cursed at her stupid idea to wear heels she knew she couldn't walk too far in, and leant against a light pole to adjust the heel.

"Steph."

The hoodie slipped from her arm as she rushed to straighten up.

Sharp blue eyes pierced hers, before the bartender from last night picked up the sweater, and looked it over. He held it out to her. "I would say this is yours, but I don't think I'd be correct."

"Thanks." She took it from him, and jolted as their fingers brushed.

"Boyfriend?" He asked coldly as he pointed to the hoodie.

She shook her head. "Friend."

He nodded in approval, and stepped closer. "What brings ya to this neighbourhood?"

"Friends of the family." She ran her gaze over his attire: white t-shirt, and tapered dark denim jeans tucked into loosely-laced boots. "What about you...?" She purposefully dragged out the last syllable to bait for a name.

He chose to ignore her. "Business."

"Oh." Who the hell did business in suburbia?

He furrowed his brow, and then smirked. She must be as easy to read as a book. "He's a friend, as well. I'm droppin' in before his BBQ kicks off."

It couldn't be. "Where does he live?" she asked. Her stomach surged through her abdomen like a lava lamp.

He smirked, and smoothed the scarf over her hair. "Curious wee thing, aren't we?"

"I've got a BBQ to go to, too."

His expression dropped, and the cool nonchalance returned. "That so?"

"Petersons?"

He drew back, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "How ya know them?" He frowned.

"They're the family friends I mentioned. You?"

"It's complex." He turned abruptly, and started across the street. His shoulders dropped, and he stopped in the middle to look back and ask, "Ya coming, or what?"

Steph frowned, and ignored the spear of pain in her heel as she followed. He strode on in silence, hands buried deep in his pockets, and shoulders hunched. She stole glances at him every so often, unsure if the furrow in his brow was from frustration or confusion. The silence became so natural that she jumped when he finally spoke.

"So, ah. What's with the blouse?"

"What's wrong with it?" Steph looked down at herself as they slowed.

He brought them to a stop, and turned to face her. "It's just—" He tugged at the collar. "—I like being able to see yer artwork."

"Oh." She fidgeted with the hoodie to ensure each fold was evenly spaced on her arm.

"Why are ya so nervous?"

"I'm not."

"Ya are. Look at ya." He waved a hand the length of her. "Oh, lordie." He chuckled. "You're shy!"

"What?" Steph cried. "So what if I am?"

"The girl is shy. She has tattoo's, and she's still shy."

"Piss off." She stormed ahead—blister and all—as he roared with laughter.

His footfalls neared behind her—the rhythm indicated he jogged to catch up. "I'm sorry, Love."

"No." Steph held up her hand, and motored on the last metres to the Petersons. "We barely know each other, so here's one piece of information about me, just for you."

"What would that be?"

"I hate being mocked."

"No kiddin'." He pushed his hands back in his pockets as she slowed her pace. "Well, lucky for ya, we're here anyways."

"Lucky," she muttered.

He shadowed her up the narrow garden path, and then fell back when she reached the door. Steph pushed the doorbell, and glared at him. "That wasn't nice, you know."

"Bite me." His confrontational come-back was softened by the cheeky grin he wore.

The door opened, and she shifted her focus away from him.

"Stephanie," Derek Peterson beamed. "Come in, my girl."

She returned the hug her father's best friend gave her, and then walked by him to enter the grand house. Mr Peterson stood aside as her companion followed on behind. "Mr O'Malley."

Steph stifled her snort. The guy had a quintessential Irish name. What would he reveal next? Leprechauns? Four leaf clovers? She paused at the doorway to the sitting room to wait on Derek, not entirely comfortable with barging in, despite how close the families were. O'Malley came to stop next to her, and poked his tongue out before their host caught up.

"Go ahead, Stephanie." Derek gestured toward the others. "I'll be in shortly."

She nodded, unable to catch on to why O'Malley wasn't going to join them in the main lounge. "Thanks for the company," she said, and extended her hand.

O'Malley eyed her offer, then took her hand in his, and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Stephanie."

She scowled at his mockery of her full name, and tried to withdraw her hand. His grip tightened. Her lips pursed. His smirk widened. She tugged again, and he let go at the last minute so she tumbled backward.

"You all right, Stephanie?" Derek asked with a frown.

"Fine, thank you." Her lips pressed harder together as she battled with the desire to give Mr O'Malley pay-back.

Despite the provocation, she decided against a scene in the entrance. She turned, and walked into the living room as composed as possible. Her mother spotted her before anyone else, and swept through the room parting the guests like Moses with the Red Sea.

"You made it."

"Did you doubt I would?" Steph drew her arms into herself.

"Of course not. What is that?" Her mother gestured to the hoodie.

"It's Ivan's."

"Thank Heavens. I thought you wanted to start some new 'trend' for a moment there."

Steph rolled her eyes and side-stepped the woman. Her mother looked like your stereotypical Rural Wives Club member; crisp gingham shirt, and linen skirt. It wasn't exactly news that she disapproved of Steph's 'alternative' appearance, but the story was getting old.

Steph crossed the room to Ivan, and handed him the hoodie. He smiled, and nodded in her mother's direction. "Getting on well then, are we?"

"Like a bloody house on fire."

"She means well," he offered.

"Does she?" Steph narrowed her eyes. "Does she, really?"

He laughed, and guided her by the elbow to the drinks table. "Get yourself a drink woman."

"Gladly." Steph pulled her wine from her bag, and poured a glass. She set the bottle aside and tossed her bag underneath. "So, Ivan." She eyed him over the rim of her glass. "Tell me what you know about O'Malley."

"Pete?" he queried, and tipped his beer bottle toward the front of the house.

She nodded. So his name's Pete.

He tossed the hoodie over the back of a nearby chair, and then took her by the hand. "Come outside."

Steph followed Ivan through the open French doors, and onto the concrete patio. He took a seat on a carved bench, and patted the space next to him. She sat, and took a swig.

"A few years back, Dad took him on as his ward."

"Is a ward, like, a foster kid?"

"Sort of." He screwed his mouth to the side, and frowned. "But without the live-in part. He was pretty much Pete's guardian, or guarantor, if you like."

"For what?" Steph took a bigger swig of her drink.

"He used to be in a bit of trouble with the law, and Dad stepped in."

"Why? I mean, did your dad know the family or something?"

Ivan shrugged. "Don't know. Dad says he saw him at the courthouse one day, and a knee-jerk reaction made him stop to talk to the kid. He never said any more about it, and we never asked."

Steph twirled the glass stem in her hand. "How did your mother feel about it?"

Ivan grinned. "She was the one who convinced him to do it; go with his gut." He eyed her for a moment, and then pierced her with an inquisitive stare. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason." She looked away. "I bumped into him at the door, and he said he was here for business. That's all."

Ivan nodded. "Best keep it that way. Dad never told us what the guy's background was, but from what I can tell, it's pretty shady."

At a loss for what to say, Steph gulped back the last of her drink. She spun the empty vessel between her palms while Ivan stared off into the distance. "Well, this is awkward." She giggled softly.

Ivan turned to meet her gaze with a broad smile. "You? Awkward?"

"I know. I'm human after all."

"Nah, Stephy," he said as he ruffled her ponytail. "You grew up."

She scowled at him, and stood. "I do seem to remember, Mr Peterson, that you weren't much of an angel yourself."

He laughed, and then shook his head as he hung it. "If our parents only knew what we got up to those nights—"

"They'd kill us," she finished with a laugh.

"Come on, girl. Get yourself another drink, and let's do the polite thing by showing our faces."

Steph grunted her submission, and followed Ivan as he walked back to the party. Her eyes roamed across the outer wall of the house, and fell on the window of Derek's office. The light was still on. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought the bartender—Pete—was that close. His scent still lingered in her nostrils, and she absently brought her hand to her face to trap it there.

Who would have thought that bourbon and cigarettes could smell so damn erotic?

Steph ran out of small talk somewhere about the time her bottle ran dry. There was nothing inherently wrong with the company her parents kept, but politics and sports were two of her least favourite subjects. Even more tiresome when she literally didn't know what people talked about half the time.

Ivan left the BBQ with her brother after dinner was served to attend another function, and as much as he offered for her to join them, Steph declined. She would have given her left tit to leave the house with a valid excuse, but the fiery blister on her right heel said 'go home'.

It's going to be flip-flops for the next week with that one.

The clock ticked past nine as she sat on a two-seater with her father—who had also run out of alcohol fuelled interest. He leant over and whispered in her ear. "Ten bucks says your mother has me here until everyone else has left first."

Steph chuckled. "You know she can't help herself when it comes to one-upping people," she whispered back.

He nodded, a broad grin on his tired, and weathered face. Her father had made his fortune in a niche market. He had seen an opportunity, a gap in supply, and simply been that guy who was in the right place at the right time. She'd always respected him for the hard work, and effort he put into his passion—he always ensured that the family was looked after before his own needs. The way he was now—relaxed in an early retirement—made all the long days worth it in her opinion.

"New Years Eve tomorrow, huh?" He eyed her with a mischievous grin. "Any plans?"

"Not sure."

"Dave up to much?"

"I broke up with him, Dad."

A smile flickered on his lips. "Good. He was an ass."

She slapped his arm playfully. "Dad."

"It's the truth." He tipped his head, and shrugged.

"Don't tell Mum, okay?"

"You should know by now you don't need to worry about that."

Steph wrapped her arms about his neck, and gave him a squeeze. "I think I might head off, you big knuckle-head."

He pulled back and nodded. "Go. Be free. Just don't forget about those you leave behind on the battlefield."

She giggled, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "See you later, Dad." Her mother eyed her as she rose, and crossed the room to her bag. Steph squatted as strategically as possible in a tight skirt, and reached under the table to retrieve her leather bag.

"Are you going already?"

Her head connected with the edge of the table as she straightened. "Could you not wait until I had stood?"

"I didn't realise your co-ordination required such concentration."

Steph sighed, and waved her mother off. "Anyway, it's not soon. I've been here for four hours."

"An early night by your standards." Her mother crossed her arms, and toyed with the long necklace she wore.

"Love you too, Mum." She scowled. "See you later."

Steph bit down on her lip, and stifled the words she longed to scream at the woman. Why did her Mum have to be so darn critical all the time? What did she do to deserve such disdain from her own parent? She swept out of the room, and toward the front entrance, eager for the salvation that lay in the empty streets between the Peterson's house, and home.

Her heels clopped down the front steps, and along the concrete path as she flicked the top buttons of her blouse open with one hand. The calm, night air seemed to amplify the sound of her shoes as it sent each click echoing back at her from the four corners of the front yard. She tugged her bag over her shoulder, thankful for the band-aid she'd managed to get from Ivan, and swung around the front gate. Her heart leapt into her throat, and her feet stalled.

"You're in a hurry."

Hand to her neck, she growled at Pete, and continued to walk. He pushed off the light pole he had leant against, and hop-skipped to catch up.

"What's the matter, Love?"

"Aside from the fact you just about made me crap myself?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, aside from that."

"My mother. Why does she have to be such a pain in my ass?" She couldn't explain why she opened up so easily to a relative stranger, one who'd she had been warned against by a trusted friend. But the conversation fell from her lips so easily.

"Count yer lucky stars that ya have one who cares enough to be."

Steph looked across to Pete as he walked beside her. He hunched his shoulders to hide his face. "I hit a nerve, huh?"

"Aye. Just a wee one."

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

They carried on in silence for a block before she asked the obvious. "Why did you wait outside their house? I didn't see you at the party."

He smirked, and glanced her way from the corner of his eye. "Wasn't invited. Plus, I couldn't chance meetin' ya again, and not stickin' around to find out where ya lived."

"So you openly stalk me," she teased.

"If puttin' it like that gets ya off, sure."

She smiled at his toying of her. "Wouldn't you love to know that."

A hand withdrew from his pocket, and he reached over to knit his fingers through hers. Steph prickled with awareness at the contact, certain he could feel her palm burn in his grasp. "What excites ya is one of the things I want to learn about ya, sure," he said.

She struggled with the cramp in her lungs as a weight settled on her chest. They still walked hand-in-hand. His intentions were so blatant, and it should scare her at least a little. But it didn't.

It turned her on.

She swallowed away the lump in her throat. "What else do you want to know?"

He growled, low and husky in the back of his throat. "Lots."

"That's hardly an answer."

"Let me in for coffee when we reach yer place, and I'll answer yer question."

Blackmail, and yet the junction in her thighs grew warmer. "Deal."

Single-handed, he took a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, and held the box up. "Ya want one?"

"I don't smoke." She shook her head.

He tipped his chin, and shook out a stick, which he then took between his lips as he re-pocketed the pack. "I shouldn't either."

Steph watched the slim cigarette bob up and down as he spoke. She traced the lines of his lips, sighing inside at the luscious fullness of the bottom one, and the way it gave him a permanent pout. Kissable. He tried to light the smoke, yet the flame flickered with the breeze created by their movement. She relaxed her grip so he could shield with his other hand, but he tightened his, and ducked his head to his chest. The end flared, and he drew a long pull as he pocketed the lighter. Smoke tendrils flowed from his nostrils and wisped past his eyes, and over his ears.

Smoking in itself was never a quality she had ever thought of as attractive. Steph had done it, quit, and knew what an addiction it could be. Yet when Pete drew the orange ember down the stick, then lazily let the grey plumes flow from his nose and mouth, something about it made his renegade appeal double.

"Do you have any plans for the New Year?" she asked, in hopes she could divert her mind from the sexual tension.

"Askin' me on a date, Cutie?"

Her thoughts plunged into the bed sheets. "Uh, no. Simply making conversation."

"I'm crushed," he mocked, free hand to his heart. The orange tip of his smoke drew lines through the darkness.

"No mocking, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Well?" He wasn't about to avoid this one as easily as his name. His name, yeah. "Any plans, Pete?"

His head snapped about, and he stared at her as they walked.

She tapped the side of her nose. "Connections."

He shook his head slowly, lips set in a line. "I better give these connections a speakin' to."

She raised a brow to remind him he still hadn't answered.

"All right, Jesus." He sucked another draw of the stick, and let the smoke furl about his face as he walked. "At this stage I'll be knockin' off me shift at eleven-thirty. Hardly any time to make it to any celebrations."

"That sucks. How did you draw the short straw?"

He sneered briefly. "There weren't any straws to draw. The only other person workin' the bar couldn't be trusted to do it on her own."

"That girl you were having a go at last night?"

He glanced down at her, and for a moment he seemed amused that she admitted she had watched him. "I wasn't 'having a go'—simply remindin' her why she needs to keep her shit in line."

"Are you the Manager?"

He laughed, then drew a final drag before he flicked the stub into the road. "I should be, but no."

Steph cringed at the familiar fence-line of her neighbours. Conversation had flowed easily, and she had enjoyed it immensely. She wasn't ready to stop yet, so thank God she'd agreed to coffee. "This is me," she said as they approached the neatly rowed letterboxes for the units.

"Do I get a brew, then?"

She dropped her head to the side, and smiled. "Of course."

He let go to rub his hands, and gestured with his chin. "Come on then. Show me the way."

His boots echoed her heels in perfect unison as they ascended the narrow staircase to the second floor units. God, I hope he doesn't stare at my ass. She pulled her keys from her bag, and got the right one ready in her grasp. Why the hurry? Are you that desperate? Not desperate, eager. Eager sounded better.

"How long ya been here?" he asked over her shoulder. His breath tickled the sensitive skin behind her ear.

"A couple of years."

He hummed as she turned the lock, and pushed the door open. Pete strode past her, not waiting for Steph to free the key, and made himself at home in her small residence. She shut the front door, and tossed her bag on the kitchen counter.

"Where's the bedroom?" he asked as he nosed in each door.

Steph didn't have to answer. He figured it out himself, and disappeared into her room. "What are you up to?" she asked.

"Plannin'."

"Planning what?" Could she honestly say she didn't know? The warmth which spread through her privates said she did. She followed him into her room.

"Where I'll have ya first." He spun on his heel and faced her, his chin dipped, and a wicked gleam to his eye.

Steph took a step backward, sure she should run from this potential rapist, but found she shut the bedroom door instead.

"Expectin' company?" He smirked and gestured to the closed exit.

She shook her head. "I didn't want you to disappear."

He laughed. "Why would I?"

"Because a guy like you can't be much more than a figment of my imagination."

"A guy like me?"

Steph drew her lip between her teeth, and dropped her head. "Someone like me."

"Oh, Love." He chuckled. "I'm nothin' like ya." His hands bunched in his shirt, and tugged it off over his head to leave her open-mouthed.

"Ya keep lookin' at me like that, and I'll have nothin' to look forward to when I bury me head between those fuckin' long legs of yours."

Steph snapped her jaw shut, but kept her gaze pinned on the incredible artwork that covered his torso. Pop art, text, and abstract images filled every inch of skin. And he wore it so well. The pictures twisted and morphed as he stepped toward her. She sighed at the weight of his hands on her hips, and settled her head against his chest. His heart thundered a tempo in her ear that matched her own. The boy was as aroused as she was. Had to be anyway, because he sure as shit didn't come off as the type to be scared.

His hands slipped about the circumference of her waist, until his fingers connected with her zipper. He eased it down and pushed the fabric of her skirt over her hips. Pete shuddered a sigh as his eyes ran the length of her; he even stepped back for a better vantage. Blood pounded in her ears, her nerves haywire at the thought he would soon strip her bare. He licked his bottom lip, and made the ring flick from side-to-side, as he encircled her in his arms once more.

"Undo the buttons," he ordered, husky, and low.

Steph drew her hands between them both; her nipples peaked at the feel of her palms brushing against his torso. Her shaky fingers made clumsy work of the buttons, but she managed—even under the intense scrutiny of his hooded gaze. His breaths were heavy, and controlled as she let the two sides of the blouse fall apart to reveal her lace-encased breasts. He bit the lip piercing into his mouth, and traced a lazy line along one cup with his finger, then the other.

Steph moved her hands to his chest, and placed a palm over each pec. She then drew a long, level breath. Her heart raced the million dollar minute at the feel of him beneath her hands; a moment which had been a mere fantasy since she first laid eyes on his him last night. Yeah, last night. Have you lost the plot? She should push him away, demand he leave, but the child inside of her slammed its foot down in a tantrum. No, she wouldn't give up her toy yet.

He drew both hands up the column of her neck, and stopped to cup her face in his firm grasp. Without warning, he stuck both thumbs into the corners of her mouth, and tightened his grip on her jaw. Steph moaned at the strange combination of pain, and ownership he displayed. Her tongue darted between his thumbs to feel the grasp he had inside her mouth.

"You—" he ground out through strained tones, "—make me do stupid things."

Did he tell her off? Or warn her? She dropped her gaze to his mouth, and he groaned deep in the back of his throat. His thumbs slipped free of her mouth, as he simultaneously pulled her head up so that she stood on tip-toe to meet his assault. Their lips clashed, his tongue pushed past the seam of her mouth to explore the areas his thumbs had pressed into seconds before.

All the wine she had consumed over the course of the evening came back to bite her in the ass as her head swum. Steph clung onto his shoulders for balance, and he snaked an arm around her lower back to pull her closer. "You okay, Love?"

She steadied her breaths enough to form a singular word. "Dizzy."

Pete stepped back from her, and pointed to the bed—his hand still cupped her elbow for balance. "Lie down and take yer knickers off, woman."

She didn't question him. She did as she was told.

Steph lay bare from the waist down; her blouse and bra barely covered her upper half. He stood at the foot of the bed, hungry as a wolf by the way he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned. If it weren't for the fact he had her half-naked, and in the bedroom, she could have sworn he thought of a way to kill her. It was that kind of look.

"Jesus, you're goin' to taste good."

Her breath made a hiss as she drew it in sharply, and fisted her hands in the bedcovers to repress the urge to roll over, to hide, and to run.

He fell to his knees, and raised a hand slowly to the tender flesh at the apex of her thighs. The pad of his forefinger traced lazy lines around the edges of her opening; the look on his face one of worship. "So beautiful," he muttered, as he gently plied her lower lips apart. He ran his finger the length of her moist flesh, then brought it to his mouth and savoured the taste. The appreciative moans he let out sent her wild, and made her squirm for more.

His lips quirked into a lop-sided grin, and he tut-ed. "So impatient, me Love."

"I swear if you take too long I'll finish it myself," she joked.

He sat back on his heels, and appeared to think it over. "That could be a good idea, ya know."

Steph raised her head, and stared wide-eyed at him. "What?"

"Ya want me that bad; ya won't mind givin' me a show."

More blackmail, and she damn near dripped at the thought.

He settled on his haunches, and laughed as she scrambled from her bed. Steph lunged at the bottom drawer of her nightstand, and withdrew the purple wand that had kept her company many a night when Dave was AWOL.

"Don't spare me the details, Cutie. Pretend it's you and yer wee friend. I'm not here." Pete lifted his hands as he rose to his knees, and shuffled backward.

Steph stared at him where he sat in the corner of her room, next to the laundry hamper. Have you finally lost it? You're going to masturbate in front of a guy you've known a day. Maybe she had lost it, but he was one delicacy she didn't want to go through life wondering 'what if' over. If he left, so be it. But the possibility he may finish the night by fucking her senseless if she went through with it was too much of a risk to leave to chance.

"You comfortable?" she asked, and surprised herself at how sultry her question sounded.

"Like I'm watchin' me favourite show," he purred.

Steph crawled back on the bed, and made her way up the mattress until she sat propped against the head board. With her legs spread apart, she rubbed the wand up and down her still sensitive flesh. His heavy breaths were audible over the sound of her panting. The mere thought of her public pleasure had her core drip for stimulation. Who are you? Slowly, she inched the wand into her swollen folds, and breached herself with a whimper.

"Love, that looks so fuckin' good."

Steph closed her eyes, and replayed his rolling accent over and over in her mind. She let the sexy tones of his voice tickle her shameless joy at finally filling her need with something rigid—even if it wasn't his. She kneaded her breast as the wand plunged in deeper with every stroke. The electricity built in her centre, and she licked her fingertips to massage her clit and quicken the climax.

She drew her eyes open, hooded with ecstasy. Pete now knelt at the foot of the bed. "What are you doing?" she breathed.

"Waiting," he whispered.

Her hand kept the frantic tempo with the wand as the other ran quickened circles over her flesh. In no time she felt the contractions start, and closed her eyes to ride the wave as her mouth dropped to an 'O'. Hands grabbed her behind the knees, and pulled her to the foot of the bed. She squealed. Steph watched in awe as Pete ripped the wand from her grasp, and plunged his tongue into her swollen flesh. He lapped, and prodded eagerly until she couldn't hold back a second longer.

She cried out, and never gave a second thought to if any of the neighbours would hear her. Steph pushed against his face as he continued to ply her orgasm free. With perfect timing, he pulled back on the last seconds of her release, and plunged his finger inside to tickle her G-spot. His finger repeatedly flicked free and tweaked her clit with every stroke, until the waning orgasm built for more.

Steph threw her head back, and moaned as her entire centre exploded into fireworks. She'd never experienced such a toe-curling climax in her life. She wanted to ride the crest for a whole day, until her body was sapped of any and all traces of energy.

Pete rocked back on his heels once more as she panted for breath. "Good?" he asked with a hint of amusement.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," she breathed.

"That's what I want to hear." He stood and retrieved his t-shirt. "I'll see ya tomorrow, then."

Her mouth worked to form words, but a pathetic squeak was the only sound she managed as he walked out of her bedroom. The front door clicked behind him, and she flopped back onto the sheets to laugh hysterically.

Like hell she was about to run after him and flag him down, half naked, and a wet mess to boot.

He bloody well knew it too.

Pete had fucked her good and proper. Just not the way she'd first intended.

Cass snapped her fingers in front of Steph's face. "Earth to Steph. Anyone home?"

She looked back to her friend, unaware until then that she'd lost herself to another daydream. "Yeah, sorry."

"Did you hear any of what I said?"

She gave Cass a sheepish grin.

"Didn't think so. I asked where you wanted to go tonight?"

No hesitation. "I thought we could go to the same place as we did Friday."

"You want to see that Irish hottie again, don't you." Cass slapped both hands on the café table, and leant into the conversation.

Steph hadn't mentioned a single detail about the fact she'd already seen him since their last night out. Maybe her silence on the matter was due to the shame at what he coaxed her into doing? Maybe it was that she wanted to keep him her secret? "So what if I do?"

"You hussy."

Steph poked her tongue out at Cass, and earnt a giggle in response.

"What if we see those jerks again though?" Cass's face fell.

"I get the impression we won't."

"What makes you say that?"

"Instinct?" Truthfully, she had seen the look on Pete's face as he stood at the foot of her bed, and in all honesty it had scared her a little. Because in that ruthless expression, was a hint of a man who would do whatever he wanted, to whomever he wanted.

"I guess. Even if we do—" Cass flicked her straw. "—I reckon they'd be more put out than us."

"True that." She laughed. "So when do you want to meet up? And your place or mine?"

Cass pulled her phone from where her bag sat next to her on the seat. "Um, eight again? Gives you four hours to get home and eat, then meet at mine?"

"Sure."

"Think you can do it by then?"

"Hardy-ha-ha."

"Last day of the year, huh?" Cass twirled the nearly empty glass of juice.

"I don't know why you get so whimsical about it," Steph replied as she slumped into the seat. "It's just another day."

"Hush your mouth! It's not 'just another day'. It's the promise of a new year, and new beginnings; a chance to leave the disappointments of the previous year behind and start anew. Re-invent yourself."

Steph raised an eyebrow, and sat forward again. "You do realise people will still know it's you tomorrow? Life won't be that different?"

"Stop being such a downer, babe." Cass frowned. "Tell you what. I dare you, Miss Routine-is-my-life, to make a resolution when you get home. And it better be a bloody good one, because I want you to tell it to me when you get to mine tonight, so I can be sure you keep it."

Steph waved her off with a flick of the hand, and downed the last of her Latte. "Fine. Deal."

****

Pete racked the short glasses with his eyes glazed over, his thoughts a million miles away. He hadn't quite expected what Derek gave him when the old guy said he had news for him. Certainly anything but that.

Janie pushed through the door from the staffroom, and eyed his slow progress. "Got problems on your mind?"

He glared at the short woman, and continued with his work, albeit a little faster. "Mind yer fuckin' business, Girlie."

"Good to see you're your usual delightful self," she muttered as she took the tray of wine glasses from the washer.

He should have felt at least a little bad for being such an arse, but there lay the problem. He didn't. Not in the slightest. Janie annoyed the shit out of him, and try as he might, he couldn't push past the fact that incompetent plonkers did his head in. Maybe if the girl could pour more than a couple of drinks in a row without fucking up an order things would be different. But she couldn't. And he hated her for it.

But not as much as he hated himself for how much the pretty girl at the Peterson's had got under his skin. Stephanie. The lilt of her name as he rolled it through his mind felt easy on the ear. If it weren't for the present company, he may have said it out loud; simply to feel the way his tongue caressed the consonants. Would it feel as luscious as it had when his tongue caressed her there? Or better? Jesus, he better get his arse in line before the crowd poured through the doors. As it was, he'd already caught himself raise his fingers to his nose, and test if any of her musky scent remained after last night—despite the fact he'd washed his hands plenty since then.

Guilty as charged, he'd sniffed that aroma a dozen or more times on his walk home from her unit. It was all he could do to ease the case of blue-balls he got every time he thought of doing her good and proper. The little girl liked to show-off, huh? Well he had uses for those kinds of talents.

Janie loaded a fresh roll of paper into the EFTPOS machine, and then opened the register. "Uh, Boss?" He looked over to her as he stuffed the empty dish tray under the bar. "Where's the float?"

"Fuck." He scrubbed a hand over his head. No way was tonight the kind of evening he could afford to be so out of character. "It's still in the safe. Would ya mind?"

Janie shook her head, and headed into the cash room to retrieve the till drawer. Pete glanced about the service area, acutely aware if he had missed such a normal part of his daily routine, that there may be other preparation tasks unfinished. The bar looked in place, so he snatched a shot glass from under the lip of the counter, and poured a bourbon. Ten minutes until service, and he could already make out the dull hum of the mob who waited at the door. He knocked the fiery liquid back, and drew another shot to chase it with. The glass clinked as it slid into the wash basin, and he strode from the bar to the entrance hall where Gary stood with his best off-sider, Trent. The two of them near blocked the hallway with their hulkish frames. Pete called down to them from the beaded curtain.

"Let 'em in, boys. Let's get this shite over with."

Gary nodded his agreement with a broad grin, and moved aside while Trent let the first patrons through. The rakish woman who headed the queue looked Pete over, head to toe, as she swung her hips along the hall. He noted her bite her bottom lip, and sighed. He didn't have any interest in this shit—especially not when a certain brunette burned in his subconscious.

****

Steph looked at the huge line outside the bar, and cringed. Maybe this wasn't such a shit-hot idea after all? Cass chatted happily with an old school-friend of hers they had come across in the wait. The two laughed over shared memories, and Steph smiled; happy Cass was happy.

She took the moment to case out the place properly. Adjoining bars hogged the street-frontage, but without a doubt, it was the crimson doors people waited to pass through. Steph searched for a sign to say what the joint was called, and failed to find one.

Cass waved goodbye to the woman she had spoken with, and turned back to Steph. "All good, babe?"

"Lovely," Steph droned. "Hey, tell me. What's this place called?"

"Atonia."

"How come there's no sign? How does anyone know it's here?"

Cass smiled wickedly. "That's the point. You have to dare to go in to find out."

"Oh." Seemed a little strange to her, but whatever.

The line shuffled forward, and Gary came into sight. He looked frustrated by a couple of young guys he had separated from the rest of the crowd. "Wonder what's going on there?" Cass commented as she looked in the same direction.

"Probably under age."

Cass nodded, and they waited in relative silence until the line crested the steps. Gary beamed when he saw 'Miss Cassie', and beckoned them over.

"No need for you to wait, baby girl. You should have come straight to the front."

"I didn't want to presume I was anything special," Cass gushed.

He grinned. "You know you are." He lifted the velvet rope and ushered them both in. "Have a good night, ladies."

"What the fuck?" A male voice bellowed from behind them.

Steph turned in time with Cass to see one of the men who had been kept aside shove Trent. Gary pinned the man to the wall with a hand to the shoulder as the young guy continued to yell. "Why do they get to skip the line? Sexist fuckers."

"Please, wait to the side," Gary urged.

The guy struggled against his hold. "Fuck you, asshole. Who made you the boss of me?"

"Your fake ID did, son." Trent gripped the arm of the young man's friend, who looked like he was about to jump in on the action.

The first assailant spat on Gary. Cass emitted a low 'ooo' from behind her as Steph gasped in anticipation. Gary coolly wiped his face with his free hand, then lifted the guy by the fabric of his shirt, and hoisted him down the steps.

"Don't ever try to come in here again," he warned as Trent shoved the man's friend after him.

Steph nudged Cass in the side. "Let's go get a drink, huh?"

"Hang on," Cass replied, and held up a hand. "I want to see what he does."

"Why?" All the dickhead would probably try to do is swing a hit at the bouncers, and make a fool of himself.

"Because you should see Gary when he's in action. It's beautiful."

Steph stared at her buddy, amazed that she only now saw the adoration in Cass's eyes as she watched Gary do his job. "You've got the hots for the guy."

"Fast, aren't you?"

"How do you know him?"

Cass heaved a sigh, and looked over at her. "All I'll say is that we go a long way back. And many moons ago, we shared something special—a life-changing event if you like."

"But it's still all Secret Squirrel and Morocco Mole?"

Cass laughed. "Yeah. Afraid it is."

"Well," Steph started as she watched the young guy try his luck at boxing a titan. "I'm going to get a drink. Meet you at the bar."

"K, babe."

Steph continued up the hall, and pushed through to the bar area. Her eyes swung right on impulse, and she watched as Pete served a couple of groups simultaneously. He moved with effortless grace, as though his tending skills were as much a part of him as the ability to breathe. Butterflies thwapped the inside of her gut with merciless wings while she pushed forward to take a place at the end of the counter.

The female bartender from the other night hop-skipped down to her, and shouted over the music. "What'll you have?"

"Bourbon," she called back. Why? Who knew? But more than likely she could relate it to the fact that was what he drank.

"How you have it?" the girl called.

"However it comes."

The short blonde gave her a thumbs up, then darted over to the shelves of liquor to prepare the drink. She returned a moment later with a neat glass. Steph handed over a ten, and gawked at the pathetic change she got back. How could such a small glass cost so much?

"Enjoyin' ya night?"

She melted at the way he rolled the 'r'. "Only just arrived," she shouted across the counter.

Pete smirked, and pointed at the drink. "Gone off ya vodka?"

She shook her head, and threw the dark fluid back. It stung every inch of her throat, but she held back the urge to gag. He smiled as her eyes watered, and reached over the counter to wipe a drip from the corner of her mouth. The furnace in Steph's gut fired at the contact, and instant pheromones gave her a delusional, false confidence. She pushed up on her toes, and leant over the counter to grab the front of his uniform shirt in her fist. Steph pulled him toward her until their lips were a hairs breadth apart.

His heavy breaths tickled the side of her face as she brought her mouth to his ear. "Perhaps I wanted to remember what you tasted like."

The vibration of his chuckle rumbled through her hand. He pulled back, and beamed a luscious smile, before he darted forward to lick her lips. Steph dropped the hold she had on his shirt, but he kept her close with a quick hand to the back of her neck. "I bet I could make yer eyes water, too," he purred in her ear.

Her heart shuddered with the rush of adrenalin through her system at such a promise. Here's hoping he meant that in a good way. Steph slid back to her feet as he withdrew his hand to turn and serve the rest of the bar. A few patrons watched her with a keen interest, and she recognised the fire in her cheeks as she returned their stares. Yet again, the asshole had blindsided her into being so damn carefree that she forgot where she was.

Cass waved from the far end of the bar as the short barmaid sorted a martini for her. Steph nodded, and moved to find a path down the length of the room to her friend. She cursed under her breath each time some ass-wipe stepped on her foot, or yet another dickhead talked with his hands, or elbowed her side. Personal bubbles can be collected from the cloak room on your way out. Thank you for your patronage.

"We have to stay here until at least midnight," Cass hollered in her ear.

"Why?" she mouthed.

"Gary promised me a dance."

"Can he do that when he's at work?" Steph glanced over at Pete, who ran his tongue over his lips. Her skin prickled with a sensation she couldn't place. Desire?

"He said it'll be quiet enough by then, and Trent can handle it on his own."

She nodded and looked back to Pete once more, but he was gone.

"What the hell were you up to?" Cass drew an eyebrow up.

"When?"

"Oh, I don't know. About the same time the whole bar watched you?"

Steph blushed. "Spur of the moment," she said to her shoes.

"Huh. I need what you're drinking."

They both laughed.

If only that was all it took.

****

Pete fisted his hands in his hair and ground his teeth together. What the fuck was that all about? He was at work, for fucking crying out loud. The staffroom only fuelled his anger since he found the tiny space too small to get a good pace going. How the fuck was he meant to work the Steph-induced frustrations out of his system now?

He stopped before a small mirror on the outside of Janie's locker, and growled. Look at ya, ya fuckwit. Ya look like yer father, and ya have yer mother's cold eyes. Ya aren't a fuckin' romantic.

Pete lashed out a closed fist, and shattered the mirror into jagged pieces which rained down on the stained linoleum. He regarded the few cuts on his knuckles, and scoffed. Even his skin was too tough to be cut properly by a broken mirror.

Janie popped her head through the door, and looked between him and the shards. He grinned menacingly at her, and she stuttered out her words. "I need you back out front."

"In a minute." He waved her off.

She pulled the door shut, and immediately the incessant noise of drunken patrons and loud music subsided. He looked down at the glass, and resisted the insatiable urge to pick up a piece and slice himself to see if he still bled red. Instead, he kicked the shards aside, and headed for the bar.

Pete pulled the door open, and blinked to adjust his eyes to the dimmer light. He scoured the line-up of people at the bar. For some stupid reason he felt cheated not to find Steph there, waiting for more. Why he thought she'd continue to come back if all he did was toy with her, he didn't know. But the strange look in her eyes each time he held the power told him she liked to lose control.

He would be sure as fuck be the only one to take it from her.

Steph threw back another shot from the tea-pot, and scolded herself for mixing her drinks. Live a little, huh? Even the devil on her shoulder had forgotten the mammoth hang-over of only two days ago.

Cass danced about near the table, lost to the music, as Steph lost herself to the numb bliss of alcohol in her blood. All night she'd stewed over the fact Pete could take advantage of her so easily. Yet she knew her misplaced anger toward him was just that—misplaced. It was a no-brainer to figure out who she was mad at most; herself for the way she craved the dominant man behind the bar.

Was she mentally unstable? Why the hell—after the end of a two year relationship with a jack-ass—did she want to chase after a man who took what he wanted, when he wanted? Was that why? Did she feel the need to rebel against what Dave had done to her, by doing the same?

Tell you what you want to feel...

Steph slammed a door in the face of her conscience, and poured another drink. She wasn't that stupid that she couldn't see how her body succumbed to him every time he touched her skin, shit, looked at her. But it didn't mean she had to act on those impulses. Her mother raised her better than that.

Her mother.

Steph laughed out loud at the thought of what her mother would do, should she know what her daughter was up to.

"What's the joke, sweetheart?"

Steph looked up, and into the green eyes of a handsome dark-haired man about her age. She glanced around behind him, but couldn't find Cass. "Sorry, do I know you?"

"You've got a great laugh there."

"Uh, I'm here with a friend tonight." Not. Looking. Mate.

He slid into the booth seat next to her.

"And you would be?"

"Interested," he said to her chest.

Clearly this moron couldn't read between the lines. "Nice to meet you interested," she held out her hand. "I'm Fuck-the-hell-off."

She expected the guy to swear at her, throw a drink at her, storm off. Anything but laugh and put his arm around her shoulders. She stiffened, and tried to duck out of his grasp, but he trapped her to him by wrapping his free hand around her side—to cup her breast. Oh, hell no.

Steph turned her head to his hand which rested on her shoulder, and laid her lips on the fleshy side of his palm. He hummed, and obviously thought she was keen until she sunk her teeth into him. He howled out, and pulled his arm away from her. The hand which cupped her chest rose up and slapped her hard—unnecessarily hard, given his proximity to her. Her knee-jerk reaction was to punch him in the groin. She sidled around to the far side of the booth to escape as he growled in pain. Steph stood to leave, when a strong grip tugged hard on her pony-tail, and made her topple back. She fell on her ass into the booth once more. Her ribs collided with the table as she went.

"Let me go, you creep!"

He laughed behind her. "You're a feisty one. Love to get you in the sack."

"Keep dreaming, ass-wipe." Steph relaxed against his pull so that she fell back into his lap. She reached up and stuck her fingers in his nostrils, and pushed hard.

He screamed out, and released her pony-tail. She slid off the side of the seat, unceremoniously onto the sticky floor, and away from his reach. As she scrambled to her feet from under the table, Cass pushed through the small group of on-lookers.

"You okay, babe? Shit! I only left to go to the loo."

"Fine," Steph growled in the guy's direction.

"Good luck finding anyone else you ugly bitch," he spat at her.

She flicked him her middle finger, and turned to leave the place. Could the night possibly get any better after it hit such a low? As she passed the bar on her way to the exit, she recognised the familiar sound of laughter. His laughter.

"That was gold." Pete clapped.

Steph rushed the bar, and people parted to let her through in her dishevelled state. "Fuck you! How dare you stand there and watch. Didn't it occur to you to do anything?"

His face drew steely. "I think ya handled yerself fine."

"Oh yeah," she scoffed. "I forgot. The only thing you'd do—" she said as she jabbed a finger at him. "—is join in. After all, that's all you've done so far, isn't it? Assault me to get what you want?"

His face turned to pure rage, and he strode toward the end of the bar. She matched his pace, and met him at the far end as he flung the divider back so hard it bounced off the wall. The wood narrowly missed him as he passed through.

"You—" he growled, and shoved her in the shoulder. "—were gaggin' for it, Love. Last I looked, ya fuckin' enjoyed what ya gave me."

"Steph, what's he talking about?" Cass asked as the two of them argued.

She held a hand up to her friend, and continued with Pete. "Well it's more than you gave me, you selfish asshole." She knew the drink spurred her verbal diarrhoea, but what did she have left to lose with this clown?

"Is that it?" He nodded, and crossed his arms over his chest. "You're pissed off I didn't fuck ya?"

Steph drew her lips into a firm line, and slapped him.

He reeled, but stood his ground. "Do it again, ya little hussy. I love the pain." His glare scared the daylights out of her, but like hell she would back down first. Plus, her legs were such jelly, she didn't know if she'd make it far.

"You, are a sick fuck," she hissed. "No wonder I was told to stay away from you."

Hurt flashed in his eyes, before rage again took over. He moved to speak, when Trent stepped in between and placed his hands on Pete's chest. Whatever the big guy said, it worked to calm him, as Pete quickly disappeared behind the bar.

Cass tugged on her arm. "Come on. You can explain what the hell that all was on the way home."

She turned to find hurt and confusion on Cass's face, and felt ill. "I'm sorry. I ruined your night, didn't I?"

Cass shook her head. "No. It's fine." Her words betrayed the look of disappointment she held.

Steph followed down the hallway, and out into the night, eager to escape the scrutiny of the other patrons. Her spectacle drew quite a crowd, and she didn't know if she could rightly ever show her face in there again without somebody recognising her.

Cass hailed a cab after she said a quick goodbye to Gary, and shoved Steph inside. She scooted across the seat to allow room for Cass. The driver pulled away on her instruction, and headed for home. Cass turned to look at Steph, and raised an eyebrow. "Well? What the fuck was that, Stephanie?"

Shit, she was definitely in trouble. "Nothing. He said something earlier that made me mad. Plus, he didn't do a damn thing to help me."

"I think there's more to it than that. What did he mean by what you 'gave' him?"

Steph stared out the window at the blur of streets, and frowned. "Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, babe. Why did you want to come here tonight? Really?"

She sighed, and counted the lamp posts as they fleeted by. What would she tell her? How exactly did she explain what she'd done with Pete? Normal people didn't do shit like that. Normal people had a better sense of self-preservation than to let a stranger into their home, and do what she did.

"Fine," Cass snapped. "Don't tell me. But if this comes back to bite you on the ass, I can't do much if I don't know what's going on."

Damn her. She was right. What if things went sour? What if Pete kidnapped her, or murdered her? Who would know then? As if he'll murder you. Yeah, right. Did her conscience not see the look in his eye as Trent pushed him away?

"He knows where I live, Cass." Her words barely made a whisper.

"Shit."

****

"It's the end of me shift, Gary. Do ya honestly expect me to stay?" Pete levelled the big guy with a stare that challenged his authority.

He wilted a little at the cool look he received in response. "I can't trust your psycho little head not to go after that girl. So you can stay until we close."

"Come on," he pleaded. "Let me out. Phil's here anyway. Ya don't need me."

Gary continued to block the exit as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Fine. Have it yer way. I'll fuckin' exit out the alley."

Gary sighed, and stepped aside. "You bloody go anywhere near her, and I'll have your nuts strung out to dry."

Pete laughed. Like the big guy had it in him to do such a barbaric thing. Himself on the other hand... well, best leave that subject untouched. "Ya have me word." He held a hand over his heart.

"Asshole," Gary mumbled.

He jogged down the steps, and shook a cigarette out of the pack as he went. Phil, the owner of the bar, had turned up to take over the final hours. Why he couldn't trust Pete to do it, who knew? What did Phil think he'd do? Rob the place? Maybe in another time.

Pete shielded the end of the smoke as he lit it, and ran through the plan one last time. Ever since that mad-hatter of a woman had left the place, he'd plotted his comeback on her. How dare she fucking accuse him of blatant assault? He wouldn't have done a single thing if she didn't want him to. Talk about confused. The woman didn't know what her body craved.

Pete stopped at the first bus stop, and checked over the map plastered on the inside of the shelter. He plotted out which services he would need to take, and how long it would take him to get home. If only he'd brought the fuckin' car tonight. But then again, he hadn't planned on going home alone.

The alarm sounded its happy screech to tell Steph to get out of bed. All fine and well if she was off to work, but she wasn't. The first of January being a public holiday, she'd forgotten to tell her phone's alarm to take Monday off.

Steph swiped at it from under her covers, and silenced the persistent noise. She nestled back into the comfort of her bed, and scowled into her sheets at the fresh memories of last night. What a fine performance she'd put on for half the darn city. Her brow bunched as she pushed the embarrassing thoughts from her head, and succumbed to sleep once more.

Four hours later, she woke with a start to the sound of several thumps on her front door. "Coming," she hollered, and yanked on a sweatshirt to cover her thin bed attire. Cold feet scuffed over the tiles, her limbs still sleep groggy. She swung the door open, and remembered that she should probably be a little more cautious for a while given who may, or may not decide to pay her a visit. Relief washed over her as Ivan stared back from the landing.

"You look terrible, babe."

"Hello sweetheart," she drawled, full of sarcasm. "Want a coffee on this fine morning?"

"Yeah, but I think I'll make it, huh? Don't want you to fall asleep over the jug."

She gave him a playful punch as he walked past her, and into the unit. "So how was your night?"

"Not as heavy as yours it seems." Ivan wandered into her tiny kitchen, his tall frame dwarfed the cramped space. "I tried to call you."

"You did?"

"Yeah, but I guessed you must have passed out already. So, I thought I'd come check on you this morning."

"Thanks." Steph slid into an armchair, and warmed a little at the thought someone cared so much for her well-being.

"But enough about you..."

"Hear, hear."

Ivan grinned as he wandered over with a glass of water for her. "I wanted to see if you could guess who I met up with the other night."

"Do I know them?" She accepted the glass from him, and took a small sip.

"Of course." He rolled his eyes. "I'm not that cruel."

"Honestly, my head is a mess. You better just tell me."

"Verity."

The glass clattered the last millimetres to the table. "Excuse me?"

"I know, I know. " He held out his hands. "I was surprised too."

Steph had heard neither hide nor hair of Ivan's ex since the woman left him for another guy. "What did she want?"

"She wants to try again," he called out as he returned to the kitchen. "It seems legit, Stephy."

"I sure hope so."

"I knew you'd disapprove," Ivan said, and reappeared with his coffee. "People can change."

"Yeah." She nodded. "And sometimes they don't."

They continued the discussion for the next half hour while Ivan sipped his coffee, Steph her water. She listened, and offered advice where she could, but she held back what she honestly thought of the two-timing bitch for his benefit. Ivan seemed happy, and all she ever wanted was for her friends to be happy—which made her think of Cass. She'd screwed up her bestie's night—selfishly—and had some making up to do.

"Do I ask how your night was then?" Ivan tipped his head, and regarded her with that look which said he already knew the answer.

"Awful." Steph nursed the last of her water. "First I get hit on by some sleaze who can't take no for an answer, and then I have a full-on argument with Pete."

"Interesting."

"Embarrassing, is the word I would have chosen."

He shook his head with a cheeky smile that made the corners of his eyes crease. "We've all had bad nights, Steph. It'll wash over."

"I sure hope so," she said, and drew her knees into her chest.

"Anyway. Thanks for the coffee," Ivan said as he stood. "I better head off. And you need a shower."

"Gee, thanks." She poked her tongue out at him. The action brought flashbacks of Pete as he did the same thing, and her mood instantly soured.

"All good?" Ivan asked, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah." She nodded. "I'll see you out."

Steph followed him from the unit until he hit the stairs where she chose to stay at the top to see him off. He got into his sedan, and started the engine. Her gaze danced around the street as she waited on him to back out of the parking space. Given the number of discarded cans on the neighbour's yard, she mustn't have been the only one to have a big night. She waved as Ivan pulled away, then froze.

Ice ran through her veins as her chest fruitlessly tried to pump enough air into her system. Her eyes locked to the figure that leant against a light post over the road. A figure too familiar for her liking. A figure who smoked.

Steph backed up slowly; her hand felt the way along the rail to guide her. Her eyes never left Pete. How long had he been there? What did he want? Was this it? He knew she was alone, so now he'd attack her? Kill her? She berated herself for her stupidity in letting an unstable lunatic into her life so easily. What the fuck had she been thinking? Was she that easily blinded by his appearance? Her unexplainable attraction to him?

Steph dived into her unit, and slammed the door shut. She slid the bolt, turned the deadlock, and tested the handle to be sure. Laid low on hands and knees, she ducked beside the front window. Steph peered out through a gap in the blinds to the street below, and sure enough his legs were visible from under the canopy of a tree. She turned her head to search for her phone, and cursed when she remembered it was still in her room.

With a deep breath, she took one last look out the window. Sickness rose in her throat.

He was gone.

****

For the next four days, Pete's strange surveillance of her place continued. Tuesday he arrived after dinner, and left by nine. Wednesday, he appeared before and after work. Thursday, he stayed put as she walked past him to get to the train station. Friday morning, he had the decency to offer her a polite "Good mornin'," as she passed him by.

She wasn't stupid. Steph knew what he tried to do. And his mind tricks wouldn't work on her.

She cleared her dinner dishes away, and prepped for a Friday night in with her fall-back comfort—Superman movies. She poured a glass of wine, and picked up the bowl of popcorn she had made earlier in the evening. As she passed the front window her curiosity got the better of her. She balanced the bowl in the crook of her arm, and edged the blinds apart to look across the road. Sure, night had set in, but the crack of vision seemed way too dark. Was it a new moon?

Steph placed the glass, and bowl on the top of a nearby bookcase, then with both hands drew the blinds wide. She gasped, and stumbled back. Her foot tangled in her discarded work shoes, and handbag. The point of her tail-bone sung with pain as she landed hard on her backside. Regaining her composure, she pushed to her feet, and stormed to the door. Steph slid the bolt open, and with the deadlock held around, wrenched the door back on its hinges to stick her head outside.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Pete looked lazily across to her from his position; leant with his back to her window. "Waitin'."

"What the hell for?" She stomped out the door, placing her hands on her hips. "Hell to freeze over?"

The front door clunked as it swung shut. She winced and tried the handle. "Fuck!"

"Locked out?" he remarked casually.

"I bet you love that," she bit back. "Go on then. What do you want? I don't think my night's going to improve."

"Argh, don't be so negative," he soothed. "There's every chance it could get better."

"Pete," she chided. "I'm locked out of my apartment, with a madman on my doorstep. What good is going to come from this?"

"Ya think I'm a madman?"

"Aren't you?" Steph threw her hands in the air, before she slumped against the locked door. "You've been stalking me for the whole week."

He chuckled. "As if. I was merely givin' ya a chance to apologise."

She pushed off the door, and marched up to him. "Me? Apologise? What the hell for?"

He traced a lazy line along her jaw with an inked finger. "For callin' what we did assault."

She threw her arms across her chest, and scowled. "Okay, so maybe I was a little off. But it still wasn't polite."

"Since when do people worry about being 'polite' when they explore their sexuality?"

She spluttered for her next words. "I... I wouldn't have said that, exactly."

"What would ya call it then?" He ran the pad of his thumb across her lips as he licked his own.

Nothing. She had nothing.

He laughed, and pushed off the wall to slip by her. Steph watched as he flipped out a leather wallet, and produced a small wire from the coin pocket. He then proceeded to pick her lock, and pushed the door open with a wide smile once he succeeded. "Tah-dah."

"I am so not asking where you learnt that." She brushed by him, and scooped the snacks from the bookcase. He followed her in, and shut the door. "I wasn't actually going to ask you in, but well, you know," she said as she nodded to his position in her lounge.

"Why did ya finally decide to talk to me?" he asked, fingering her photo frames on the entertainment unit.

"Apart from the fact you were standing outside my place?"

"Mmm, apart from that."

"I thought I better tell you I'm moving, so you don't freak out the new tenants."

He spun to look at her, a furrow in his brow. "Huh?"

"I transferred to a smaller office in the northern suburbs. " She shrugged. "Didn't think it was any of your concern where I work."

"It's not," he bit out. "But it is me concern where ya live."

Steph placed the food onto the low table next to her seat, and flopped into the armchair. "Do enlighten me."

He crossed the small gap to her, and squatted at her feet. Their knees touched. "How can I visit ya, if you're so far away?"

"Stalk me, you mean?"

"Visit." He narrowed his gaze on her. "When did this all come about? Yer transfer, that is."

"It's been in the pipe-line for weeks, but I got confirmation Tuesday."

"And you've got somewhere to live—just like that?" His eyes narrowed as he waited on the answer.

"If you're worried I'm about to move in with another man—" She patted his hand condescendingly. "—I'm not. I found a place that was available immediately."

He snorted. "Like I was worried."

Steph smiled, and he looked away. She wasn't fooled by his tough, arrogant exterior. The look on his face as she said she was moving fell nothing short of a boy being told his childhood friend was off to a new school; it was hurt, disappointed, but resigned. He held the appearance of somebody who had lost out plenty of times before, and now chose not to fight the inevitable. He looked ... defeated.

"Ya goin' to tell me yer new address?"

"So you can come hang out on my doorstep and give me a reputation before I've finished unpacking?"

"So I know where to find ya."

Pete's words held promise, the kind that sent chills straight down her spine. "What if I don't want to be found?"

"Nobody's invisible, Love. Everyone can be found." The side of his nose twitched with a sneer, and the dark flecks in his eyes took on a glazed appearance. He looked as though he reminisced, and if it involved what he did when he hunted out people who didn't want to be found—she didn't want to know.

Steph drew her knees to her chest, and gripped her ankles with white-knuckled determination. His proximity left her uncomfortable, vulnerable, and a little unsettled.

"Do ya still want me to fuck ya?"

She gagged on her next breath. He had to be kidding, right? What twisted world did he live in if discussions of stalking, and of moving to unknown destinations led to sex? She released her ankles, and planted her feet against his chest to push him off balance and out of her way. Steph stormed to the front door, and avoided his gaze. "I think you ought to leave, don't you?"

"No."

Great, now she'd have to call the police on his ass. You know you won't. Fantastic. Her inner monologue doubted her sanity.

He picked up the bowl of popcorn, and plonked down on the couch. "What we watchin'?"

"I am watching a movie. You are about to leave."

"Nah," he twitched his top lip in thought. "I'm not quite ready to."

Frustration boiled over inside. She wanted to clench her fists, scream, and stomp a tantrum until he went. He wasn't being fair. How could somebody be so stubborn, and remain so nonchalant about it all? And why the hell was he so damn sexy when he did that?

He patted the seat next to him. "Ya joinin' me, then?" She growled, certain she had a shit-show of winning, and crossed the room to where he sat. He casually scrolled through the channels on her TV. "What station is it on?" he asked.

"Ten," she answered as she gave out into the seat next to him. "Don't eat all my popcorn, because I don't have any more."

"Ah, Cutie," he said, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders to pull her in. "I wouldn't dream of denyin' me girl."

His girl, huh? We'll see about that.

"Ya want to have a quick one before it starts?" he glanced down at her, a twinkle in his eye. "Kiddin'."

"Lucky for you." Steph remained stiff at his side, wary of exactly what he had planned. Her eyes roved the room for anything that could act as a weapon should he become dangerous. When was he not? That was the curious thing, though. If she felt uncomfortable, and threatened around him—why hadn't her flight instinct kicked in? Because the thrill of his unpredictability is what you need. Need? Since when did she need instability? Or the sort of guy she had yet to decide belonged in an insane asylum, or not?

Whatever his intention, a girl scout should always be prepared. Steph wasn't about to fast-track herself to the lead role in a cheesy horror flick. She wasn't going to be that girl who everyone yelled at to 'run'. She wriggled into his side further, and slid her hand between the cushions of the sofa. Unbeknownst to him, her fingers roamed the gap behind the seat for the little surprise she remembered was in there.

The movie credits rolled, and her hand tightened around her solution for the Possible Pete Problem. Yep, that's right—she had named the conundrum in the course of the movie.

He sat relaxed, reclined into the back of the sofa—not going anywhere.

"Comfortable?" she cooed.

"For now." He traced a lazy line up her arm with a finger.

"You know, I'm kind of tired. I think I might—"

"Are ya tryin' to blow me off, Cutie?" He twisted in the seat to face her better.

"I've already asked you to leave, and yet here you still are. Would you rather I got nasty about it?"

He chuckled, and she caught herself laugh with him. "Ya don't know much about me, huh?"

"Don't get the chance with you," she retorted.

He soured. "Never heard ya complain."

"So you've said." Steph gave him her best 'I-mean-it' glower. "So, are you leaving, or what?"

"Nah." He grinned.

Why did he have to look so boyishly cute when he grinned? Such innocence almost had her go soft on him—almost. "For the last time, you're making me uncomfortable. Please leave."

Pete's gaze dragged the length of her, and settled on her chest. "They don't think so."

She followed his line of sight to her breasts, and gasped. Heat flushed her cheeks when she saw what he referred to. Her nipples were hard enough to make soft peaks of her t-shirt. Oh God, kill me now.

Pete laughed, softly at first, but louder as her embarrassment grew. "Yer body don't lie, Love. It wants what it wants."

Enough. The guy wouldn't leave when asked, and now he made a mockery of her situation ... in her home. Steph brought her hand wielding the weapon up, and rammed the fork into his thigh. He hollered a litany of curses, and grabbed at the handle which merrily sat upright from his leg. Acid roiled in her stomach at the sight, and she leapt off the seat. In no way had she intended to be so brutal. Still, she took the chance and bolted to her bedroom, slammed the door and snatched the phone from the nightstand. Her finger hovered over the third zero, when he called to her through the door.

"Fine. Have it yer way. I'm leavin'." The metallic ting as the fork hit the tiles echoed through her unit, before the dull thud of the front door punctuated his exit.

Her head spun with the craziness of what happened. Since when did she take to stabbing people who refused to leave? Had she been too rash? Acted on impulse? Perhaps he wasn't as dangerous as she thought? Guilt buzzed in her temple as she thought it over. Maybe she had been a bit rough. Steph placed her phone down on the bed, and got to her feet. She paused by the door, and listened for movement. All that responded was the dull hum of ads on her TV. She inched the door open, and listened again. Still nothing. A little braver, she pushed it wide and stepped out into the short hallway. As she rounded the corner into the lounge, a hand clamped down over her mouth.

"Jesus, you're gullible." She caught the amusement in Pete's words.

She tried to scream, kick, thrash her way free, but he held on. He wrapped his arm about her middle and pulled her into his body. Warmth spread across the back of her thigh where the blood from his wound soaked into her trackies. He crushed her to him to shush her, calm her.

"It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt ya."

She let off a string of profanities which lost all effect under the dampener of his hand.

"I'll take me hand away, but if ya scream again, I'll fuckin' tape yer mouth shut until I'm done."

Oh my God—he's going to rape me. What the fuck else did he mean by 'done'? His hand fell from her mouth, but he kept her pressed to his hard chest. She stuttered out her words before the sickness in her gut took their place. "What are you going to do to me?" Oh, God. How could she have let him into her home the first time if this is how nutty he truly was?

"Nothin'," he said. "I want to talk to ya, and have ya bloody-well hear me out." His words vibrated where her back still rested against him.

"Some way of convincing me to listen you have there."

"Some aim ya have with a fork," he replied.

She hung her head, and her chin rested on top of the hand which pressed against her chest. "Sorry about that."

Pete let her go, and limped around where she stood to the couch. "I would have done the same. What bothers me more is that ya keep forks in yer couch for such occasions."

She forced a laugh. "Not quite. It dropped there the other night. I just hadn't remembered to fish it out yet."

"Oh well," he shrugged. "Lucky for ya, then."

Steph looked to the floor, unsure what she should do. Bolt? Or hear him out? Somehow, he had managed to make her more at ease around him in a short few minutes. "So what did you want to talk about?"

"I want to try and explain why I'm such an asshole. Maybe ya'll understand why I got so heated last weekend."

"Charming." She frowned. "Are you going to include what brought you to the conclusion that you needed to keep me prisoner in my own home to do it?"

"Perhaps. Depends how well ya listen."

"What does it matter?"

He scrubbed a hand over his face, and stopped to flick his lip ring before he spoke. "Because, Cutie, if ya hear me out and choose to let me stick around, I'll know you're the girl for me."

****

Pete eyed her where she stood. She still shook like a new born lamb, but at least the colour had returned to her face. For a moment there he was convinced the woman was about to hurl all over him.

Steph took a few deep sighs, and rubbed her fingers over her eyebrow as she thought. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, the tension in his chest was a direct result of waiting on her answer. Would she hear him out? Fuck, did they have a chance after tonight? The woman thought he was psychotic. Hold on, she's the one who stabbed ya, remember?

"Okay," she whispered. "But first, let me fix your leg."

"It's fine." He brushed her off.

She threw her hands on her hips, and frowned. "It's not. And besides, it's the least I can do since it was me who did it to you."

He dropped his shoulders, and nodded. She was determined—that cute little crinkle in her nose said so. She turned and headed for the bathroom, and he dropped his head back on the sofa. The puncture in his thigh had numbed after the initial pain, but his leg could still do with the dressing. He just wasn't sure if he could handle her hands on his skin. When he held her to his chest moments before, a torrent of erotic images had surged into his mind. What he'd do to hold her in the same position—naked. She fit. Perfectly.

Steph reappeared with a small, first-aid bag, and perched on the couch next to him. "You're going to have to take your pants off, you know."

He noted the slight curl in the corner of her lips as she spoke. The thought amused her too, huh? Pete stood, and flicked the catch on his belt buckle. Her keen eyes followed the movement. He popped the button, and edged the zip down, then paused for effect. She ran her top lip through her bite, and popped the lush pink skin out. His little fella stirred.

Not now. For fuck's sake.

He played still shots of cute animals through his head to distract from the thought. Puppies, chickens, baby tigers, and elephants... shit. Not elephants, ya eejit.

Pete drew his eyes shut, and hooked a thumb in each side of the denim. He shoved them over his hips to his knees. The subtlest of gasps pierced the silence, and his skin broke out in goose bumps. What the fuck was wrong with him? Here he was, a man who successfully portrayed indifference and a lack of compassion since he walked out of his parent's house, and now a woman made him lose control of his body.

He dropped onto the couch, and draped an arm over his groin to hide any possible embarrassment that may ... arise. Pete watched her as she looked at the wound with concern.

"I didn't realise I'd pushed so deep."

"Ya pretty much put yer full weight on it, Love."

She huffed, and turned to the kit at her side. He looked over the punctures in his thigh as she unzipped the bag, and pulled out the necessities. Steph was right—she had pushed deep. Angry purple circles ringed the reddened prong holes. The flesh around the entire wound had swollen into a puffy, red patch.

"This will sting." She placed a swab over the area; her palm wrapped over the contour of his leg.

He sucked a harsh breath through his teeth, glad for the pain to detract from the sensational feel of her palm on his skin. She removed the swab of gauze, and applied antiseptic cream, then finished off with a fabric plaster. He studied her face the whole time, and noted how her eyebrows twitched with her concentration.

"Feel free to start telling me whatever it is you think will scare me off," Steph said as she placed the kit back together.

Pete stood once more, and pulled his jeans back on. "I don't think it will—I know it will."

She levelled him with a stare as she stood to return the kit. "Do you think I'm that precious?"

"Not at all. I think you're that sensible."

"Great," she muttered as she left the room again.

What was that about? Didn't girls like being told they were smart? I give up. He settled back into the couch, and rubbed where the plaster was under his jeans. Steph returned, and took a seat opposite him in the only armchair.

"Ya need to stop assumin' people think the worst of ya," he started. "Perhaps it's a compliment to ya that I think ya would be too smart to stick around me."

"I'll make up my own mind, thanks."

He smiled, amused at her optimism. "I have few friends, ya know. Mostly I keep to meself."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Shush." He held a finger to his lips. "No talkin'. Just listenin'."

She nodded, obviously pissed off.

He closed his eyes to expel the alluring sight of her on the armchair; legs tucked under, her oversized t-shirt strangely sexy. "I don't tell anybody who I was before I came to Australia, because not many people can understand it. Most people look at me with pity in their eyes. I don't want fuckin' pity."

She opened her mouth to ask a question, then stilled.

"I'm tellin' ya this, Cutie, because I see somethin' different in you—potential. Yer not like the usual hook-ups I get. Yer ... interested. Ya want more than casual sex."

Her lips pressed into a firm line. The need to talk killed her.

"I don't take partners easily. I'm tired of women who think they can throw themselves at me for an easy night with a dangerous man. Yea, sure, I'm fucked up. I'm the first to admit it. But it still grates me that most of the tarts who try it on, want to drag me around like its fuckin' show-and-tell. They want to parade me in front of their friends like I'm some sort of designer accessory. I'm not." He punched a fist to his chest. "I'm a fuckin' person."

Steph fidgeted in the seat, dying to speak. He needed a moment to gather his train of thought anyway, so he nodded approval.

"Do you mean to tell me, that nobody—and I mean nobody—has cared for you. Ever."

He shook his head. "Caring, and me lifestyle don't get along that well."

"What is your 'lifestyle'?"

The nerves which crackled in his limbs relaxed. This was a subject he was comfortable enough to discuss. "I'm not one to operate within the confines of socially acceptable rule. Some people would say the things I've done are illegal, immoral, or downright moronic. Me? I say they were necessary."

"Then if I'm so different—" Her fingers wound in her lap. "—why me?"

"I want to know if ya can be the woman I need. I want to know if you're gonna match me blow for blow. I need ya to push me, to challenge me. I need ya to be me catalyst for change. Without a reason to improve, I'm driftin'."

She shook her head, and if he wasn't mistaken, tears bloomed. "But I'm not anything special. I don't know what it takes to 'fix' someone. Shit, I can't even fix me."

"Love, ya didn't judge me. Ya didn't give a fuck who I was, what I looked like. Ya talked to me like any other person ya might meet."

"Well, that's not exactly true."

"How?"

She screwed her mouth to the side before she spoke. "I did care a teeny bit for what you looked like." With her head tucked to her chest, he barely made out the words.

He chuckled. "Did ya now?"

She looked up, and smiled. A beautiful, warm smile.

"Anyway." He laughed. "Let me give ya the rest of me history before ya decide if you're doin' the right thing playin' Mother Theresa."

"Does it honestly matter where you came from?"

He looked to her, shocked at the sincerity of her statement. The woman truly wanted to know why it mattered. Bless her. He loved her that much more, now.

"I mean," she continued. "So what if you grew up in poverty, wealth, abuse, or love. All that matters is the person you are now."

The fucking woman might make him cry if she bloody carried on. He held up a hand to stop her. "That's just it, Cutie. The man I am now is the problem."

"Because you've done a few bad things?" A hint of amusement played on her lips. "We've all made mistakes."

He grimaced. "I didn't pick-pocket a chocolate bar, ya know."

"Oh."

"No, me reputation with the law isn't the problem." His face dropped as he thought of what he had to say next. She wouldn't understand, not yet, but he had to warn her. "The problem is I'm becomin' the same man me father was."

Steph drew her eyebrows together as she watched him scrub both hands over his face. What did his father do that made him so horrified to be the same? An unease settled low in her gut at the obvious: murder, blackmail, torture. All that sticky, relationship-ending stuff. "It hurts you to think that might be true, eh?"

He snapped his cool blue eyes back on her. "Yeah, it does."

Did she want to ask any more? Would it help to know? Or was he right, and she should cut him loose and move on, leave him behind? It's not as though they'd started anything yet, had they? What did you call a casual one-night peep-show? Perverted.

"What did your father do, then?" she queried, eager to lose her train of thought.

"It was as much what he didn't do."

She raised her brow in question.

"Care. He didn't give a fuck for anyone, not even his own flesh and blood."

"What about your mother?"

"Worse." No wonder he had been cool in his response when she complained about her mum the other night. She stared at him as her heart hit the floor with a thud. Was this the reason for his cool dominance over her? Was that why he liked to be in charge? Because he always had been? "You don't have to tell me any more if it's too upsetting," she said.

He shook his head vigorously, adamant he had to. "I need ya to know. I want to find out now what you'll do."

"Why?" She shrugged. "What makes it so urgent? I want to be around you—just not when you're doing the creepy stalker thingy."

He laughed—briefly. "If I don't say it now, I don't know if you're worth the effort."

Well that sounded a bit harsh. "Thanks," she bit back.

He threw his palms up. "It's the truth. Why waste me time if you're gonna run?"

Steph sighed, and slumped into the chair. "Hurry up and tell me then. What could be so bad?"

His gaze pierced into her, and his expression darkened. The shift in his mood had her straighten in the seat. Something horrible surfaced, and maybe he had been on the money after all? Maybe this was too serious for her?

****

Pete dove into the memory banks that he usually kept vaulted tight. Buried emotions pushed to the surface, an itchy pressure under his skin. Steph shifted in the seat opposite him, and for a fleeting moment, he questioned his motives.

"I grew up in Ireland, as ya can probably tell." She nodded. "Me mam, da, and a brother. We didn't have a lot, but then not many people did in the smaller towns. Me da worked at the docks, like most fellas did in the coastal areas. Me mam, she was a stay-at-home mother. Fat load of use she was, though."

He noted how Steph's hands fidgeted in her lap. Her nerves would fry her if he dragged the story out too long.

"Anyway, I won't bore ya with the details. Da was either at work, at the pub, or drinkin' at home with his mates. Didn't matter where me mam was, nine times out of ten she would be on her back." Steph's eyes widened. "Ah, it's the truth. No point beatin' about the bush on it. She was a shit mother. Never fed us, never bathed us, barely cleaned the house. She hated us."

"That can't be right. She had to love you a little—she gave birth to you."

He soured at the hope in Steph's voice. Indications were she wouldn't understand a thing. "Me da was a right cunt. He stole, he gambled, he beat us. And he enjoyed the lot of it. I've had to do some things I aren't proud of to escape them. Problem is—they're the same things me father did. I've stolen. I've gambled—money and lives. And now I take pleasure in beatin' people when they deserve it. I'm fuckin' sick in the head, Steph."

"We've all done things we aren't proud of. Desperate times call for desperate measures." Her expression was void.

"I bet you've never crossed the law."

She looked away. Didn't think so. How could she be the girl for him if she hadn't had so much as a glimpse of the life he endured? The last week away from her had screwed with his head, made her more than she was. He simply held her on a pedestal, and he was a right tool to think she would be the one to help level him.

"I better go. I think I've seen enough to know I was right—ya don't need me around."

Pete pushed from the couch, and winced at the ache in his thigh. Great. Now he'd have a fucking physical reminder of her for the next week at least. With his back turned to her, he moved for the front door, only to still when she side-stepped into his path.

"Don't leave."

"What's left to say? I saw it in yer eyes; ya feel sorry for me. Worst of all, ya don't take a single thing I said about the menace I'm becomin' seriously."

"So maybe I don't know enough to understand, but I don't want you to leave like this."

He blinked slowly, and drew a breath. "Like what, Steph?"

"Sad."

****

He hesitated, and hope bloomed in her chest that she may have him. The hope died the instant his frown grew, and the cold indifference returned to his gaze.

"Nah," he shook his head. "You're like the rest; ya pity me."

He moved to side-step her, and she blocked his advance. He growled, and tried again. As wary as she was, Steph blocked him again, and flinched as he raised his hand.

"Get out of me way," he boomed. His accent thickened with his anger.

She shook her head. "No! Fuck you. You storm in here when you want to, and then don't leave because you don't want to. This time, you can do as I say. Sit." She jabbed a finger in the direction of the couch.

"And then what?" He smirked menacingly. "You'll bring me a giant teddy, and a hot cocoa?"

"If that's what it takes, then sure." She thrust her hands on her hips, and squared off with the bully.

He watched her, silently, while his jaw ticked. "I don't want to hurt ya."

Steph smiled, much to his annoyance. "Well isn't this a fine conundrum," she exclaimed. "Now you have a chance to show me how much like your father you are."

Wayward adrenalin surged through her limbs. At that point in time, she honestly believed she could take him if he chose to rush her. She steeled for his next move. Suspense built to an unbearable level while Pete stayed frozen in position, probably to put her off. Steph may have believed he changed his mind, if it weren't for the unsettling darkness which clouded his usually brilliant blue irises.

"Move," he instructed low, and forcefully.

"Make me."

He took one step toward her, and she knew immediately that his strength would win. Instead she executed Plan B, and darted to the front door. He eyed her with amused curiosity as he continued to walk toward her. He stopped a mere handful of steps away as she finished dragging the low bookcase across the door.

He roared with laughter. "Ya think that'll stop me?"

"Gotta give it a shot," she said, and giggled. His laughter was infectious; even though she wasn't a hundred per cent sure she should laugh.

He started toward her again, and Steph threw herself on top of the bookcase. She sat perched before the door when he stopped, more or less nose-to-nose. "Are ya tryin' to change me mind about ya?"

She held his intense gaze. "Maybe." Cripes, that came out far too squeaky for her liking. "Did it work?"

He smirked, and then scooped her up with his hands under her butt. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her lungs pulled tight as she tried to guess his next move. He turned them both around, and paused. Did she tell him where the bedroom was? Had he forgotten? His lips brushed over hers, and she parted them. To her horror he laughed, then set her down.

"What the...?" She stood aghast as he pushed the bookcase back to its home, and opened the door.

"Goodnight, Stephanie," he said over his shoulder, and then stepped into the dark.

She stared at the door as it closed, clicked shut. Frozen to the spot, she was flabbergasted.

He'd fucked her again. And still not how she wanted him to.

Pete reached the bottom of the stairs, and tipped his head back to scream silently at the sky. Why was it every little defiant thing she did made him want her more? Her constant arguments got him hot, so much so he was positive if she pointed a gun at his face he would cream his pants. The situation wouldn't do. Yet he couldn't shake the gut feeling she could be that anomaly, that woman who matched his fucked up set of personality traits perfectly.

He wanted to tell her every little detail, but at the same time protect himself from the horrible pain of being pitied again. He'd had it with the fuckin' pity. He wasn't a charity case, a poster boy for neglect. Pity did nothing to change his past, and pity sure as fuck couldn't undo the worst day of his life and give him a brother again.

The dark, matte bodywork of his rat-rod gleaned under the street light as he approached. A couple of youngsters sat on a nearby fence, and waited for the owner to show so they could grill him with twenty questions. Not tonight, kids. Normally he wouldn't mind letting them take a closer look, even sit inside. Because he'd been that boy once; marvelling at all the things he could only dream of being able to have. He remembered what it was like to feel the buzz as he recounted how it felt to 'drive' such a cool car to his mates.

"Hey, Mister," the eldest of the two called out.

Pete eyed him as he paused by the driver's door. The kid looked all of seven.

"That's an awesome car you got. Can you take us for a ride?"

His gut wrenched at such an innocent question from a kid who was simply curious of what it was like to ride in a car such as his. What if he had been some psychotic killer? Kiddie fiddler? Didn't this boy's parents teach him safety with strangers? Pete marched up to the kid, and stood before him—and his brother by the looks of it—with his arms folded. "Where ya live, son?"

The boy nodded over his shoulder to the house they sat outside of.

"Come with me." Pete started up the path, the two boys in hot pursuit. More than likely they hoped he was going to ask their mother if he could take them out in the rod.

He reached the front door of the old weatherboard home, and rapped a closed fist hard against the worn paintwork. The shuffle of feet up a timber hallway preceded the door being swung wide. A large woman stood with a hand pressed to her hip, and eyeed him with suspicion. She held out a thick arm, and tucked the younger boy to her side after they both skirted Pete to join her.

"What d'ya want?"

Lovely. How lady-like.

Pete shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans to stem the desire he had to choke her. The contempt she held him in irked him more than the fact her kids tried to get in the car with a stranger. "Yer two boys here asked if they could come for a ride in me car."

"So?" She sneered. "What of it?"

He fisted his hands so hard the knuckles of his right cracked. "Shouldn't ya be worried that yer boys weren't wary of a stranger? They don't know me from Adam. For all ya know, I could have had them dead and buried by mornin'."

The eyes of the eldest boy widened, but he held no remorse at the kid's shock. Hopefully he'd learn his lesson, because it sure as fuck looked like his mother wasn't about to teach him.

"Is that all you want? You came up to my door to tell me how to parent?" Her stare grew narrow, and the edges of her nose crinkled.

"It seems somebody needs to. How about ya teach yer kids some rules about safety, lady. Show them that ya give a fuck about them."

"Tell me," she spat. "You have kids?"

He shook his head as he rocked on his heels to dissipate the rage inside.

"Didn't think so." She leered with the smugness of somebody who was certain they won.

"If I did," he replied. "I'd be sure to show them I cared about them by givin' them the skills to stay alive."

"You done?"

"I was before I started, Love." He took a step back, and turned. It sickened him to think some people couldn't care less about the safety of their kids. But what could he do? Adopt every child whose parent was a useless moron? He drew a cigarette from the packet, and slotted it between his lips. The stick would stay unlit until he reached home due to his firm rule of no smoking in the car, but at least the presence of it would help suppress his need to draw the smoke deep in his lungs.

He primed the rod's engine, and turned it over; the throaty V8 rumbled to life with a roar. The street was empty, except for him. Another fact that pissed him off about those kids. He could have snatched them—if he was that kind of weirdo—and nobody would have been around to know. Pete edged the rod out from the curb, and idled past the driveway of Steph's complex. He ducked his head to look out the chopped windscreen, and peered up at her unit. The lights were off, but the pale blue glow of the TV flickered through the blinds. He warmed at the thought of her up there; legs tucked beneath her on the couch as she watched whatever it was that showed this hour of the night.

He shook the thought of her plump, pink lips from his mind, and punched his foot down on the accelerator to speed off into the darkness. She would move soon, and he realised she hadn't told him exactly when. Shit, she hadn't told him her new address. Surely she didn't try to get rid of him? Not after the way her eyes had darkened with desire as he brushed his lips over hers. Surely not?

Then again, she had told him he was some kind of crazy stalker. And stuck a fork in ya leg. Maybe all she had done was simply a ruse to throw him off? Distract him so he didn't ask? He frowned at the thought. It couldn't have been. There were too many tells to show he affected her. The quickened breaths, the rose of her cheeks, the way her pupils changed in size when he touched her. She was hooked—he knew it.

Problem was—he was hooked worse.

****

Steph gently fingered her lips where his had touched her so fleetingly. How she wanted him to have kissed her again. Her body came alive at the fantasy of how he could have thrown her down on her bed and made love to her. You're a dreamer, girl. He wasn't the kind of guy to 'make love'. No. What he would do would be rough, forceful, and maybe bruise. The complete opposite of the intimacy she'd experienced.

Her core tingled at the idea.

Dave was a competent lover—no doubt a skill his current piece on the side enjoyed—but he was also predictable. Missionary, against the wall, on her stomach, on her back, legs up, and legs down. Steph could count the positions on her hands, and still have digits to spare. The crazy show she had put on for Pete had stirred a primal desire inside of her which she only now recognised as being the root of her animosity toward Dave.

She wanted more. To explore. And she resented Dave for not caring enough to ask. Maybe he shouldn't have to ask? But why then, did Steph get the impression he wouldn't have been on board with the idea if she had been the instigator, anyway?

Pete would be though. She hadn't the slightest doubt he would be all over the crazy things she imagined at night as she lay alone in her bed. He had that ... that what? Craziness to him? Wickedness? Sexuality. He'd said that was what they were doing; they explored their sexuality. And wouldn't they be? Especially if they tried the stuff she'd only ever fantasised about.

Steph rubbed the chill from her arm, and stood from the couch. No, she shouldn't think like that. God, what would her friends, her family think if they knew what sordid shit went through her head? Wishing your lover inflicted pain wasn't natural. There wasn't a single thing okay with the need to feel those tattooed hands about your throat as your body slammed into the wall from the impact of his hips. Was there?

The bed dipped as she sat, and her centre buzzed with the tension she'd brought upon herself with thoughts of such madness. Was it mad though? Or was she mad for thinking that kind of behaviour was? Far out, she needed to change the subject. All this confusion did a number on her headspace. Steph hooked her thumbs in the waist of her track pants and drew them down. Her feet fluttered as she kicked them into the corner. She tucked her legs up and slid under the sheets to settle in for sleep, and to find a way off this train of thought. Back to reality tomorrow, and out of this crazy made-up world she had dreamt herself into.

Steph sighed. The ache in her belly grew for a man she knew could never be more than a whimsical illusion of lust.

Steph looked up at Cass, her eyebrow cocked in confusion. "The page is blank." She held the piece of paper out for Cass to take back.

"I know," she hissed. "Grumpy pants is watching, so I had to pretend to be doing something legit."

Steph smiled, and shook her head. "What's up then?"

"You tell me." Cass's eyes narrowed as she rested her arms on the top of the partition.

Steph shrugged. "Don't know what you mean." She did. She knew exactly what her friend referred to; the stale mood she'd been in the last week as she moped around the office like someone had died.

Well, hadn't they? Kind of? She hadn't heard a thing from Pete since he left last Friday. Every damn noise her stupid mobile made, she had launched herself at it as though he magically found her number in the clouds. That's how pathetically desperate she was to see a man she stabbed again.

"Well?" Cass prompted.

"I can't say here."

"Where then? You name it, and we'll do lunch."

Greg walked by, and stopped behind Cass to eye them. Steph flashed the sheet of paper to indicate they were at work, and he nodded as he carried on.

"That guy is such a pain in the ass," Steph growled. "And a creep. Did you see the way he kept touching that new girls back when he showed her around?"

Cass nodded. "Couldn't miss it. Anyway, lunch."

"Yeah." Steph screwed her mouth to the side. "How about Subway? I haven't had that in a while."

"Deal. As long as you don't give me grief for having two cookies."

Steph smirked, and nodded. "Fine. Deal."

Cass slipped back to her cubicle as Steph sat and suppressed the jittery bugs in her gut. How the heck was she going to break this one to her bestie? Tell her she'd fallen for a crazy man? Tell her she wanted him to push her around like a common whore? Mm-hmm. Loony. You're loony.

She looked at the clock on her monitor, and relaxed. It was barely time for her morning coffee. Enough hours until lunch to practice what she'd say then. She reached out, and plucked a list of numbers from her in-tray. Her eyes roamed over the data, and she cringed at the amount of time it would take her to enter and collate it all. Her fingers tapped on the desk top, and she mused over what sort of environment the new office might be. Would there be friendly people like Cass? Or a bunch of people a lot older with not much in common? Did they socialise outside of hours? Her breath shuddered out as a sigh while she searched the hard drive for the template she would need. Focused on the endless folders that contained client records, she jumped when her desk-phone buzzed.

Steph picked up the handset, and answered automatically; her focus still on being able to locate the AWOL template. "Hello?"

"Miss Drake. You have a visitor at reception." The old bag's tone was cooler than usual.

"I'll be right there." Her heart flew to her throat. Nobody ever visited her at work. What on earth could they be here for? The visitor had to be family when Cass worked in the same office. Unless it was Ivan? Which would be worse. He worked on the other side of the city, so what was so important?

Steph played out a million dire scenarios as she made her way through the maze of desks to the entrance. She pushed open the frosted glass door that divided the reception from the offices. Her heart stampeded madly against her ribcage. Her heels clicked on the tiles as she rounded the corner of the front desk, and lifted her gaze to her visitor. Steph's heart stopped beating.

Him.

Here.

Why?

Pete drew a lazy smirk, and stepped up from the armchair he had waited in. "Hey, Cutie."

The old bag behind the desk peered over the top of her glasses at the two of them. The woman probably drank in every detail for lunch-time gossip.

"What are you doing here?" Steph whispered.

"Sightseeing," he replied, deadpan.

"I'm kind of busy. I—"

"Bollocks. You're a fuckin' terrible liar, girl."

The receptionist's head snapped up so fast Steph swore the bag would need a neck brace. Heat flushed her face as she looked away from the woman's glare, and back into the amused twinkle of Pete's eye. "I was about to have coffee. You'll have to sign in as a visitor."

He nodded, and stepped to the book on top of the reception desk. The receptionist eyed him as he wrote his details down. Steph covered her smile when he shot the woman a wink, with a side of dashing smile.

"This way," Steph gestured when he re-joined her by the door. "Hopefully there aren't many people in the staffroom."

"None would be best."

She wanted to believe so badly that he'd said that because whatever he wanted to talk about was personal. But the gravelly tone of his voice, and the proximity he followed her suggested otherwise. Steph passed Cass's desk, and averted her attention to the worn carpet. She couldn't stomach a guess at what her friend would do when she saw who was here.

Brown dress shoes came into view, and Steph ground to a halt. "Mr Daniels," she choked out.

"Stephanie. I didn't know we welcomed friends into the office on a casual basis?"

Fire swept over her flesh. "Um, no. It was important."

"It better be if your boyfriend here can't wait until lunch-time."

She caught the chuckle behind her, and blushed harder. "He's not my—"

"Whatever he is," Greg continued with an air of supremacy. "I would prefer you kept social engagements out of the work place."

"Look, fella." Pete stepped around her, and placed a hand on Steph's hip to push her behind him. "You can't tell me that ya sit in your cushy office all day doin' only work. Should we go take a look at ya browser history and see what it tells us?"

Greg frowned. Steph cringed.

"Surely ya can spare the lady ten minutes?"

Greg flicked his gaze between them, clearly pissed. "Five."

"Five it is, then." Pete stuck his hand out, with a cocky smile plastered on his sinful mouth.

Begrudgingly, Greg accepted, and shook his hand briskly. "I'll be watching for you to leave."

"I'll be sure to blow ya a kiss on me way out."

Steph buried her face in her hands, and moaned. The idiot would have her fired on her last day in this office if he wasn't careful.

Greg moved around Pete, and stopped to point a finger at Steph. "One time only, Miss Drake. One time."

"Yes, Mr Daniels," she muttered as she avoided his stare.

Pete took her by the hand and gave her a tug. "Come on, Love. We've got four minutes to get this done, and ya know I can't rush when it comes to you."

Oh, no he didn't. Steph looked to Cass, mortified as the girl let go of a snicker. Steph could have happily crawled under the nearest desk, and died. She looked pleadingly at Pete, and he smiled widely back at her. The prick actually enjoyed embarrassing her. She scowled, and walked past him to the staffroom which was centrally located in the offices. The small, square room had no windows, and therefore offered no natural light. Staff lockers lined the right wall, a small kitchenette across the back. Steph led Pete in, and set off the motion-sensor lights. She turned to address the bastard as he shut the door behind them. Of course—they were the only two in the room.

"What the hell do you think you were—"

He wrenched her forward by her wrist, and their bodies collided as his warm lips crashed down on hers. A low growl resonated from the back of his throat, and he caressed her tongue with his. Steph softened to his grasp, and let out a small whimper as he reached around and squeezed her butt. He drew back, and licked the corner of his mouth whilst his eyes held her in a hooded gaze.

"Have ya thought about what I said the other night?" His eyes searched her face as he waited.

"That I'm 'just like the rest'? Besides, it wasn't the other night; you've ignored me for a week."

"I wanted ya to have time to think."

"About what? How you treat me like a damn rag-doll? Tossing me aside when you've had your play time?"

He chuckled, and stroked the side of her face. "Admit it, Love. Ya live for those moments. Yer body begs for it."

Heat flamed her face as Pete leant in and drew an earlobe into his mouth. "This isn't the best place to—"

He cut her off once more with a finger to her lips. Pete grasped her by the waist, and guided her with him as he backed into the door to make them a human blockade. "You've got three minutes left." He reached down and flicked his belt open. "Make it good."

She stepped back and stared with her jaw slack as he undid his fly. His eyes crinkled at the corners with sheer amusement as he nodded toward his crotch, then flicked his gaze from her face, to himself, and back. With the presumption she would co-operate, he eased onto the door, and laced his hands behind his head.

Steph crossed her arms high on her chest—stunned at the gall he had to make such a suggestion, but more disturbingly, aroused as well. "You have got to be fucking kidding."

A cruel smirk tugged at his lips. "Stop wastin' time, Cutie. And don't lie to me by sayin' ya don't want to; I can see it in yer eyes." He leant his head back, and closed his eyes. "You've got two and a half minutes."

Heat plumed behind her ears as she looked him over. He stood so damn carefree against the door, and sexy as hell, too. You can't be serious. Her conscience screamed sense at her, but Steph quashed it. She leant toward him, and then paused. What if they were caught? What if Greg had security cameras in here? You idiot! Her eyes swept the four corners of the room, and the nerves which flew about in her stomach eased somewhat at the absence of any noticeable lenses. She returned her focus to the arrogantly, delicious man before her.

"What did you come here for? Surely not to do this?" She ran her bottom lip through her teeth as she waited on the answer.

His eyes locked to the movement. "Would ya like it if I had?"

"No," she snapped. "It's ... wrong."

"Then no," he said. "I didn't."

She eyed him for a moment, and hoped he would say something else. But he simply kept her firmly in his steely sights.

"Two," he ground out through clenched teeth.

What the hell.

Steph fell to her knees before him, and shook her head at what she was about to do. She took the top of his jeans in hand, and pushed them down his hips so all that remained between her and his request were a pair of black, fitted boxers. She screwed her eyes shut, and exhaled heavily.

This was it, the precipice. What she did now set the foundations for what he could push her to do. Yes, she'd played with herself before him a fortnight ago, but that was different. She was in the relative privacy of her home then. Now? Now she was at work.

It's a room. That's all it is. And he's a man, and you're a woman. Do what you're created for.

She opened her eyes, and laid her palm over the bulge in his boxers, pleasantly surprised at how hard he already was. Perhaps the thought of being caught excited him? Maybe he liked to be watched? Maybe I like to be watched? Her mind boggled. She slipped her hand up, and curled her fingers over the waistband. Steph tugged it down to let him fall forth. Pete groaned, and settled into the door further.

Her mind blanked, and her gaze became a vacant stare. What on earth was she doing? What the hell was wrong with her? Here she was, about to give the most arrogant ass of a man she had ever met, a blowjob—in her staffroom. Had she literally lost her marbles? Had the fumes of photocopier toner finally got to her? Because surely, she had to be high to seriously consider doing what she had planned.

One way to find out.

Steph gently wrapped her fingers about him—so hard, so thick—and made slow, even strokes. He hummed above her, and naturally her pace quickened. Still in a daze, she watched as her fingers slid up and down, around and over. On impulse, Steph shot forward and ran her tongue up the length of his arousal. She closed her eyes at the sweet, salty taste, and closed her lips over the tip. Complete awareness returned to her like a slap to the side of the head. She was at work ... in the staffroom ... with her mouth over him.

Her heartbeat fluttered, and warmth built between her legs.

"Fuck," Pete whispered through a strained breath.

His pleasure at what she did for him spurred her on. She was eager to hear his bliss, his enjoyment of what she could do. How perfect it would be if he was to beg. Steph continued to stroke the base of his cock as she swirled her tongue over the top. Her lips clamped over the shaft, and she drew her breath in to create a vacuum as she pulled free.

Pete literally growled.

I hope like hell nobody heard that.

Still, she didn't consider stopping. She repeated the action; his hips ever so slightly rose with each draw of her lips off his hard length. She played with him, toyed with him, and brought him to the brink. No way could she deny that a blowjob in her workplace had her turned on from the danger of it all, but this was about payback. Steph dragged out her tease until he caved.

He begged.

"Oh, Cutie. Just fuckin' suck it out of me. Jesus, that's good," he hissed in hushed tones.

She increased her pace, and her arousal hummed with every quiet moan he made. Certain he was on the edge, she abruptly stopped. Steph stood before him, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand; the exact same way he had. His eyes darkened with need as she took a step back.

"What the fuck are ya doin'?"

Steph tapped her wrist. "Times up."

A smile spread over his face. "Ya little tease."

She grinned happily. How'd you like that? Huh?

"But you're wrong, Cutie." He lunged out, and caught her by the hip. "There's still thirty seconds to go."

Pete spun her around him, and pinned her face-first to the door with his body—hot and hard. Everybody had to hear that. Thank Christ I'm about to transfer. Steph sighed, aware she should fight him, and tell him how wrong this was, but her body betrayed her and arched against the pressure his hips placed on her backside.

"See, Love," he whispered in her ear. "Ya love it."

She gasped as his hand wrenched her knee-length skirt to her waist. His fingers found their way to the crotch of her panties, and tucked the fabric aside. Gently, he stroked his fingertips along her swollen folds, and drew a whimper from her.

"How bad ya want me?" His tone demanded an answer.

"Bad," she breathed.

"Yeah?" The tip of his erection nudged her sensitive flesh. Steph sucked in a sharp breath. "This what ya want?"

She nodded, too breathless to speak.

He gave her enough pressure to gently ease her apart, his arousal slick against her own. "Tell me again, Cutie. What should I do?"

Steph couldn't believe how effortlessly the words came from her mouth. "Fuck me hard, Pete. Now," she whispered.

Immediately he was gone. A cold breeze shocked her warmth where he once was. She looked over her shoulder, eyebrows pulled together. "How come...?"

He grinned, a full devil-come-hither smile. "Know who you're playing, Love." He held her confused stare as he drew his pants up and re-buckled his belt. "See ya after work. Take it ya haven't moved yet?"

She shook her head violently, and then set about righting her skirt. Damn. She'd need to visit the ladies before she could show her face in the office again. Her cheeks flushed more than the last time she'd attempted to go for a run.

"I'll see meself out." He stroked the side of her face, down her neck, and to the valley of her breasts. "Behave while I'm gone, will ya?"

Yet again, she stood flabbergasted as he simply left. Surely she had to qualify for some sort of a degree in mind-fuckery by now? Seemed it happened on a regular enough basis where Pete was concerned.

Steph ran a shaky hand through her hair, and licked her lips.

Salty.

Pete caught the eye of the curly blonde he recognised from the bar, and smiled. She returned the expression, but her eyebrows twitched enough that he knew she was suspicious of him.

Jesus—he was suspicious of himself.

The incredible satiny-smooth texture of Steph's lips on him nearly caused him to lose himself, to forget where he was. But he pulled himself back in time. Too close. Far too close. What could have happened if he hadn't? No need to dwell on things that weren't. He'd saved the situation, reminded her who was boss in this game. Pete chuckled to himself as the receptionist scowled at him pass through the foyer. He tossed his hand up—middle finger raised—and stepped out into the bright sunshine of another fucking rosy day.

Fuck nature.

He drew his hand over the slight stubble on his jaw, and fell back into the moment they shared. Thank Christ he'd had the foresight to pin his hands behind his head, because the way her dark hair looked as it slid over the job she gave him—like a dark cloud that crossed a beautiful eclipse—he wanted to grab a fistful of her locks and drive himself deep into her hot, little mouth.

Get yourself together, ya gob-shite.

How had he let it get like this? How the fuck had she got under his skin so easily? The woman was a damn leech; invasive and draining. All he wanted from her was the chance at being understood. A chance at a woman who could level him out, make him act normal. But Jesus, this one made him fuckin' worse.

Space. He needed space.

Why had he said he would see her tonight? He was like a junkie who walked out of the hospital after an over-dose to look for the next hit. The habit had to go. He needed to nip it in the bud—even if she could be his match. The woman was dangerous, a Pandora's Box of sexual bliss. She made him think with the wrong brain, and that wouldn't do. He couldn't let her stay. Maybe the world had thrown him a big wake-up call when fate decided she was going to move away? Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise? The separation he wasn't strong enough to do on his own, because Lord knows he wanted her mouth on him again—right now. Public streets and all.

Shit.

Shit, shit, double shit.

Pete dropped his head back on his shoulders, and squinted into the glaring sun. He'd visit tonight, like he'd promised, but only to tell her he couldn't keep her on. Why did such a sudden sickness take him over when he thought that? He knew it too well—regret, apprehension. He didn't want to let her go. He simply had to. He needed to drop her for the sake of his health.

Right now wasn't the time to start into a self-indulgent relationship.

Relationship—huh.

No. He needed focus. Especially when shit was about to get as fuckin' real as it could get.

****

The lights spilt a soft creamy glow over the walkway as he approached. Had she thought he would turn up? Or had she hoped he lied? Pete stopped outside the plain black door to her unit, and drew a breath to compose himself.

He needed to remain cool, distant, and unaffected—no matter what she did to unnerve him.

Not that it usually took much.

He lifted his hand, and knocked. Small scuffs were audible from the other side, but no shadows played across the low light to indicate close movement. The lock on the door clicked, and it opened, slowly, but past the limit of a chain. She drew it wide, and greeted him with a smile.

He stared, and inwardly screamed at himself for being this deep already. Show no emotion. Show. No. Emotion.

Steph stood in radiant beauty; the lamp-light cast an enticing glow over the out-fit she wore —if he could call it that. Her perfect curves were draped in another oversized t-shirt; the large neck dropped over one shoulder to reveal the tattoo he knew she had already, and more. She didn't wear anything underneath it. Lord have mercy.

Pete swallowed hard, and willed all the blood from his groin back into his head.

"Well?" She crossed her slender ankles as she leant into the door. "Are you coming in?"

He raked his gaze over her body; the t-shirt had lifted on the opposite side she leant on, and exposed smooth, creamy skin on her upper thigh.

Fuck. I'm fucked.

He managed a shrug, and mentally patted himself on the back for not drooling. "I don't think I need to."

She stuck her head out the door, and checked both ways. "You want me to come out there?" Her eyebrow rose, as did a corner of her velvety lips.

A shiver ran down his spine. Damn, he wanted to bite those lips so fuckin' hard.

"I won't stay long." He cringed inside at how callous his tone came across. But it worked.

She dropped her gaze, and drew her arms over herself. He'd crushed her. Like a squishy little bug under his boot.

You're an arsehole, O'Malley.

"I only wanted to stop by and wish ya luck in yer new place."

Her eyes lifted to his, and the unshed tears she tried so hard to hold back glistened in the glow of the distant street-light.

"You've been fun. This—" he gestured between them, "—has been interestin'."

Her chin quivered, and she ducked her head to swipe at her face with a careless hand. "Yeah, okay. Whatever. I guess, um, I might see you round."

"Maybe," he shrugged again.

"Thanks for stopping by." She looked at him a last time, and the tears broke free as she took a step back to shut the door.

He lifted his hand to stop her closing it, to say something, to ease the pain of his heart as it tore in two and became a cold, tar-covered abscess in his chest. But she was quicker. The door closed with a thud, and the light switched off shortly after. He stood at her door, and fought with himself. Should he knock again, or simply leave? After all, he'd done what he came to do—cut her free. So why did it feel so hollow? Why were his feet too heavy to move?

Crickets chirped in the darkness, and a lonely bird chattered to itself from the tree on the driveway. Pete had stood so long that he had become a part of the scenery, imperceptible to the wildlife. He sighed, and drew a heavy hand through his hair then placed his palm on the door. There was nothing he could do to fix how it had panned out. Unless he miraculously managed to turn back time, he'd done it; hurt her enough that she would soon forget him.

It was what he wanted. Or so he told himself.

Steph slid down the wall of her lounge, and sat in a crumpled heap under the light-switch. Silent tears flowed at the idiot she'd made of herself. The entire lunch hour she had spoken with Cass, and convinced her somehow that Pete was worth a chance.

"I don't know," Cass had sighed. "He seems a little ... careless at times."

Steph had knitted her brow, and folded another napkin into an origami crane. "I don't know how to put it into words, but there's something there. I feel safe with him."

Cass had leaned back in her chair, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I guess you've got to go with your gut, babe. But for heaven's sake, if he so much as makes you feel uncomfortable, you damn well tell me. Okay?"

If only she knew that 'uncomfortable' was the very thing Steph craved about his company. Steph had nodded, relaxed slightly by the thought her bestie had her back. But now, as she whimpered into her knees, she wasn't so sure. Shame didn't begin to cover how she'd feel telling Cass she was right. You did this to yourself. Yeah, wasn't that the truth?

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, and the tears ran dry, she trained her gaze on the front door. It's dark, ominous presence felt like a blatant reminder of her foolishness. Steph grabbed the hem of the t-shirt, and ripped it off over her head. She tossed it into the bedroom, more at ease with being naked than sitting in the cottony embrace of the silly way she'd put herself out there—only to have her heart trampled.

What was going through her mind? Had she honestly expected him to jump her? Be so consumed with lust that he couldn't help himself?

She was more of an idiot than she first thought.

Her legs slumped to the floor as she contemplated going to bed. The night was over, her pride shattered, and her ego in a coma. She made a move to get up, but a slight change in the darkness around the entrance-way drew her eye. Steph relaxed into her position once more, and squinted hard. The shadow of two shoes cut through the slip of light that seeped under the door.

He was still there?

Her heart ratcheted up a notch, her breaths short and unsatisfying.

Can he see me? What does he want?

Her questions were doomed to remain unanswered as the shadows moved away to let the unbroken glow filter in over the carpet once more. The corners of her mouth twitched downwards, and she swiped the unbidden tears back. He may as well have stung her with his words all over again for how she felt. Empty, unwanted, and undesirable. Her hope wanted to run after him, tell him to stay, but her heart poured cement into her limbs and made movement seem like an impossibility. A black hole of misery slowly sucked any will she had left from her weary body. She sat in her pit of despair until the sadness bloomed to rage, and then back to pity for her failed attempt.

Steph dragged herself to stand, and headed through to the bathroom to do her pre-bed rituals: face, teeth, toilet. Her eyes remained devoid of emotion throughout; her mind worked on zombie auto-pilot as she moved through the familiar motions.

She tucked herself below the sheets, and let out a deep sigh. Her eyes drew closed to the nightmare of her current life. Her mother despised her, her brother and friends thought she should be more 'normal'. Perhaps her appearance—tattoos, and vintage clothes—were the very reason someone as thoughtful as Ivan had never found her attractive? If she couldn't draw the attention of a boy she spent the better part of her childhood with, then who?

Perhaps it was time after all to become more 'normal', more socially acceptable. Dye her hair a flat shade of brown, and wear more mainstream fashion. A corner of her mind screamed that it was suicide for her identity if she went through with it. But reason argued. What good was being different, relishing what was unique about her, if no-one else cared about it? Because at the end of the work-week, all she wanted was to come home to somebody who loved her, tattoos or none, victory curls or not. Steph longed to be held—just held. To have a warm arm lay heavy over her side as she slept. Someone to bring her coffee in the morning. Another toothbrush in the bathroom.

I don't want to be alone.

Maybe if she looked like all the other girls in the clubs, she could attract a man who would treat her right, love her and cherish her. A man who didn't tease her mercilessly, and leave her confused. Crying. Alone.

Maybe.

****

A solid thump echoed through the unit. What time is it? Steph drew her head up to check the display of her phone, and cringed. She'd slept in past the alarm, and now Ivan would be here to help her shift.

With light-headed sluggishness she plonked her feet on the floor, and pushed out of bed. Her gaze fell on her naked body—she never slept naked—and she groaned at the memory of the night before. She kicked the offending t-shirt aside, and headed to the closet. In record time she pulled on a singlet, and shorts. "Coming!"

Steph scuffed her feet on the floor as she crossed to the door, unbolted it, and opened it onto a concerned Ivan.

"Were you still asleep?"

She nodded.

"Hard night out on the piss, I guess, being your last day in the office and all?"

"Something like that." She'd let him believe whatever he wanted to. Cassie had asked her out for a drink, but she'd feigned a headache, and opted for a 'quiet night in' before her shift.

Ivan wandered around the small place to suss out how many boxes she had packed, and what remained. He pointed to her relatively untouched room. "That all we've got left to pack?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Won't take me long if you want to start with the boxed stuff."

He tipped his chin, and stooped down to pick up two boxes. "Can you prop the door open?"

"Sure." Steph crossed the lounge, and pulled the front door onto its stopper. She was glad Ivan hadn't asked why her room was still untouched. A little part of her died at the memory of how hopeful she'd been that she would have woken up this morning with Pete beside her.

Silly.

"I'm going to grab a quick shower," she called after Ivan.

"No worries." His voice drifted back through the open door as he made his way down the landing to the stairs.

A shiver shook her shoulders, and she started for the bathroom, eager to get under the soothing jets. She cranked the water on, and shut the door. As Steph stripped from her clothes, she looked at her naked form in the wide mirror above the basin. The angel inked on her chest looked sadly toward her side. Flowers curled up her left forearm. Her right shoulder burst in a bright display of coloured stars which slowly faded into a candy-store design. Steph slowly turned to look over her shoulder, and traced the lines of the fairies which danced on the centre of her back. For the first time ever, she was left confused at what to make of her art. None of it had been done lightly. She'd chosen each piece, and deliberated over it for months before going ahead with the work. But now, the pictures gave her a strange sense of foreboding. Were they the reason she attracted the wrong types? Was she too different?

She drew a deep sigh, and stepped into the warm flow of water. The droplets ran lines over her body, like gentle fingers which eased her worries away. Steph dropped her forehead to the wall, and groaned. Was this how she would feel every morning from now? Would she look at the tattoos that adorned her body and cringe?

She finished off washing, and got out to dry herself as quickly as she could. Her lip compressed between her teeth, she chose a pair of long skinny jeans and a raglan tee. She dressed, and pulled her hair back into a plain pony-tail. Steph regarded her reflection for a moment, slightly saddened at the lack of her that stared back. The woman who returned her gaze was exactly that; just another woman.

Ivan stopped in his tracks, box in his arms as she emerged from the bedroom. "What did you do with Steph?"

She shrugged, the corners of her lips drawn down. "I had to grow up sooner or later."

Ivan placed the box on the sofa, and stepped toward her. He captured her arms in his hands, and bent down to level with her eyes. "What happened last night?"

She matched his strained expression as she fought with what to say.

"Has this got something to do with Pete?"

"Why do you jump to that conclusion?"

"Call it instinct," Ivan drawled.

"Have you been talking to Cass?" She narrowed her gaze.

"Perhaps. What did he do?"

"Nothing. That's just it."

"So why are you suddenly ready to join a convent?"

Steph sighed heavily, and pulled free of Ivan's grasp. "I just think that perhaps if I want to have a shot at finding a long-term kind of guy, that I better look like less trouble."

Ivan rubbed his brow, and shook his head. "You don't look like trouble. You've always looked fantastic. You're a beautiful woman, Steph."

She furrowed her brow, and pouted as she slammed her arms across her chest. "So how come everyone goes for Cass when we're out? How come in all the time we've known each other you've never tried it on with me? Huh?"

Ivan blushed, and averted his eyes.

Oh, no way. Why did I never see it?

"I always thought you were great, Steph. All that time we ran together when we were teenagers was hell on me. I'm surprised you never noticed."

She cocked her head to the side, and eyed him with regret. "But you never tried to kiss me? How would I know?"

"Aww, come on." He threw his hands at his sides, and paced the room. "Why on earth do you think I hung around you, and not your brother?"

Steph looked at her feet as she replayed old memories for new clues. "I'm sorry I made it hard for you," she whispered.

"Forget it." Ivan stopped before her, and drew her into a tight hug. "I got over it. And I think I ended up with the better deal, don't you?"

"I guess."

He was dead right though. He may be a guy, but Ivan was closer to her than Cass. He knew all about her past, her hopes for the future, and her weakest moments. He was her rock since they were kids, and she wouldn't risk the loss of that for some summer fling that would have been doomed to fail from the start.

"Come on. Let's get you shifted. Maybe we can cheer you up by starting afresh? New place, new rules?"

"Maybe." She wanted to believe him, but the pull in her gut each time she thought of losing the only connection she had to Pete told her otherwise. Pete knew she lived here, and once she moved, then what? Unless she went to visit him at the bar, how could he ever know where she was?

Not that he wanted to. Hadn't he made that clear?

So why did she think he'd be back?

****

Cass spun in Steph's new living room, and let out a low whistle. "Wow, babe. You scored a great place here."

Steph looked around the three bedroom house, and smiled. Guess I have. "Well, rent is cheaper out here, so I get more for the same as I did in town."

"Do you what?" Cass sighed.

Ivan placed a drink in each of their hands, and retrieved his beer. "Cheers," he said, and clinked glasses.

"Cheers," Steph replied.

A throaty rumble drew close before the engine shut off. Cass glanced her way, and Steph shrugged. Nobody was due to visit, but she only knew of two people who owned V8's, and one didn't have her new address. She walked to the front door, and grinned as her suspicions proved correct. "Ben!"

Her brother closed the door on his Holden Ute, and beamed back. "Hey sis. Had to come check out your new pad considering you've decided to move to the dark side."

"Shut up," she scolded, and drew him into a hug. He'd teased her relentlessly about how she'd never lived in the same area as him since they both left home. "You look swish." She stepped back to look him over. "Off somewhere?"

"Date." The boy actually blushed.

"Come in and tell me all about her." Steph urged him ahead of her, and followed to the door. She smiled at the warm welcomes that chorused when Ben stepped inside. These were the moments she should live for—not some sordid sexual encounter with an arrogant ass. Yet, her heart still ached at the thought their brief tryst may be all she ever shared with Pete. You need a distraction.

"Hey, Ben?"

"Yeah?" He placed his sunglasses on the counter, and turned to address her.

"You got Brodie's number?"

"What are you up to, Steph?"

She shrugged, aware Cass also eyed her with equal interest. "Thought I owed him an apology from last time we went out." Ben had let his friend Brodie take her out as his 'plus one' to a mutual friends wedding. Steph had spent most of the night drunk, crying into her wine after she received a text from Dave which accused her of an affair with Brodie.

Ben cocked his eyebrow at her sudden turn of conscience. "Really?" He drew out each syllable, and leant his broad frame into the end of the counter.

"What? I was a bit rude don't you think?"

"And you're only deciding this now, because?"

She shrugged again. "Only just thought of it?"

Ben glared at her, and she did her best to blend into the wall. Cass's curt tone set her heart into a gallop. "Steph, can I talk with you for a moment?"

"Sure." She followed her bestie from the room, like a prisoner off to the firing line.

Cass shut the spare room door behind them. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to distract myself, Cass."

"From what? What about Pete?"

"What about him?"

Cass sighed heavily as she placed a hand to her forehead. "Okay, correct me if I'm wrong, but you two seemed to have something going on. I take it this 'distraction' is to do with him, though."

"We did have something going on, yes."

"And?"

"Past tense, Cass."

Her friend openly stared at her, confusion knitted in her brow. "What?"

"He came over last night and said we'd been 'fun'."

"Asshole! I'll bloody hunt him down for stuffing you around like that."

"No, Cass. No. Leave it. Please."

"Steph." Cass frowned. "He's been taking advantage of you, and you want to let him get away with it? What if he does the same to another girl?"

"He won't." Steph couldn't pin-point why, but she knew that his reaction was a specialty reserved for her. For all she knew, he was onto his next conquest already. Who's to say he was affected by the loss of their ... thing?

The disappointment in Cass's eyes shook Steph to the core. She flinched as Cass stormed past her, and out of the room. What if she'd broken the trust they had for one another? That kind of thing was near on impossible to recover. Technically, despite the fact Pete had clearly fucked her over, Steph had still chosen to defend him over agreeing with her best friend. She had betrayed Cass, and disrespected her by the choice to ignore the value of her opinion.

Steph drew a deep breath, plastered her happy face on, and walked out into the lion's den. Whatever her friends, and family had to say to her, she deserved it. Yet she knew that nothing they said would change her stance on Pete; he was still an experience—no matter how confused and broken he'd left her—she didn't regret.

Take it one day at a time, Steph. One day at a time.

The patrons pissed him off no end tonight. Try as he might, Pete couldn't suppress the urge to hit something—or someone.

As soon as he arrived home from Steph's last night, he had pulled the letter Derek gave him out, purely to remind himself why it was he couldn't entertain the idea of keeping her around. The letterhead seemed to leer at him as he unfolded the page.

Irish Prison Service – Limerick Prison

He read the contents again, still maddened by what it meant for him. She shouldn't assume she had the right to interfere with his life now. The fact she was his mother meant nothing. His mother died the moment she committed the crime that put her in that prison.

The thing which turned his insides to a cesspit of lava, was that she fucking knew where he lived.

She had known how to contact him.

How?

His only connection to her was Derek, and he'd been more than clear with the old git that he didn't want the woman to know of his new home. So then, had the guy betrayed him? And did he honestly want to know? Because what difference would it make, that a week from now, his fuckin' mother would set foot on Australian turf to look for him.

Pete realised the tumbler he screwed around a dishcloth had begun to warm in his hand. How long had he stood there, in a daze as he dried the now super-heated vessel? He placed it down on the counter, and ran his eye over the dozen or so people who waited for service. Janie did her best to keep up, but hell, the woman had only been on staff for a month. He better get back into it, no matter how much he wanted to deck the next plonker who spilt a drink on him.

Pete worked his way through four bourbons, a teapot, two vodkas, and a swag of OJ's before he took a step back to catch his breath. He leant against the low fridges; his hands braced the top of the cool doors either side of him. A bubbly laugh drew his eyes right, and he spotted a familiar wave of blonde hair. Steph's friend edged into the bar, and beckoned Janie.

He swept past the barmaid, and took the spot before the blonde. "What ya after?"

Her eyes drew wide as she looked at him, and she turned her body like she wanted to block whatever was behind her. "Two vodka martinis, thanks."

He nodded tightly, and then swung himself over the bar to look around her. She side-stepped, but not far enough. His eyes landed on the prize, yet he felt like he'd lucked out at the derby.

What the fuck has she done?

Pete tapped Janie on her shoulder, and pointed to Steph's friend. He then proceeded to march to the end of the bar, and out through the divider into the floor area. People moved aside wide-eyed, and cautious as he approached her.

"Can I help you?"

He scowled at her cheek. "What have ya gone and done to yerself?"

Steph looked down at her ensemble. "Got dressed?" She shrugged.

His blood pumped a bass-beat in his ears. "Yeah, but what in? And what have ya done to yer hair?"

She narrowed her gaze. "I dressed in clothes, Pete. And I believe people refer to what I've done to my hair as a dye job."

He matched the intensity of her ire. "Ya fuckin' well know what I'm on about. Now stop playin' at bein' a pretty, dumb tart."

"What's it to you, anyway? Maybe I am just a dumb tart? Wouldn't that be suitable for what we—" she gestured between them "—had?"

His heart pushed blood through his body like a dam had let go of the overflow. Heat engulfed his fists as he clenched them at his sides. He once would have said he admired her cheek, but when it was directed at him ... an entirely different kettle of fish.

Her blonde friend pushed between the two of them, and offered Steph her drink. "I think this conversation is over, don't you?"

He growled at the woman, and shoved her aside. "Hardly."

"Cut it out," Steph snapped. "I'd appreciate if you didn't push my friends around like that."

Pete shook his head to dismiss her, and nailed the blonde with a glare. "What do ya think of her ... her 'new' look?"

"I think she has a right to do whatever she wants." Steph's friend stepped into his space.

He lost it.

"It's fuckin' bollocks, is what it is. This isn't her. She doesn't dress like all the other trashy girls in 'ere. She's fuckin' beautiful, because she's different. What you lot 'ave done is make her feel so fuckin' inadequate as 'erself, that she's become another clone of you lot—another merchandiser's dream."

"Stop it!" Steph cried out. "Stop talking about me like I'm not in the same room."

"Boss," Gary stepped in. "Perhaps you should take some time out."

"Zip it, Gary." Pete held a stiff finger up to the man's face. "Don't push it."

Gary took a step back, hands up. His expression said it all. Pete crossed the line to the point of no return. He couldn't stop the runaway train. His anger fuelled the fire inside, and the raw energy that combusted from him simply grew when he thought about the fact he couldn't control himself. You're yer goddam father. He growled and beat his fists to his head. "You lot are fuckin' morons!" Pete spun on his heel, and marched from the bar. People muttered as he passed them by. Speculation was rife, and the gossip factory would pump out the goods, but he had to go. He couldn't stop, he couldn't look back, and he couldn't risk caring. If he cared, it would only lead to pain.

Nothing explained why the way Steph chose to dress sent him over the edge. Yet it had. She wasn't her. The woman had caved to the expectations of a judgemental society, and in turn denied herself her freedom of expression. Why did that hurt him though? The problem wasn't any of his business.

He slumped onto an upturned crate in the narrow back alley; the noise from the DJ dulled by the thick external wall of the club. He fisted his hands at his temples, and groaned. He knew what the issue was—if he dared to look hard enough inside his messed-up head—he wanted a dark, fairy-tale end to his fucked up story. He wanted Steph to be his twisted princess in a macabre version of Sleeping Beauty. How could she be, though? The woman was pure innocence compared to his twisted tastes. She was a sweet vanilla flower in a field of dead roses. And he was the disease that wanted to cripple the flower until its petals wilted. How fucking selfish was that? He sure as fuck was no goddamn prince.

He told her that he wanted a woman to square him up, to level him, and balance his anger. What a liar. He wanted something beautiful to crush, to tear apart, and break down to the core. He wanted to destroy her, the same as he'd been ruined by the ones who were supposed to love him. To end the hate, and the waste, he had to break the chain. Yet at time like these, he felt like the strongest link.

So, if he was doomed to carry on the sick behaviour of his lack-lustre parents, why was he so moved by her? Surely if all he meant to do was cause damage, then the feelings and emotions of the subject—Steph—didn't matter? They did, though. Every time the two of them had connected—no matter how few and brief those times had been—a hell-fire raged between them. He wanted to ruin her, and she wanted to be ruined by him.

The dark tones of Marilyn Manson's cover of the Eurhythmics classic, Sweet Dreams, played in his head. Steph. She was his sweet dream. He knew that much. But did she want to be abused by him, or was the raw truth of the matter that he craved the same dire treatment? He couldn't leave what they'd had like this. He needed her—and whether she admitted it or not, she needed him.

****

Air surged into Steph's cramped lungs, short-lived and fruitless. Cass handed her a glass of cool water, and Gary ushered them to a table.

"I'm sorry, ladies. He gets a little ... I don't even have words for it," Gary said.

"There's no excuse for that kind of behaviour," Cass seethed. "He was completely out of line, and I hope he bloody loses his job for it."

"Come on guys," Steph urged. Her hand still shook as she set the glass down. "Everyone has a bad day."

"Babe," Cass chided. "Do you ever lose your nut and push people around—at work?"

"Sometimes I wish I could." She chuckled. Nobody joined in with her humour. "Where did he go?"

"Out the back, I think," Gary answered.

"I should go talk to him."

"No," Cass snapped. "No way. You keep your ass firmly on that seat. He doesn't deserve any attention from you. The pig can rot out there for all I care."

"He's not going to be any use to anyone out there though, is he?"

"He's also no use to anyone in that state." Gary reached for her hand, and gave it a squeeze.

The gesture only made her blood pump harder. How dare they take a condescending line with her? How could they turn against him so quickly? Yes, he acted out of line—heaven knows her hands had only just stopped quaking from the adrenalin in her system. But didn't they ask themselves why? What ate at him so badly that he lost it over ... what ... her clothes?

"Can you show me the way out the back, Gary?" Steph drew her most no-nonsense face, and hoped for the best.

He sighed. His gaze flicked to Cass who shook her head. "All right. But you come straight back in and find me if he so much as makes a move to hurt you—physical or otherwise," he warned.

Steph nodded.

Gary stood and tipped his head to the right. "This way." The big guy looked down at Cass with nothing short of adoration. "I'll be right back, Miss Cassie."

Steph waited until they were out of earshot, then touched Gary's elbow. He looked down at her, calm and sincere.

"Why do you call Cass that?"

A stern contemplation crossed his features. "If she hasn't told you herself, then it's not my place to say. It's ... well ... difficult to understand."

Would everyone forever give her cryptic, dead-end answers? For once, could somebody be straight with her? Was it written on her forehead, 'FRAGILE'? Because sure as shit, nobody seemed to be able to impart anything difficult onto her. Except Pete.

Gary opened a heavy steel door into a dark, filthy alley. She looked to the big guys face, and he scowled. Steph followed his line of sight, and settled on Pete's hypnotic baby-blue's.

"Anything," Gary repeated before he headed back inside, and shut the door.

Pete held her gaze. His normally unaffected expression was replaced with one of ... regret?

"Hey," Steph edged onto a crate next to him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Yer friend's right; ya can dress how ya want. It's not me business." He sat with his ankles crossed, legs pulled back toward himself, and his hands loosely in his lap. He hung his head so low she couldn't catch a glimpse of his eyes. Apologies were hard on him.

"Why did it upset you so much?"

He looked up, and she caught a glimpse of a pained boy, unsure of the right answer. Steph crept a hand to her chest, and tried to physically urge her heart to slow down.

"Because." He flicked the laces on his boots. "I like ya the way ya were."

"There has to be more than that," she said. Surely that wasn't all?

He shrugged.

Steph closed her eyes to ease her frustration. The guy did everything he could to stay guarded of everyone—even those who gave a shit about him. She knew how close he was to losing all his defences, yet he still fought with himself to keep everyone around him shut out. What would it take for him to accept help? He didn't have to ask for it, just receive it. Maybe he doesn't want your help? Steph refused to take stock of her niggling thoughts. She opened her eyes to stare blankly at the wall opposite their position. "You have to talk, Pete. Otherwise this bollocks—as you call it—will continue to get worse between us."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I know."

"Is it too hard for you to spill your guts for a change?"

He smirked, and held her gaze with an impish grin. "I am a guy, Steph. We don't do mushy very well."

She met him with a deadpan reply. "Would you like me to get you a dress?"

He laughed. Properly. Rich, and heartfelt. Her chest swelled with hope for him. "I'll do for now," he replied. His face fell once more. "What do ya want out of me?"

"Mutual respect. I want you to acknowledge who I am in this ... and stop shutting me out for Christ's sake."

"Ya want roses, and movies, and dinner dates? That kind of girly stuff?"

She shook her head as a flush took to her cheeks. "No. Because that isn't respect, it's just ... nice. Besides, roses and dinner aren't you, and I like you. I like what you do."

"What exactly do I do, Stephanie?" His tone was low, husky, and oh so sensual. "Tell me what to do to keep ya happy."

She closed her eyes. The darkness was easier to speak to. "You give me a glimpse of something I didn't know I missed."

"What's that?"

Her breath shuddered out, and she cringed. "You ..." Her heart hammered in her ears; the roar of her blood muffled the words she spoke. "... take me to the brink of self-destruction, and I like it."

Warm fingers entwined with hers, and made her already skitterish nerves fly away from her like startled birds. "Am I that horrible?" he asked.

"No." She looked to him as he sat engrossed in every word she spoke. "That's just it. I feel filthy, dirty, and wrong for wanting you to use me, push me around. But I like it. I crave those moments you scare me."

"Why do ya think it is?"

What was this? Psychology 101? "Why do you need to know?"

He squeezed her hand tight. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Because, Cutie, I need to know what I'm doin' to ya is for the right reasons, and not me own sick pleasure. I need to know you want it."

"Is it right?" she whispered. "To want someone to debase you like I do?"

He shook his head slowly. "No, Love. Being debased is somethin' utterly different. I would never, and I mean never, do that to ya. What ya do, is submit to me."

"But—"

"Did ya ever say 'no' to me?" he interrupted. "Did I ever force ya against yer will?"

She shook her head. "Even so, it's not normal. Is it?"

He reached out, and stroked her jaw. The contact sent a wave of cool pleasure through her. "It's completely normal. It's wrong to deny it's what ya need."

"That's what I don't understand. Why do I need it?" Emotions ballooned in her throat, and threatened to cut off her air supply.

"Ya had a good childhood, right?"

She nodded.

"Yer parents love you?"

"My mother's a bit of a bitch, but yeah, they do."

"And you've never had anythin' serious happen to ya? Ya were never abused, in a serious accident? Nothin' like that?"

"No." Steph's nose twitched as she tried so damn hard to stop her tears.

"Everythin' in yer life is ... let me guess ... orderly. You're in control of everythin'."

"I suppose you could put it like that."

"Perhaps, ya might need to feel a little less in control. Perhaps givin' that control away is a change ya need?"

Steph stared at the ground under her feet. Cigarette butts littered the gutter, and she found herself wonder how many had touched his lips. "It's more than that, though."

"How?" He tugged on her hand, and urged her to move closer.

Steph shuffled under his direction until he had her where he intended—on his lap. She clasped her hands together, and trapped them between her rigid thighs. He groaned, and shifted her weight along his injured leg. "I know what the whole submissive thing is about," she explained. "And the biggest part of that is trust; trusting that your partner wouldn't do a thing to hurt you. With you ..."

Pete picked up where she trailed off, "... ya don't trust me."

"That's the part that confuses me. I do trust you. Like now. Here I am, in a back alley with you after you lost it inside, and yet I feel nothing but safe. But when you do things to me—"

"Like kiss ya." He wrapped his hand about the curve of her jaw, and guided her face to his. Steph sighed into his gentle kiss. Her heart relished the way he softly tugged at her bottom lip.

She pulled back; his taste still on her lips. "Yeah, like kiss me. Well, when you do that I like it when you're forceful, when you take what you want, where you want."

"What's wrong with that, then?" His brows knotted together.

"Because it can't be okay to want someone you trust to treat you like a two-dollar whore."

A throaty growl emanated from Pete, his expression thick with desire as he held her stare. "Is that what ya think I do, Cutie? Use yer body how I please?"

Heat pooled low in her belly, and the position she sat in on his legs grew awkward. "Mostly, yes."

He chuckled, and she dipped her chin to avoid his intense, blue eyes. "I would love nothin' more than to shut ya away in me bedroom, ready for me when I need ya, but ya have to remember one thing, Love."

"What's that?" She chanced a look at him. He stroked the loose curls of her hair back, with the same adoration in his eyes she had seen Gary place on Cass.

"I would never sacrifice what ya need, yer happiness, for what I want. I will always put ya first—if you'll let me."

"God, yes. Yes, I will."

Step turned in his embrace to straddle his lap, Pete's hands firm on her face as he pulled her in for a raw, needful kiss. His mouth devoured her. His hands slipped down her neck, over her shoulders, and to her sides. He hoisted her up, and pulled her closer so that their chests pressed hard against each other. Steph sighed as he trailed kisses from her chin, down her throat, and to her chest. His fingers tugged the edges of her shirt aside as he progressed.

"Jesus, I love yer ink. Don't hide it from me."

Steph drew her hands to the collar of the blouse she wore, and rushed to get the buttons apart. He groaned as the full spectre of her art was revealed, her arms bare as she threaded the shirt over her shoulders. Who cared if she was technically in public? If anybody ventured into this alleyway, then good for them. Teach them for being so nosey, wouldn't it?

Pete traced the colourful lines with shaky fingers. He finished with his palm laid over her rib-cage. His head dropped forward to rest on her chest; his hand still over her heart. "I could feel that beat for days."

Steph let out a giggle. "What on earth for?"

He pulled his head back, and kissed the point of her chin. "Because, Cutie, it reminds me you're real."

"Of course I am." She cupped her hands either side of his neck, and leant down to give him the most slow, sensual kiss she could muster. He moaned beneath her, and her already sensitised muscles twitched. His happiness was the fuel for her fire. Hearing him sated kept her going.

"Oh, Love," he breathed. "We should find somewhere else to go. This isn't ideal."

"I don't care," Steph replied. "I really don't."

"Jesus," Pete ground through clenched teeth. "Are ya sure?"

Steph drew back, and stared intently into his blue depths. "I've waited long enough for you to understand that I'm not going to abandon you because you're not perfect. I'm hardly about to stuff around while we get somewhere 'pretty'. For crying out loud, you probably won't last that long anyway." Brazen, she palmed his erection which stuck painfully between them.

He laughed, and pulled her to him to kiss her neck. "I think you're right there." His hands traced lazy lines up her sides until his fingers dug beneath the straps of her bra. He ran his fingers under the elastic and lace toward the back, and then quickly unclasped it. Steph's skin broke out in goose bumps as he ran his palms back to the front of her chest, and cupped her breasts in his hands. "Are ya cold, Love?"

She shook her head rapidly. "Not at all."

He hummed an understanding as he rolled her plump nipples between his fingers and thumbs. Bolts of electricity shot through her body, and tingled through to her toes. As shameful as it was to admit, Pete had done such a simple thing, yet it was one nobody had ever done to her before. Wow.

"Are ya protected? Clean?" Pete's hands stilled as he waited for her to answer.

Steph bit her lip, and nodded.

"Good. So am I." His fingers resumed their massage. The rough pads slid down her torso to her waistband. He chuckled. "I hate talkin' about that shit. It's so unattractive, but this—" his fingers wiggled beneath the fabric to tuck inside her underwear, "—is unbelievably sexy." She groaned at the electric sensation as his fingertips brushed over the curve of her butt. "Are ya sure ya don't want to wait?"

Steph looked deep into his eyes before she answered. "No. No waiting."

He dropped a hand between them to unbuckle his belt, and a wicked thought flew into Steph's head. She'd seen it done before in movies, but never thought the idea would strike her as appealing, especially at a moment like this. Gotta try everything once. She placed her hand over his, and stilled his movements. "Can I try something?"

His eyes sparkled, and he nodded slowly as he withdrew his hand. Steph fumbled with the belt loops as she drew the leather length free of his jeans. His eyes drew wide when she lifted the strap to her neck, and threaded the end through the buckle to pull it taut—her collar.

"Hold this," she said, and gave him the free end.

"Oh, hell Love. Are ya sure?"

"Positive."

His eyes closed briefly as his chest rose with a deep draw of air. When he opened them again, the softness had gone from the blue, instead replaced by the dark malice she had seen their first time together. Pete tugged on the belt to cinch it tighter on her neck. He slipped a finger underneath, next to her jugular to ensure she could breathe. Satisfied, he pulled it to the side and moved her from his lap.

Steph shifted, and braced herself on his thighs. He winced, and she paled. "Shit. I'm sorry. I completely forgot." Guilt assailed her over the wound which probably still healed on his leg.

"It's fine," he assured her.

She eased onto the concrete at his side, and knelt next to him as he slouched on the crate. She placed her hands on the ground before her, between her knees, to steady her position. It struck her how much she must look like an obedient dog at his side.

He seemed to like it.

"Undo me trousers." His instruction was gruff.

Steph rose up on her knees, and wrestled the jeans undone.

"Get me dick out."

Her eyes flicked up to his, and he glowered at her.

"Come on. Unless you want us to be caught?" A wicked smile teased his lips.

She tucked her index finger under the elastic of his boxers, and pulled the fabric down to free his erection.

"Now suck it until I tell ya to stop."

Oh, she could do this. Steph drew him into her warm mouth, and bobbed her head fluidly, up and down. She drew short gasps from him as she locked on tight at the base each time. His hand fisted in her loose hair, and guided her pace as he thickened on her tongue. You've done it; you're finally bat-shit crazy. You'll be locked up in a padded room before you know it.

"Oh, Jesus. That's enough."

Shit. Didn't he like it? "What? Should I do something else?"

His eyes were dark, close to black, and he smiled suggestively. "Cutie, from now on I want ya to address me as 'Sir'. When ya need me to take ya to this dark side of ya, to give ya release, ya call me Sir."

She frowned, unsure what he meant. Sir?

"Ya know me true name, Love, and I want ya to keep that for day-to-day. But when ya want me to become the asshole ya said ya enjoy, call me Sir. Call it our code-word."

Steph smiled, her gaze hooded as she stroked his still hard cock. "Yes, Sir."

He growled in the back of his throat. "Good girl. Let's get this done before we have company, huh?"

She nodded.

He raised a solitary eyebrow.

"Yes, Sir," she corrected.

"Sit on me, and ride me until I come." He tugged at her belt-collar.

Steph drew a lop-sided grin, and raised up to straddle his legs. "Yes, Sir." She pushed the skirt she wore so it sat high on her thighs, and then stepped from the fabric of her lace underwear as she lowered herself onto his thick length. "Ooh," she moaned as he filled, and stretched her. She eased herself down further with each stroke, careful not to be too rough.

"Good?"

"The best, Sir."

"Jesus, yer tight little pussy is hungry tonight."

Steph's muscles clamped about him, his filthy mouth exactly what she needed to bring the fantasy she acted out to reality. He moaned beneath her as her pace quickened. Her heels slipped on the pavement. Pete shot his hands down to hold her calves steady. Steph pushed against the anchor he gave, and put all her effort into the motion she made over him. Each ridge on his erection tweaked the sensitive flesh inside of her. She could make out every inch as it glided through her with every stroke. Pressure built in her core. Her legs lost their stability as the first waves of her orgasm threatened.

"Not yet, cutie. Don't ya fuckin' dare."

Steph stilled, and urged the stampede of desire in her gut away from the cliff. She tried to gain control over her basic instincts. The moment her breaths calmed, Pete took the lead. He gripped her hips, and lifted her off him enough to allow for free movement. Steph gasped as he rammed his hips into her over, and over. His pace was Olympic as he raced for the finish line. Her need built again, and she knew there would be no stopping it this time.

"Sir, please," she begged.

"Come, Cutie. Ya can come," he growled through gritted teeth.

Steph forced her eyes open as the pleasure hit her in wave after wave of relentless ecstasy. She watched his face morph as he stilled, and his length pulsed inside of her. The muscles on his neck stood out from the exertion, his forearms the same from the death-like grip he held her in.

He let her down slowly onto his still erect length, and smiled. Lifting his hands to her throat, he gently removed the belt, and rubbed her neck in slow strokes. "This is gonna be a bit of a mess," he chuckled.

"Yeah." Steph blushed.

"Give me yer panties," he instructed.

"Yes, Sir," she replied automatically.

His eyebrows shot up. "Ya ready to go for round two already?"

"No!" She cried. Hell! Let me get over this one first.

"Then ya better stop callin' me that." He laughed.

Steph leant to the side. Pete's hands kept her balanced as she scooped up her strewn underwear. She handed it to him, unsure of his exact plan, and watched as he bunched it where their bodies met.

"Stand up, slowly."

She inched off him, and took a step back—his hand followed her ... there. She gasped as the warm fluid ran from her so effortlessly, and shame flushed her cheeks. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

He eyed her curiously. "Have ya never ridden bareback before?"

She shook her head, certain she would die of shame. 'Bareback' was something Dave was never keen on. The mess it caused didn't suit his anal-retentive, tidy-freak neurosis.

"Oh, Love. We better make up for that." To her horror, Pete punctuated his words with a firm wipe of her swollen folds. He stood—jeans around his knees—and hobbled to a nearby dumpster. He tossed the filthy lace inside, turned, and grinned. She frowned at the angry red mark still evident on his thigh, and he quickly pulled his jeans up. "Ya won't want those anymore." He nodded to the dumpster.

"What the heck am I meant to wear now?" Great. Now she had to go commando for the remainder of the evening.

"If I had me way? Me."

Her jaw dropped, and she punched him in the arm. He laughed, deep and genuine.

"Come on, Cutie. I better get back to work. I've been gone long enough." He waggled his eyebrows, and reached out to straighten her skirt.

Steph retrieved her blouse, and cringed as she dusted the dirt off the back. She slipped into the light fabric, and buttoned the front in record time. "So, um. What now?"

He turned with his hand on the door to the bar, clearly puzzled. "Huh?"

"Are we agreeing to give it a try?"

"I thought we just did?" He smirked. Gorgeous.

"Not that! I mean, us, being ... together?" For whatever reason, simply sounding the words made her feel more awkward than a teenager asking her crush to the school dance.

"Yes, Cutie. We'll give it a try. Now come inside before Gary sends the police after me for abductin' ya."

She smiled, but inside her mind worked overtime. Had they really done it ... in an alley ... with his belt around her neck? And you put it there, you mad woman.

Old Steph? Meet new Steph. She's proving to be quite a handful already.

Pete led the way back through the bar, his fingers wound in Steph's as she trailed behind him. Twisted Princess. Jesus, the woman had spoken to a part of him he thought would never see the light of day again. It had been years since he'd been dominant over a sexual partner like that. And fuck, last time ended in tears for the poor girl he had taken home; not fully aware of what she had been in for.

But Steph. He sighed. Steph had taken the initiative. He didn't have to lead her there, she just ... went. If his princess wanted to keep that up, things could get very interesting. Very.

Pete gave her hand a squeeze before he let go to return to the server's side of the bar. She watched him as he walked through the divider, and gave him another smile which didn't quite reach her eyes. Something was wrong, and he hoped like hell it wasn't that she regretted what they'd done.

Because if he had a heart, that kind of rejection would crush it.

He snatched up two empty spirit bottles, and binned them on his way to the far end where Janie struggled with a large order. "Need a hand?"

She gave a glare that could strip paint, and looked back to the glasses lined up before her. "Sure. If you feel like pretending you actually work here."

Normally such a rude remark would have him lay down the law with her; remind her of her position in the pecking order. But shit, he'd had Steph, and his balls still hummed with the left-overs of a mind-shattering climax. How could he be angry under those circumstances?

Pete picked up the two empty beer glasses, and waggled them under Janie's nose.

"Red," she snapped.

He filled the vessels from the row of taps, and slid them onto the bar-top. His fingers jabbed merrily at the register as he tallied the total while Janie finished. His head lay in such a fluffy cloud that he seriously would have continued to smile had a team of terrorists torn through the place. That woman has yer nuts in her handbag already.

Fuck it. So what if she did? He was deliriously happy, and he needed the pretence of a magical life hereafter to block out the imminent shit-storm that would begin after his mother arrived. If that's what it takes to keep ya happy, then ya better plan on havin' Steph collared in yer house permanently. Was that what he actually did? Used Steph for a temporary bliss? He hoped not, but a part of him feared there was truth in his thought.

Because ya destroy. That's what ya do, that's what ya are, and you'll never change.

Ever.

In the blink of an eye his uncharacteristic happiness faded into the darkness of a storm. Trust his inner monologue to get the better of him—the little shit in there needed to learn when to shut up. He closed the register, and surveyed the bar. Drunken women wobbled across the illuminated dance floor, and over-confident men stood in packs; each eyed their next target. His gut soured at the knowledge Steph was out there, amongst those low-lives. He should be next to her. He should protect her from the creeps.

Pete laughed.

Why on earth had he thought that? The only person she was in danger from was him. Jesus, the woman had shown her self-preservation skills the night she was removed from the premises. He shook his head, and turned to the next patron.

"What ya after?" he called over the music.

A tall brunette eyed him blatantly from head to toe. Shivers jittered down his spine.

"Sex on the beach," she purred.

He snatched up a cocktail glass, and turned to grab the ingredients when her hesitant response caught his attention.

"Ugh, no. I didn't mean the drink." Her chin dipped, and she laid her best bedroom eyes on him.

Pete pressed his lips into a thin line, and slowly shook his head. "Not interested, Love."

"You haven't heard the kicker yet."

He narrowed his gaze on her in the hopes he clearly conveyed his thoughts. Seriously?

"You can pick the spot—public or otherwise." Her ruby-red fingernails tugged at the collar of her dress. She ran her fingertips around the edge to expose more of her pressed cleavage.

"Not. Interested." He moved away to serve the next customer, when she screamed out at the top of her lungs.

"You creep!"

He glanced back, wide-eyed.

"This man," she called to the curious onlookers, "told me I could have my drink for free if I fucked him!"

A sea of judgemental eyes washed his way. He tipped his head back, and looked to the ceiling. "Do I need to get security to remove you?" he asked.

"You asshole," she spat. "First you insult me, and now you kick me out because I didn't agree. You fucking pervert."

The human sea washed his way once more. He could feel the heat rise in his neck. The woman pushed all the wrong buttons. "Do ya think anyone will believe yer lies?"

She snarled at him as she thought over a reply. "Of course you'd say I'm lying. Who's going to believe the 'drunk' woman, huh?"

Pete shook his head, and walked to the end of the bar. He lifted his gaze, and connected with Steph. She stood second row back, behind the people who waited on a drink. Curious didn't start to explain her expression.

"Hey, jerk!" the brunette continued.

Pete closed his eyes briefly to ease his livid temper. He opened them, and stormed to the far end of the bar to retrieve Gary. As he passed through the divider, the woman snatched his arm in her grasp.

"Get yer filthy fuckin' hands off me," he growled.

"Hey mate," some unknown intruder to their argument interjected. "Let the lady alone, hey?"

Pete glared at the preppy up-start. "Gladly. It's not me with the problem, though."

"You fucking owe me an apology," the brunette said.

"Seriously woman, FUCK OFF."

Hero-of-the-day took his cue. "Hey, I don't care who you are, but you can't speak to a lady like that."

Pete made a big show of looking at each of them, then around the bar area. "I'm sorry. I don't see any ladies nearby."

His face burnt with the heat of a blue flame as the brunette laid one on him. He stared at the floor for a moment, before he slowly brought his face up to look her over. "Ya sure ya want to start that?"

She spat on his face.

The fuckin' bitch is suicidal.

Hero stepped forward to intervene—to Pete's detriment it appeared—but stopped abruptly. The man looked behind himself, and stepped aside. Steph clung to the back of hero's shirt.

"Honestly guys," she warned in a low matter-of-fact tone, "you're messing with the wrong guy."

The preppy wanker snorted a laugh. "You're joking right? He has his woman fighting his battles, and you're trying to tell me he's not one to mess with." The asshole roared with laughter.

The brunette leered at Steph. "Honey, you better check yourself, because your man here tried to get in my pants. Where were you, huh?"

Pete took a step back, amazed himself at the pure hate that emanated from Steph as she walked up into the other woman's face. "Right behind you as you propositioned him for 'sex on the beach'. So how about you shut your mouth before you get in any more trouble? Sound like a good idea?"

The brunette's face flushed red. She huffed and stormed from the area. Hero-of-the-day furrowed his brow in confusion, then probably sure he could score some tail, fled after the woman.

Steph turned to look at Pete—still mad.

"What?"

****

"Can you go one day without pissing someone off?"

He gaped at her remark, and then quickly buried his reaction beneath a mask of anger. "Like that was me fault."

Steph dropped a heavy sigh, and crossed her arms across her chest. Cass was still somewhere with Gary, and if she was honest with herself, she had over-reacted a little. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Show me how sorry you are." Pete closed the gap between them, and placed his hands on her waist.

She relaxed into his hold, and cupped his neck in her palms. The tattoo he wore on his throat sat perfectly framed by the heels of her hands. "I guess I didn't like people thinking you came onto trash like her."

He chuckled, the vibrations under her hand pleasurable. "You and me both, Cutie." He tipped his head slightly and leant in to meet her wanting lips with his.

Steph relished his musky taste, the memory of the last kiss they shared in the alley had already faded. She pulled back, and swept a thumb along his jaw line. "It made me mad that she thought she had a right to proposition you."

A cocky smirk wrapped his lush lips. "Is me girl jealous?"

A blush crept unwanted into her face, and neck. "A little," she whispered. It was ridiculous that she was, in all honesty. He probably had plenty of women try it on with him working in such a place. More than likely went with the territory.

His tongue swept across his bottom lip, and flicked the ring aside. "Ya know what that makes me want to do?" He frowned as his eyes darkened.

Steph tried to pull back. She sensed she may have pissed him off. He gripped her tighter, and her heart hammered.

"Take ya back into that alley to show ya who really owns who." A smile broke out, and he literally laughed at her unease.

"You bastard," she cried as she swatted him.

He laughed harder, the sound melodic to her ears. "I better get back to work for real this time," he managed through a chuckle.

"Fine. I'm off before you get distracted again."

His face fell. "What?"

"What's the point in sticking around?" She shrugged. "Cass is god-only-knows where, and I'm hardly out on the trawl for anything."

"Mmm." He crept his hands up her side. Jolts of pleasure criss-crossed her abdomen. "Good answer. I'll be over when I get off."

She waggled a finger in his face. "Uh, uh. No getting off without me."

He licked his lip, and flicked the ring once more. "Cutie ..."

"Work. Now." Steph gave him a gentle shove, and took a step back before he could grab her again.

His nostrils flared, and his jaw worked from side to side. The thought was there in his eyes—the wolf contemplated the chase. She shook her head slowly, and turned to sweep the place for Cass; tell her she was about to leave. His gaze burnt a hole in her back, but when she looked about, he was gone. Had she merely imagined it? Some days, she wondered if she imagined the whole thing. Was he purely a figment of her imagination?

Because good men shouldn't make you want them to treat you rough—should they.

Steph laid her head on her bed, and stared at the ceiling. Gargled snores drifted through from where Cass slept on her couch. As soon as she said she was off, Cass had insisted she come too. Something about how they could save on a cab, but Steph had an inkling it was more to do with Cass being able to keep an eye on her.

There was no way she was going to tell Cass what had happened in the alley—no way. And when Cass had clearly stated how unimpressed she was with Steph for even appearing to forgive Pete, her decision had been reinforced. Her opinion on the matter hadn't upset Steph—she couldn't blame her friend if Cass wanted to protect her. No, Cass had scathingly criticised the way Pete seemed to toy with Steph; the way he pulled her emotions one way, then the next for nobody's pleasure but his.

If only Cass knew about the belt.

Maybe then her buddy wouldn't look upon her with such rose-tinted glasses. Because truth be told, every little encounter she'd had with Pete, she had been the wilful participant. What did that say for her? It says you're a twisted little minx. Maybe, but hell, Pete didn't seem to mind. Steph closed her eyes, and smiled as she thought of the dark desire that had consumed Pete's eyes as she leashed herself. He'd been turned on, and he sure-as-shit had gotten off on it.

A bit like the time he sat in the corner of her room and watched her play.

Her old room.

Shit!

Steph rolled to her side, and snatched her phone from the bedside cabinet. She hadn't given him her new address. What if he was at her old place? Shit, shit, shit. Her thumb flew over the screen as she typed out a quick message to him. She placed the cursor in the 'to' field, and groaned. She didn't have his number.

What the hell are you going to do now?

What was the time? Ivan should still be up. Surely. She thumbed to his number, and hit dial.

"Hey, Stephy," he mumbled. Incessant background noise cut to a dull roar with the distinct thud of a door. Clearly, he was still out on the drink.

"Hey, Ivan. I'm so sorry to do this, but can I ask a favour?"

"Sure you can."

"Do you have Pete's number?"

"Pete's?"

"Mmm-hmm."

He sighed through the line. "Why, Steph?"

"I need to ring him—obviously."

"At this time of night?"

"Uh-huh."

Silence hung thickly between them.

"Ivan?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Okay. I'll get it, and text it to you. But Steph ..."

"Yes?" Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the edge of the bedside table.

"Be careful with him."

She moaned. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because they give a shit, Steph. Unlike others."

The innuendo lay thick in his words. Frustration drew her eyebrows close, her words sharp. "Thanks, Ivan. Good night."

Steph ended the call, and tossed the phone onto the bed to await the number. What was it with everyone? So Pete liked to portray the bad-boy. What of it? Who cared? They judged the book by its cover, but she had been fortunate enough to have read the inside. What did they know?

****

Pete stepped into the balmy night air with his phone in his hand. He flicked through the notifications, and stopped as a missed call caught his eye. Richard. He tapped the screen to return the call, and placed the phone to his ear. People walked past him on their way home from a big night out. He drew back into the recesses of the building as he waited for the answer.

"Pistol, mate."

"What's up?"

"Heard your old lady's coming to visit."

He drew an equalising breath. "So?"

"Doesn't she have a few connections still?"

"How the fuck would I know," he snapped. "I haven't spoken to the bitch since she went to the slammer."

"Easy on," Richard urged. "I thought she may be of use to us, is all."

"Don't count on it. The slag doesn't know a thing about helpin' others." His face burned. They needed to change the subject. "How'd ya go with the cards?"

"Gold mine, my friend. Our boys must have a rich daddy."

He chuckled. "Good. Hope it hurt."

"Yeah," Richard agreed. "I bet it did. You want a cut?"

"Nah. I think I still owe ya, so keep it all and we'll call it even."

"Deal mate. Let me know when your old lady gets in, eh?"

"Whatever." A dull beep sounded over the call. "I gotta go. Incomin'."

"No worries."

Richard ended the call as Pete switched over to the other call. "Yeah?" He didn't recognise the number.

"Pete?"

"Who's this?" He answered as he scowled at a woman who stopped to eyeball him. She carried on her way, head hung.

"Ivan."

"What do ya fuckin' want?" He couldn't stand Derek's oldest boy. Granted they were close to the same age, but he couldn't shake the first impression he ever got of Ivan as a spoilt little brat.

"Steph rung me."

"Yeah?" Where was the prick going with this?

"She wanted your number."

"Did ya give it to her?" Otherwise he'd have an impromptu stop-over on the way home.

"Yeah." Lucky boy. "She didn't say why though. What's up with you two? I thought you'd dropped her already?"

"What fuckin' business is it of yours?"

"Steph's like a sister to me, and I don't appreciate people fucking with my family."

"Ya got a point there, pretty boy?"

"You make her so much as cry, and I'll make sure your Visa doesn't renew."

Pete's eye twitched. "Ya don't have the power."

"But Dad does."

Pete slammed his fist into the side of a trash-can. Bruises sprung up, and discoloured his skin. "That's it, ya little pussy, hide behind yer old man."

"I'm not hiding behind anyone, asshole. Just protective of what's mine."

The word echoed through his mind. Mine. Like fuck Steph was his. "She know ya refer to her like that?" he hissed.

"Like what?"

"Like she's yer fuckin' property?"

The silence spoke volumes. Ivan knew he'd slipped. Pete had him by the short and curlies.

"Didn't think so." He slammed the 'end' button, and pocketed the phone. Today rapidly headed from bad to worse. Each time he thought things were on the up—each time he saw Steph—the hours afterward always ensured his mood ditched to an all-time low. Fuck this shit. Was anyone on his side? Ever? His mother wanted to use him, Richard was the same, and Ivan thought he was a fucking threat to Steph. Aren't you?

Pete lifted his foot, and kicked the trash-can over. No. No he wasn't a threat.

He'd fucking prove it.

****

Steph checked the time. It was after two in the morning. Should she call? Maybe he went home. Chicken. Cass still snored like a trooper on the couch. Maybe she should ring Pete and tell him not to come over—if he still wanted to, that was. She scowled at her indecision, and plucked the phone from the bedspread.

It rang.

And rang.

Maybe she should hang up. Just one more.

"Hey, Love."

She exhaled her pent up tension, and smiled. "Hey, you."

"I was wonderin' when you'd call."

"I wasn't sure if I should."

"Why?" His suspicious tone cut into her.

"I thought you might be tired and want to hit the sack."

He sighed. "Yeah, I am tired." Her heart clenched. "But I'd rather sleep next to you than on me own."

Steph's legs wiggled in a silent happy dance. "I guess I better give you my address then."

"Text it to me, Cutie. I don't know if I could remember it right now."

Dullness in his speech didn't sit well with her. "Are you okay?"

He paused a little too long before he answered. "Yeah."

Her chest tightened, the distance between them painful. She wanted to hold him, reassure him, make him laugh again. He couldn't get to her place soon enough. "Okay. I'll flick you the address. See you soon."

"Thanks."

He hung up.

That's all he said? 'Thanks.' What the hell was that? No 'I can't wait,' or 'I'm on my way, Love.' An unwelcome anxiety settled in the base of her gut. The nausea needled its way into her nervous system, and left her unsure of everything. One simple comment from him, and she re-evaluated every moment they had spent together so far. Had she read too much into his possessiveness? Steph wanted to believe that such a need to claim, and dominate a person came from the basic desire to take a partner for one's self. That such emotions came from the same basic origins as love. As loyalty.

Maybe she had been wrong? What did she know of the dominant, aggressive nature Pete had anyway? What she'd seen in movies, read in books? How much of that was true? Her stomach churned at the thought such behaviour could stem from something deeper, darker.

At least Cass was here.

Cass. Shit. What was with her head tonight? She'd been so consumed in her evaluation of Pete's mood that she forgot to warn him Cass was there. Steph lifted her phone, and typed her address into a fresh message. She finished the text with 'Cass is on the couch.' If he could be blunt, so could she.

His reply rang through. 'Threesome?'

'Ha de ha,' she penned back. He was kidding, right?

Oh God, she hoped he was kidding.

Darkness enveloped Pete as he stood over Cass—and watched. She snored like a damn train that chugged through a siding. Attractive. Aside from that, she was still a beautiful sleeper. Her arm lay lax over the side of the couch, a blanket draped over her from the waist down. He followed the lines of her top with his eyes, especially the way the neckline of her shirt sat so close to her nipple that he could make out the slight bumps of the areola. Disgraceful.

Once upon a time he would have gone there. But now he had better things to play with.

His eyes drifted up, and across to Steph's bedroom door. Nobody realised he was inside—that he knew of. The front door had been locked, but he picked it. He wanted to surprise his girl. Pete walked slowly and purposefully to her door, where he peered through the darkness. A notification on her phone lit the room in intervals of green light. She lay on top of the covers, fast asleep.

He had taken longer than intended to get to her place. It was forty minutes from where he worked, plus he had an errand to run on the way over. Richard had been ... wary of his visit, shall he say. And rightly so. As long as he had anything to do with it, nobody would side-step him to use his mother—least of all for their own criminal benefit. He might hate the woman, but he also didn't want people to think he was happy to hand out free rides at the expense of his reputation.

Pete moved to Steph's side, and knelt on the floor. Her breaths were slow and even; her plump lips moved ever so slightly—nothing like her friend who still chopped down a forest out there. Steph slept like what he had imagined sleeping beauty to look like as a child; beautiful, and pure. He carefully placed his elbows on the edge of the bed, and leant over her so that his face hung directly above hers. The soft scent of vanilla and frangipani wrapped around his nostrils, and filled his senses with her heavenly smell.

She stirred.

Pete held his breath, and waited. Within seconds her breaths resumed their even pace, and she slipped back into her dreams. He should wake her, let her know he had arrived, but she looked so fucking fantastic. He wanted to burn the image of her into his memory, like a ghosted image on a plasma TV. Everywhere he went, he wanted her to be right there in the background.

He drew back on his heels, and dropped his shoulders. With her before him like this; so pure, so innocent—it ate at him. It served as a painful reminder of what a perfect woman he ruined. He could leave, right now, never look back. She wouldn't know he came. He could walk out the door, and spare her this misery.

But he couldn't. You're a selfish bastard, O'Malley. Yeah, yeah, so what? He wasn't going to leave.

Instead, he drew to full height, and padded around her bed to the far side. The intermittent light from the phone gave her room an eerie feel as he stripped his boots off, followed by his jeans. His shirt made a dull thud as it crumpled onto the pile of clothes. He edged himself down on the bed, careful not to disturb her as the mattress slowly dipped with his weight. He sighed, and ran his hands over his face before he took another look at her.

Waves of brown hair fanned around her face as she slept. The soft lengths gave the illusion of an angel's aura. He stretched across the bed, and ran his fingers through her locks. So damn soft. Pete pulled back, and closed his eyes. He desperately reminded himself of the reason he came—he wanted to tell her everything, share his world with her. The burdens of the last few weeks had hit a precipice, and either he lightened the load, or he would snap. And people around him didn't do well when he snapped.

Steph stirred, and rolled in her sleep to face him. He waited until he was certain she wasn't conscious, and then slipped into the bed beside her. Time stood still as he lay, and stared at her perfectly proportioned features. Her slight nose had the tiniest jump at the end which made him twitch with the need to tap it. Her eyes were framed by the softest, yet longest lashes he'd seen. When she blinked at him earlier, he'd been struck with the need to know if they were indeed as soft as a butterfly's wing. But those lips—they were by far his favourite part of her oval face. So full, so soft, and the perfect shade of pink. They simply begged to be kissed.

Pete's eyes burned with the need to sleep. As much as he would be happy to watch her all night, he needed rest. Early dawn light tainted the black sky as he finally closed his eyes and succumbed to his exhaustion.

****

Steph yawned, and stretched her hand over her head. She opened her eyes, and stifled a scream. Could have warned me, you prick. Who knew what time Pete had finally arrived, but there he was, asleep in her bed. And he hadn't woken her. She wasn't a hundred per cent on what to think of such a thing. Should she be offended he didn't want her that badly? Or was it sweet that he let her sleep?

His breaths were deep, and long. The boy was clearly exhausted, and far-be-it for her to wake him. Steph slipped a leg out of bed, and dropped her body over the side in a singular graceful flop to the floor. She spun around to check him, but he hadn't moved. Success.

She tip-toed to the lounge room, and her eyes fell on Cass as she stirred on the couch. Shit. The memory had completely escaped her that Cass was in her house.

"Morning, Sunshine," she whispered.

"Why are you talking so quietly?" Cass asked, full voice. "I don't have a hangover if that's what you're worried about." She stretched, and pulled herself to sit.

"No reason," Steph lied, aware her voice had barely risen in volume. "Coffee?"

"Puh-lease." Cass dragged herself to the island bench-top, and drew a stool out. "So then, what do you have to tell me about last night?"

"Huh?" Steph tried her best absentee tone, but failed miserably.

"You know what I mean," Cass scolded. "Spill."

"There isn't much to spill. We spoke, we agreed on a few things, that was that."

Cass's eyes narrowed, and she rested her chin on her hands. "I call bullshit."

"I don't know what you expect me to say?" The teaspoon clanked a frustrated rhythm on the mug. "We sorted our issues out. Happy." Yeah, issues. That was a new name for sex, was it?

"So you're not an item?"

Steph bit her lip, and turned to face Cass with the coffee. "No. I don't think so."

"Good. Because that guy ... I don't know. Something doesn't sit well. He's not all there in the head, you know?"

Her lips drew a thin line as she regarded her so-called friend. "No. I don't know."

"It's like he's had one too many hits to the head," Cass continued, oblivious to the intensity with which Steph bored holes into her skull. "He seems like he psyches out at nothing."

"We aren't all perfect."

"No. But we can all be civil."

Steph matched Cass's gaze with a heated stare. The blonde quickly looked away, and fussed with the sleeve of Steph's t-shirt she borrowed last night.

"Sorry. I know you like him. It's just—"

"What?" Steph interjected.

"He's messed up, babe. Are you sure that's the kind of problems you want in your life?"

"Real compassionate, Cass. Real compassionate."

"Just because a hot guy has issues, it doesn't mean you have to play nurse with him."

Fire pulsed through her veins, and Steph licked her lip to bite back her words. Since when had Cass become this holier-than-thou person, so damn scathing of her decisions? What happened to friends who understood, and accepted? Since when did Steph have to conform to society's expectations of the 'perfect mate'?

"I'm going to have my coffee in my room," she said, and stepped out of the kitchen. "Feel free to make yourself breakfast."

Cass didn't say a thing as Steph walked into her bedroom and closed the door. The lack of words said it all. She crossed the dimly lit room, and placed her coffee on the nightstand. With a handful of curtain, she tugged it open a few inches to let morning sun brighten the room. Pete stirred in his sleep, but didn't wake. Steph rounded the bed, and fell to her knees beside him. Even in his sleep he looked troubled. A strong urge bloomed within to stick one up Cass by giving Pete the best wake-up call she could offer.

She leant over so her lips barely missed the rim of his ear as she spoke. "Wake up, Sir."

He groaned, and rolled to his back beneath her. Steph straightened, and watched, eager for some response. When he failed to move again, or open his eyes, she leant over and feathered soft kisses along his jaw, and finally onto his full lips. "Wake up, Sir," she repeated.

He shuddered a sigh, and tucked his hands behind his head. "Morning, Love." His eyes remained shut.

"How did you sleep?"

"Good enough." A smirk spread to the corners of his mouth.

"Anything I can do to make your morning perfect ... Sir?"

He moaned low in the back of his throat. "Plenty."

"Name it."

His right hand shot out from under the pillow, and flicked the sheets off his body. "Ya can do somethin' with this," he said.

Steph's gaze raked his inked physique, and stopped at the rock hard member in his boxers. Oh? Okay. She reached out and managed a single stroke before his hand pinned hers to a stop.

"Let's call this a game of soccer—no hands allowed."

She smiled, and drew her hand away. "How am I supposed to get inside your boxers, Sir?"

"You're a clever girl now, aren't you? I'm sure ya can think of somethin'."

Steph drew her lip between her teeth, and contemplated the obvious options. Not sure she could trust herself, she pushed her hands between the mattress and the base as she moved closer. She glanced up, but his eyes were still closed, the smirk in place. Her arms braced her weight as she slowly levered herself over his body. With the care of a mother to her young pups, she gently bit the fabric of his boxers, and pulled it up, and over his erection.

Warm flesh sprung back as he fell from the confines of the cotton, and her centre warmed at the sight of a bead of pre-cum which glistened on his tip. You are the reason for his arousal, girl. Don't forget it. Steph licked the engorged flesh, and elicited a groan from Pete as he bucked his hips to meet her. "Sshhh," she warned. "Cass is still here."

"What do I care?" he growled. "And besides, who said ya could speak. Get back to work."

Steph gaped at him as he lay still, and waited on her next move. What equally shocked her was the fact a warm moistness built between her thighs. What the fuck is wrong with you? He talks to you like you're trash, and you get hotter? You're certifiable.

She angled her head for the best result, and enveloped his length in her mouth. Steph pushed as far as she could before the gag reflex set in. Her tongue swirled about him, and she could feel each of the ridges as she pulled back then went down for a second deep throat. Pete growled below her, his hands now fisted in the sheet—eyes still shut. His want tasted salty on the tip of her tongue as she wet her lips for the next descent. She drew her mouth tight, and created a vacuum as she pulled back—Pete desperately pushed upwards with his hips to keep himself in her mouth as long as possible.

"Fuck, Love. That feels amazin'."

Steph grinned around her mouthful, still happy she could pull more groans from him as she increased pace. Her fingers itched with the need to grasp him in her palm, but he had said no. So no it would be. Steph let out a startled whimper when Pete's hands clamped down on either side of her head. He drove himself into her hard, and doubled the rhythm with what seemed to be minimal effort. In his haste, he occasionally pushed too far which caused her to gag. Steph's throat closed about him each time, and any panic she had at the intrusion dissipated with the contented moans Pete let loose each time it happened.

"Stop," he urged, and dropped his hands. "Get up here and spread yer legs."

Steph swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand as she stood. She climbed over where he lay, and he beckoned her to hurry. Pete tugged the hem of her over-sized tee out of the way. His hand circled the base of his solid erection to position himself with her, and as Steph began to lower herself onto him the door to her room opened.

"Look Steph, I'm sorry. It's not my place to ... what the fuck!" Cass clamped a hand over her mouth, and rapidly backtracked into the lounge.

"Shit," Steph scrambled off a chuckling Pete. "It's not funny," she scolded as she swatted at his chest.

He drew his arms up in self-defence, which made him laugh harder at her distress.

"Cass, wait," she called. Steph caught up to her as Cass snatched her bag from the coffee table.

The blonde spun around with a fury in her eyes that Steph had never seen. "What the fuck is that? Huh? Not seeing him, my ass!"

"Hold on," Steph lifted her hands. "I know I should have told you he was here—"

"Damn straight!"

"—but, I knew you wouldn't be happy."

"So what, Steph? You fuck him over coffee, and hope I'm too dumb to realise what you're up to?"

"Cass," Steph pleaded as she rubbed her neck. "Don't make it sound like that."

"Well what is it, Steph?" The words were laced with copious amounts of venom. Each one stung more than the last.

She sighed, and flopped into the armchair, her knees drawn tightly together. "I don't know what you expect me to do?" she whispered.

"Kick his psycho ass to the curb. Tell him you're better than him; that you deserve someone who doesn't play with you, and leave whenever he wants." Cass jabbed angrily at the open bedroom door as she spoke.

Steph's gaze stuck on the room as Pete emerged in the doorway. He tugged his shirt back on.

"Exactly why is she better than me?" he asked Cass. The guy clearly wanted a reason to join the argument.

The stupid woman crossed her arms, and stuck her chin up in defiance. "Because she has a heart. She doesn't toy with people, then toss them aside and tell them they've been 'fun'."

Steph cringed. She should never have told Cass that.

"Oh, really?" Pete scoffed. "Did it ever occur to ya that I'm not simply 'toying' with her? That perhaps—wait for it, this will blow yer mind—I actually give a fuck? And maybe that is why I play the games she wants me to play with her?" His eyebrows rose as he waited for the statement to sink in.

Cass stared, incredulous. "You mean to tell me, that she wants you to play with her like some cheap lay?"

Pete nodded, a smug, sardonic grin on his lips.

Steph buried her head in her hands. She couldn't watch another second of her life dissolve before her eyes. You may as well become a street-corner stripper now. You'd make more money out of public humiliation that way. What would Cass think of her after this? Was the damage reversible?

"Is this true, Steph?"

She plied her fingers apart enough to catch a glimpse of Cass's worried expression. "Yes?" she squeaked.

Not a word was spoken for what seemed to be hours. Cass stood in silence as the news sunk in. Steph sat patiently, afraid to push her for a response. Pete, as usual, watched with an amused interest. In mere minutes her life had been turned upside down. If she was naive enough to think that meeting Pete had been a life-changing event, she was stupider than she gave herself credit for. Now ... now her closest friend thought she was some delirious sex-fiend, and it wouldn't take long for the word to get around when the others—Ivan, and her family—knew she had chosen Pete over sanity.

Yeah. She had chosen him already. Even before this shit-storm erupted.

Oh God. What the hell are you doing?

Cass stared at her; nose crinkled with the same disgust a person who had only then realised they stood in dog shit earlier would show. Her eyes relayed hurt, but even sadder was disappointment.

"Don't look at me like that," Steph pleaded.

"Like what?" Cass bit.

"Like you're disappointed in me. I haven't done anything wrong."

Cass scoffed. "Sure, babe. Whatever turns your wheels."

"Oi," Pete interjected, his hand held up in protest. "What kind of friend are ya if yer gonna dis' her like that, for what? Bein' brave enough to admit what pleases her?"

"You're both as crazy as each other if you think letting a man treat you like a whore is okay." Cass threw her hands in the air. "Oh, no. Hang on. Whore's get paid."

Steph couldn't hold back. The tears flowed freely as she stood and looked between the two people she only moments ago would have sacrificed anything for. The muddle in her head left her unsure if she cried from self-pity, or pure frustration, but either way, the two people who bickered in front of her were the reason for it.

"Everybody get out," she screamed. "Now."

Cass didn't attempt to argue. She snatched her jacket, and stormed from the house. Steph knew she didn't have her car to get home, but at that point in time she couldn't care less how the woman got there—Cass wasn't her problem anymore.

"Love—"

"Can it!"

Pete reeled from the impact of her words, and raised an eyebrow. "What have I done?"

"You told her that I want you to treat me like a trashy hooker. Since when did I actually demand that you tease me, lead me on, and fucking humiliate me in public?"

His eyes narrowed, and his foot lifted to take a step forward. Yet he changed his mind, and took two back. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Love, but ya kept comin' back for more."

Steph shook her head in disbelief. Was he that convinced of his fantasy that he truly believed she threw herself mercilessly at him the whole time? "Hardly, Pete. You stalked me to my place of work, and ... and did shit that I could have been fired for. You risked everything I've worked for, and why? So you can get your rocks off on doing what you like? Let's face it—this has never been about me." She may as well have slapped him for the way he grimaced as she laid the battery of words on him.

Pete raised a hand to the back of his neck as he drew his face down to hide his eyes. "I never thought ya saw it like that," he whispered.

"Well, I did." Steph's chin quivered. More tears pushed forth. But damn him if she would cry any longer. Her heart ached with the pain of a thousand knives stabbing into her chest, but this morning's turn of events had simply brought an issue to a head that otherwise, would have taken a lot longer to present itself. At least she had this argument with him now, and not months down the track when she had separated herself from any trace of her former life.

Pete drew a long breath, and hmph-ed it out heavily through his nose. "I guess I'll go. Wouldn't want ya thinkin' I'm tryin' to coerce ya into anythin' ya didn't want, would I?"

The cold malice in his comment ripped her chest in two. She had hurt him, accused him of something pretty darn serious. Maybe he had it coming anyway? At least, that would be what she would have to tell herself to make it through the fall-out.

He disappeared into the bedroom, and re-emerged a short time later with the rest of his clothes. "I won't expect ya to call," he walked to the front door, and paused with his fingers wrapped around the frame, "but it would be nice if ya did."

The scene of chaos before Steph blurred into an indecipherable mass of colours as the tears broke free en masse. She fell to her knees when the solid wooden door made a definitive thunk behind him. Moisture soaked into her clothes where the tears ran in rivers of regret, and heart-shattering pain off her jaw. What had she done? Words spoken in the heat of the moment never brought any good. She should have shut her mouth, and waited until later. What did I do?

The sheer size of the townhouse which she had loved only yesterday, loomed over her as a blatant reminder of how vastly alone she now was. Steph wanted support, wanted somebody to talk to about what had happened. But who could she call? Her mother wasn't even a candidate for the list. Cass had walked out of her life. Ivan would flip out and go after Pete. And her Dad ... although he would be supportive, and level-headed, she didn't want to reveal what a failure she was to him. He had always been proud of her, in everything she did, and now wasn't the time to crush that.

Ben.

Maybe Ben would understand?

He'd had his fair share of shitty relationships. Again, she risked the chance he would flip out, and take after Pete. But heaven help her, she just needed someone with her. Steph wiped her nose on the hem of her t-shirt, and rose to her feet. She closed her eyes with a hand against the wall for balance, and waited until her breaths evened out; the shudders caused from too many tears finally over. Her feet dragged as she made her way to the kitchen counter to retrieve her phone. Hopefully Ben was available. If the call went through to voicemail, then who knew what she would do.

Steph dialled his number, and held the phone to her ear. Her hand still shook from the fit of tears, and the friction of her phone against the shell of her ear burned. She placed the phone on the counter, and tapped speaker. Ben picked up shortly after.

"Sis. You must really dig living so close." His tone was light, and playful. She stopped herself before she hung up on him, simply to preserve his good mood.

"Hey. Are you free?" The hoarse sound of her words was undeniable.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing much. I just need somebody to talk to."

"Where's Cass? I can shoot over tomorrow on my way home from work?"

"Don't worry about it," Steph said. The final syllable trembled.

"Sis? Tell me what's up."

Pete wrenched the door shut behind him with a less than satisfying thunk. All this time, he had kidded himself that she wanted this. Was he that perverse now that he couldn't tell when a woman was doing something out of fear?

You're exactly like ya father.

Too much so. Low-life mind-fuckery was the exact kind of thing his bully of a father would have done to get a woman in his bed. He'd seen it plenty in those impressionable years. Fuck, even as a five-year-old he could recognise fear in a woman's eye. An emotion he'd never seen grace his mothers eyes—not once. Not even when they read out her sentence, and led her away from her freedom.

The bitch would be here in two days. Two. Fucking. Days.

Pete wrenched the door of his rat-rod open, and slumped into the low driver's seat. How could he let this happen? How could he let Steph wrap him about her finger like that? Had he finally lost his marbles? Was he days from incarceration himself? He slammed a tight fist into the solid panel-work of the door, and growled at the pain. Fuck this. Fuck her. Remember who ya are Pistol. You're an asshole, a jerk that doesn't care. Ya better fuckin' remember it.

The key groaned as he wrenched it past the point of ignition. The engine shook the chopped body violently as it ignited with more fuel than needed. He gunned the gas, and a sadistic grin spread at the throaty sound. The shifter slammed into first gear, and as soon as the tread slipped on the road he dropped the clutch, and slung the car into a lengthy burnout. Fuck ya. Some nosey neighbour wandered to the roadside as he passed by. The rubber picked up traction, and the body whipped straight. He cruised at a comfortable speed further up the road, and brought his phone out of his pocket to dial Richard.

"Hey. We all good?"

"Yeah," Pistol agreed. "I've been thinkin' about me dear mam's visit."

"Yeah?"

"Thought we might as well throw her a welcomin' party."

****

Steph cringed as the tyres tore a hole in the tarmac outside her house. Thanks, Pete. Great impression for my new neighbours.

"You still there?" Ben asked.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry."

"Spill the deets then. What's so bad that Cass has walked out on you?"

"I shacked up with a guy she doesn't like."

"So? Since when have you let the opinions of others affect you?"

Steph glanced at herself in the bedroom mirror as she sat on the edge of her bed. Ben was right. Look at her. Tattoo's, alternative clothes, piercings. Since when did she care? "You're right, bro. I think this time I'm worried about it, because she seemed sure she wouldn't talk to me again. We said some pretty horrible things to each other."

He chuckled. "Do I need to remind you of that time she caught you wearing the same new dress she'd bought the day before? It's Cass, sis. She can get pretty feisty over nothing."

"Maybe." Steph drew her lip between her teeth, and worried the flesh to the point of pain. "I took it out on him, though."

"Damn. Was he there for it?"

"Yeah."

"Was it his fault?"

"Kind of. He didn't exactly help the situation, much."

"Why doesn't Cass like him?"

Steph paused to work on a better way to say it than with the exact words Cass had used. "She thinks he doesn't have my best interests at heart, because of stuff he's done, stuff he's said."

"Who is this guy, anyway?" Ben's lowered tone hinted at a burgeoning vendetta.

"I don't think you know him. Don't do anything, Ben. Leave him alone."

"Sis," he urged. "If he hurt you, I want to know what his fucking reason is."

"I think I hurt him worse."

Silence hung thickly between them. "Did he deserve it?" Ben asked.

Steph sighed. Did he? Had what he done to her over the last week been that bad? "I don't know."

"Come on. It's not hard to figure out. Either he's a fuck-wit who deserved what he got, or you over-reacted as badly as Cass."

Steph giggled. "Drama central over here this morning. Reality shows 'aint got nothin' on me."

He laughed. "Girls. You lot make things so much more complicated than they have to be."

Steph's face fell. Things were complicated. "There's more to it. I just ... I don't know how to tell you."

"You've booked a sex change to win the heart of a gay man?"

She snorted. "Hardly."

"Then what's that bad you can't tell me? I've shared some pretty fucked-up stories with you over the years."

Steph smiled at the point Ben made. They were close for siblings. If she had to choose anyone to be the least likely to judge her, it would be Ben. "I'm glad this is over the phone now, because damn it's embarrassing."

"Spill," Ben demanded with a hint of humour.

"He likes, um, kinky sex." Steph drew the phone from her ear as Ben let out a long whistle.

"What's the beef with that? Are you worried about it?"

"Yes ... I mean, no ... I don't know."

"It's totally up to you what you do behind closed doors, sis. Unless ... has he forced you to do something you didn't want?"

"Not in so many words."

"Either yes or no, sis."

"I thought I didn't want to, but I liked that he did it. So I guess I wanted it, didn't I?"

Ben sighed. "You sound rather cryptic. I think you need to go for a run, go to the shops, do whatever it is you girls do to clear your head. Try and have a day without thinking too much on it, and hopefully it'll be clearer later."

Two solitary tears trickled from Steph's left eye. "Thanks, bro. I love you to pieces."

"I know." He laughed. "Love you too, sis. But tell me who I need to hunt if that fucker makes you sad again."

"Deal."

"Now go buy yourself a dress, or something."

Happy shoppers mingled with frazzled mothers who towed their demonic spawn through the food court. Steph sat with her hands wrapped about the mochaccino she had ordered, and watched the world go by. Ben's suggestion of shopping hadn't been a bad one; she'd brought two new skirts, a top, and a cute pair of high-waisted sailor-style shorts. Thoughts of Cass, and Pete were harder to ignore. More than once she had caught herself do a double take at a blonde woman with the thought Cass had decided on the same retail therapy. She could text her, tell Cass she wanted to talk, but Steph was afraid. Afraid of another rejection. Afraid that if Cass voiced her discord at Steph's choice again, her resolve to try and patch things up with Pete would be shattered.

Her phone sat dejected on the small table. The object stared at her, taunted her to phone him. What would she say though? Hi. I'm an over-emotional wreck. Want to still hang about? Men loved drama about as much as they loved clothes shopping. There would be no reason to call Pete until she could guarantee to herself that she would be able to present him with a level-headed, confident front. He had to see that she was capable of being sure of herself—capable of her own decisions.

How could she express that though? Without the need to resort to their own style of sex? Confidence ... Steph tapped her fingers on the table-top. How could she show confidence?

A plan started to form. She was slightly frightened at the thought of executing it, but the idea thrilled her none-the-less.

With her coffee, and shopping in hand, she looped her bag over her shoulder and started down one of the wide corridors. Somewhere along there she had spotted a hairdresser in her travels. A dozen shop-fronts down, she found the brightly back-lit sign. Steph stopped before the reception desk, and patiently waited for an attendant. A young girl with bright red highlights in black hair, hop-skipped to the desk.

"How can I help you?" she asked, a little too chipper.

"I wondered if you had any time-slots available for a dye?" Steph shifted her coffee between her hands, and waited as the girl read through the appointment book.

"We should be able to squeeze you in. What did you look to have done?"

"I want to go lighter, then a bright shade over-top."

"Okay." The girl tapped a pencil against her crimson lips. "How long is your hair?"

Steph held her hand about nipple height to indicate. The girl nodded.

"I can squeeze you in about a half hour from now. Will that be okay?"

"Perfect," Steph replied. Butterflies settled in her gut, both from nerves, and anticipation of the new look.

"You're welcome to wait in our lounge if you like." The girl gestured to a couple of two-seaters which faced a coffee table.

"Thank you," Steph replied, and moved to take a seat. She lowered herself into a plush leather sofa, and groaned quietly at how much of a relief it was to take the weight off her feet. She always lost time when shopping, and paid no mind to how long she'd walked around until her feet were fried.

With her bag settled next to her, she pulled her phone out, and flicked to the Facebook app. A dozen notifications filed down as she tapped the icon. The third on the list left her stomach on the ground next to her tired feet.

'Cass Pratt has tagged you in a comment.'

Steph tapped on the link and closed her eyes to will away the tears. Cass had officially severed any hope Steph may have had of reconciliation.

'That moment where you realise your so-called best friend is fucked in the head. – with Stephanie Drake.'

Words flew through her mind; multiple come-backs vied for attention. She wouldn't feed the woman's hate, though. Confidence. She needed to prove she was above petty arguments. As much as Cass would expect it, she wouldn't reply.

Mixed blessing that they now worked in a different office, wasn't it?

Steph shut her phone off, and jammed it back in her bag. Her fingers laced in her lap, and she rested her head on the back of the sofa. Calm breaths. In ... and out.

Time to start again. Time to start with the things she needed in her life.

****

She hadn't tried to call him. Pistol threw his phone across the room; the back cover skittered away from the rest as it impacted with the carpet. Fuck! He wasn't naive enough to assume she would have forgiven him, come to her senses, whatever the fuck it was she needed to do to come back to him, but could she at least pretend to give a shit? This radio-silence didn't do a damn thing for his already filthy mood.

Maybe he should head over to her house, and simply show her who is boss. Show her what 'Sir' thinks of her little tantrum this morning?

Then you'd really be yer father.

He beat his closed fists to the side of his head, and tried to quell the insistent little voice inside. What did it know? He had become his father a long time ago. All he'd done these past weeks was pretend he was what he wasn't.

Pretended he was Pete.

You're Pistol. Pete died off years ago.

Finally. His inner monologue talked sense. Pete fell off the face of the earth the day Colin went in the ground. He fisted his hands into his eye-sockets, and pushed hard to distract from the images of his brother's funeral. He never should have died. He never should have been taken away. That bitch should pay.

She had to feel something? He never quite worked out how his mother—the woman who gave birth to each of them—could stand there, so cold, so remorseless at what she did. How could she not care that her little boy spent the last moments of his life in terror? That the last emotion he knew was betrayal? It made him sick, made him physically ill every time he thought about that day—which was exactly the reason why Pistol buried that part of himself the day he left Ireland.

Exactly why he liked the kinky fucking shit he did to Steph, because he needed to replace his morbid association with pain, with an action more pleasurable. He wanted pain to be good in his mind—not a constant reminder of Colin's distressed expression as he twitched his last breath.

Make the pain good. Make yerself crave it.

Pistol pushed out of the dining room chair he sat in, and collected the parts of his phone. He carefully, and methodically slotted the back cover on, then powered up to check the mobile still worked. Satisfied with the result, he pocketed it, and walked to the deep mahogany side-board. His fingers traced a line over the tacky side of the roll of tape. He picked it up, and slotted his index finger through the cardboard centre to hula-hoop it as he walked to the far side of the table.

The toe of his boots touched the legs of the chair as he stopped before his final house-keeping chore. Wide, terror-filled eyes stared at him, unblinking. Pistol thumbed the end of the tape free, and pulled a fresh length off. He tore the tape with his teeth. Pained whimpers sounded before him, which only served to widen his playful smile. He grasped the ends of the torn length, and carefully held it out before him to make sure it would be one of the last things the guy saw. He pressed the tape tight over top of the previous artwork he had created to shut the man's mouth. Steady thumbs pressed the sticky side into flared nostrils, before he carefully smoothed the ends around the side, and over the guy's ears. Two more lengths of tape finished the final task. He wrapped his fingers over the back of another chair, and tugged it across the carpet to straddle the seat for the show.

Richard struggled for the briefest of moments, before a lack of oxygen shut his body down into critical survival mode. Barely a dozen more breaths, and the guy was toast.

That'll teach the fucker for turnin' on me.

Nobody got away with putting Pistol, or anything he cared for in harm's way.

The stylist smiled above Steph's reflection as she stared wide-eyed at the result. A smile nervously crept onto Steph's lips, and then turned into a mega-watt grin as she turned her head side-to-side to check it all out. "I love it."

The stylist clapped her hands. "Yay. I'm so glad. When you first said you wanted it aquamarine-green, I was like 'what?', but now I've seen it ... wow."

"It's perfect." Steph ran the loose curls through her finger-tips. Stage one—complete. Her phone vibrated a message across the small counter before the mirror.

"Come up to the front, and I'll get you fixed up. Are you okay for products?" the stylist asked.

Steph nodded as she opened the text. Her tattoo artist, Johnny, had replied to the query she sent while she waited for her colour to develop.

I can always fit you in, sugar. See you when you're done.

She handed her card over to the lady who manned the front desk, and typed a quick reply.

Finished up now. See you in ten.

"Have a great rest of your day," the woman crooned with a plastered smile.

Steph smiled in thanks, and quickly turned to hot-foot it out of the mall as she placed her card back in her wallet. Johnny's place was located over the main road from the shopping complex, so thankfully there would be no need to time another bus. Early afternoon sun dappled light through the branches of the giant pines that lined the outer edge of the car park. It struck her, as she pressed the button to cross the road, that she hadn't had a singular thought of Pete, or Cass for the last half hour. Progress. The pain of betrayal stung like a monster-sized bee in her side, but only time could heal such wounds. Steph only hoped that the post Cass had made about her wouldn't turn into a thorn that festered in her side.

She crossed the road, much to the amused stares of a couple of motorists. She could only imagine how her new colour caught the sunlight. Johnny stood to greet her as she stepped through the door of his shop.

"Hey, darlin'. I had a cancellation, so lucky for you, my seat is totally free."

Steph smiled at his eager body language as he swept through the parlour to clear his coffee, and bin the disposable paper that covered the arm of the leather chair. Johnny always had a kind of charm to the way he spoke, but it had never been an issue. The man was married, with two gorgeous kids that he shared photos of every time Steph came.

"How's the family?" She slipped onto the seat.

"Great. Malina has my nuts in a jar on the mantle still, but we're good." He rolled his eyes for emphasis, but Steph wasn't fooled. Malina sometimes helped in the shop, and the two of them were so in love still they could hardly keep their hands off each other. "What will you have today, Love?"

An innocent comment from Johnny, but the moniker slapped Steph upside the face as Pete's voice echoed the same thing through her head. Love. Thankfully, Johnny was oblivious to her almost-breakdown as he turned away to grab his sketch-pad, and pencils.

"I was thinking of a phoenix."

"Hmm," Johnny hummed. His hand flew across the paper. "Where about?"

"Back, high between my shoulders. I'll have to come back and get something else to blend it into the fairies."

"Not a problem." His pencil scratched across the surface of his sketch-pad. He paused every so often to look at the design, and then started again with equal ferocity as before.

Steph looked around the shop as he drew. She picked out photos on the wall which were new since the last time she visited.

"Here." Johnny spun the pad to face her. "What do you think?"

She looked at the incredible image, and fought back tears. "It's beautiful." The phoenix's tail flared under its body; flames licked off the tips of the feathers. The bird's wings were spread so that the points would touch on her shoulders once drawn. Bright oranges, yellows, and reds made the image look too hot to touch.

"I'm going to use some white shading to make it sing. Are you down with that? Because it's going to be quite painful."

"Bring it," Steph challenged, and burst into laughter.

****

Pistol idled up outside Steph's old office. Monday mornings were always such a bitch—and today was no exception. He downed the last of his wake-me-up, and threw the empty hip-flask onto the passenger seat. Passers-by eyed him as he parked the rat rod outside the structure which sported a big, bold, in-your-face sign over the doors. He climbed out of the car, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt as he shut the door, and engaged the alarm.

The old bat he made acquaintance with last time, eyed him with as much love as a Nazi to a Jew. "She doesn't work here anymore," the hag spat at him.

"I know. I'm not here for her."

Her nose lifted another two inches as she regarded him through her glasses. "Who is it you want then?"

"Cass."

No polite 'wait a moment', or 'sit over there'. No. The old hag punched her phone with venomous hate, and never dropped her gaze from him as she barked into the receiver. "You've got a visitor."

The door to the offices flew open seconds later—Cass must have literally run to greet him. Her gaze fell on him as he stood—hands in pockets—and her tone headed arctic. "You."

"The one and only."

"What do you want?"

"Jesus. Everyone here is so fuckin' welcomin'."

Cass crossed her arms, and drew her lips into a grimace.

"I want ya to retract the post ya put up about Steph." The old hag perked up at the gossip. "That's not how ya treat yer friends, is it Cassandra?"

Her eyes narrowed to slits reminiscent of a tigress about to strike. "What business is it of yours? I thought degrading her would get your package jingling, seeing you treat her like trash." She smirked—cocky.

"It doesn't get me off as much as shovin' yer own fuckin' words in yer smart-lipped mouth will." He slipped a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and opened it so that her post glared back at her from the printed sheet.

Her arms tightened, and her nostrils flared. "You wouldn't dare hurt me, not with a witness in the room." Cass pointed to the old bag.

He shrugged. "Collateral damage. I'm sure nobody would miss a gossipin' old bitch like her."

The receptionist gasped. He smirked her way, and then blew a kiss.

"You're all smoke. You don't have it in you, you gutless pig." Cass's voice rose with her apprehension. "Why else would you go about taking advantage of girls like Steph? You don't have the guts to get your kicks off like a real man."

He dropped his head to the side, and cocked an eyebrow. "It's interestin' how ya decide now to defend her. Make up yer mind. What is it, Love? Do ya despise her for what she chooses ..." he swept his hands the length of himself "... or applaud her?"

"Keep dreaming, you psycho. You're lucky she even likes you. Well ... until she wakes up and realises what a loser she's picked."

"Better than wakin' up in a gang-house, the bosses whore, not knowin' who you're pregnant to."

All colour drained from the blonde's face. She clamped her hands to her mouth as tears sprung forth. He'd hit low, but shit it felt good.

"You asshole," she stammered. "How do you know that?"

"Boys talk too, honey."

Her nostrils flared faster, and harder. "He wouldn't. Gary wouldn't ..."

"Why not? Even guys have to check if the girl they want to fuck is worth the trouble. Why not phone a friend for a bit of a chin-wag?"

Cass's heels clicked rapidly across the tiles, and she lay a hard slap across his face. He swallowed, and relished the burn.

"I wouldn't push too hard if I were you, Love."

"Why the fuck not, you bastard?" she choked out through her tears.

Pistol leant in so his nose was inches from hers. "I know where ya live. Pretty pink bedspread ya have."

Cass turned and ran from the reception area; her sobs echoed through the sterile room. Pistol turned for the door, and pointed to the old bag who held the phone in her hand. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He chuckled as she slowly replaced the receiver.

His day improved already.

****

Steph tapped her pen against the side of her keyboard while she waited on the page to load. So much for ultra-fast broadband. Her tattoo itched, and she would need to go apply more Bepanthen shortly. The dark recesses of her wardrobe had revealed the perfect top for the day; a dressy-tee with a low cut back that sat below the raw flesh. The attire was a bit of a double-edged sword however, when people took it as an open invitation to ask about her art ... and then expect her to show off the rest like some kind of exhibitionist.

The page flicked up, and pulled her from her musings as an email icon flashed simultaneously. No wonder it took so long. Computers had to be male, given their inability to multi-task. Steph clicked on the email, and slumped back in her chair.

Steph,

I had a visitor this morning, and as much as his behaviour has me on the verge of calling the cops, he made me realise something ... I miss us.

\- Cass

Her fingers itched to hammer out a reply, to say how much she missed the friendship too. But one detail stuck—Cass hadn't actually apologised. Nowhere in her message did it say she was sorry. Steph closed the window, and opened the online form she needed to complete. Her cursor blinked in the first empty field, and she pushed the sheet of data around the top of her desk. She skidded her chair out from the worktop, and leant underneath to retrieve her bag, and her phone.

What did you do to Cass?

She sat, and tapped her foot on the front of her filing cabinet. Her grasp clenched about the small phone as she willed it to make a noise. Steph scrambled not to drop it when it did.

Had a chat.

Right ...

Are you sure that was all?

He replied without hesitation.

Yes. How's your new office?

I like how your desk is next to a window.

Her knees hit the floor first as she slid off the chair, and crouched behind the side of her L-shaped desk. The car park was directly out her window, and she scanned the view for him. Nothing on the first sweep, but second time over she wondered how she missed it to begin with. A matte-black rat rod. Of course. Her phone vibrated next to her head where it still lay on the desk.

I wish you'd save being on your knees for me.

P.S. I like your new colour.

Heat surged into her face. What the hell did he think he played at? This was exactly the kind of shit that made her mad at him to start with. So why was there a distinct heat between her legs? Steph pulled herself to her feet, tugged the pencil skirt she wore down, and stormed through the office. The front door swung hard with the speed she marched into the car park. The smirk on his face was clear—even from twenty feet away. Asshole.

His window rolled down slowly; the tattoos on his arm twisted as he wound.

"What the fuck are you up to?" she hissed as she approached.

"Get in," he ordered.

"I can't. I'm at work." Steph threw her arms across herself in defiance.

"Then tell them you're havin' an early lunch."

"I can't do that. I'm too busy." She wasn't, but he didn't need to know.

He smiled lazily, and then opened the door to get out.

"What are you doing now?"

He cupped her chin, and ran his thumb across her lip. Without a word he turned for the office.

"I asked you what you're doing," she called, panicked, as she followed him across the car park.

He reached the door, and went inside. Steph flailed for the handle. "Where do I find the boss?" he asked the young girl on the front desk whilst Steph flew through the entrance. The girl pointed warily to Barbara's corner office.

Shit.

Steph watched on in horror as he strode right in—then shut the door in her face. She hesitated, unsure if it would look worse to barge in after him. Her mind still danced around the idea when he opened the door, and walked out into her, forcing Steph to take two steps back.

"You've got the afternoon off," he smirked.

Steph glanced over his shoulder. She groaned as Barbara held up a thumb, and grinned like a school-girl.

'What the hell did you say?"

"Never ya mind, Cutie."

A current sparked through her lips as he gave her a chaste kiss, and then walked to the front door.

"Ya comin'?"

Steph blew out a breath and turned to go retrieve her bag from her desk. She stood in front of her chair, and eyed him as he leant on the hood of his car. He watched her power down her computer. Why are you doing this? How could she fathom the idea of a ride in the car with him—destination unknown—after he barged in and took her day into his hands. Weren't they meant to still be mad with each other? Aren't you supposed to still be mad with him?

Life had become so unpredictable over the last few weeks, that some days she was surprised she knew which way was up. Steph glanced at her feet as the PC did its final gasp, and checked she managed to get a matching pair of shoes on. Anything was possible given how much of a mess Pete had her head in. She ran her eyes over the desk to make sure she didn't leave anything behind, and started for the car park. The deep, resonate sound of a V8 rumble to life echoed about the reception area as she opened the door, and walked into the sunlight.

Her nerves skittered about her ankles like a kitten which threatened to trip her. She did her best to come off composed on her walk to the car. Pete leant over and flicked the door catch. He pushed it ajar for her as she approached. Steph smoothed her skirt over her thighs, and did what she could to look at least partially-elegant while she fell into the low passenger seat.

"Where are we going?" she asked as she placed her bag under her legs.

"Not sure yet."

She stared at his profile as he pulled away from the office. "You're telling me, that you come here, kidnap me, and you don't have a clue where we're going?"

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, a playful grin on his lips. "Aye."

Steph shook her head, mouth set in a firm line, and looked out her window at the urban landscape. "You don't get it, do you?" she whispered.

He slowed the car for a red light, and then turned to look at her. "Get what?"

"This is the exact reason why I was mad in the first place. You assume you can swan in, and do as you please with me—fuck the consequences."

He frowned, and looked to the front again as they pulled away. Steph watched his jaw work a knot. "I thought that was what ya liked?"

She balled her fists at her side, and grimaced. "What part of our last argument did you actually listen to? Huh?"

He glowered at her, and then set his sights firmly on the road. The silence between them choked any words from her throat. "All of it," he finally answered.

"Then repeat to me what I said," she asked tentatively.

He sighed, and quickly rubbed his brow before he returned his hands to the white knuckle grip on the wheel. "Ya said it had never been about ya. That I did all this stuff for me."

He remembered. He really had listened. Steph fought back tears as she pressed the back of her tongue into the roof of her mouth.

"It was never about me, Cutie." He flicked his gaze to the rear-view, then indicated and pulled the car to the side of the road. "It's always been about ya." He turned in his seat to face her.

She avoided his concerned eyes with what will she had left. How could he damn well do this to her? "How can you turn it around so that I'm the asshole in the situation?" Her chin shook, and the tongue-press slowly failed at holding back the water-works.

"That's not what I wanted to do at all," he said. His hand reached across the centre to rest on her leg.

Steph swatted it away. "Don't touch me," she barked. "Not now. I can't be assed with you doing what you always do; using sex to get what you want from me."

He slumped back against his door as she stared with grave intensity at the floor under her feet. The way his arms crossed over his chest not only showed his frustration, but placed a literal barrier between them and whatever relationship they may have kidded themselves into believing they had.

Where to from here?

Had she finally done it, and pushed back one too many times?

Her eyes dimmed with the sadness he had created. What kind of fuckin' monster was he? All he knew when he went to her work was that he wanted her for the afternoon. But why, if all he was going to do was hurt her? Hurt her? She's hurtin' you, asshole.

And she had. The way she casually labelled him as purely after her for sexual pay-off had cut into him like a white-hot knife. How could she think that all he wanted from her was sex? Why not? All you've done is pin her down and have yer way. He frowned at the foreign sensation of nausea in his gut as he thought it through. Wasn't that a fine turn of events? The thought that all he had done was use, and hurt her actually made him ill. There's always room for a new first...

"I don't know what I can do to show ya it's more," he uttered.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed back more tears. HHHer hands wrung in her lap. "Show me I mean more to you than a hooker would."

He sighed. How the fuck did she expect him to behave? "Ya said ya didn't want roses, and that kind of romantic bollocks from me. So what do ya want me to do?"

Steph shook her head. "I don't know—care?" She shifted in the seat so that she faced him. "I used to think that the thrill of what you do to me; the way you use me, and demand things from me I don't know I like, was enough. But the last guy I dated wasn't romantic either, and maybe, I do miss that?" She shook her head again, and brought her hands up to cover her face. "I don't know."

"Do you want it? Or do ya think ya do, because it's what yer friends expect ya to look for in a fella?" His thoughts flitted to his altercation with Cassie earlier. The woman was lucky he had this conversation with Steph now, otherwise he may have actually throttled the blonde on the spot.

Steph's grey eyes dug into him, her brow furrowed in the cutest look of intense concentration. "Maybe it is?" she said. "Maybe that's why I'm so confused about it?"

"If I brought ya flowers and a teddy right now, what would ya do?"

Her lip curled at one corner, and she shrugged. "I don't know."

"Would ya like it? Or would ya take it to be polite?"

"I guess ... I don't know. I think I'd like it. But then again, it doesn't seem like you."

Pistol exhaled heavily, and twisted in his seat to open the door. He stepped out into the street, shut the door, and leant his elbows on the roof as he surveyed the street. He located what he needed, and strode to her side of the car to open the door. "Come on."

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

"Buy ya flowers."

Her eyebrows drew close, then apart, and then close again. Her poor brain sure got a workout today.

"Well," he said as he threw his arms out wide. "We don't know if you'll like them until we buy them."

She laughed, and the sweet sound made his heart soar. Fuck, that music was exactly what he'd missed. "Okay," she ceded. "Let's do it."

He shut her door, locked the car, and then held out a hand. Her eyes went between it, and his face, before she carefully laced her fingers with his. They started down the street toward the small corner-shop he had spotted. Steph walked in silence. He didn't try to fight the grin that found its way to his face, and stayed.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked.

He glanced at her, and drank in her vibrant hair; the way it made the colour of her ink pop. "I'm happy," he said.

She smiled coyly, and watched her feet as they walked. Pistol gave her hand a gentle tug, and pulled her into his side. He threw his arm around her shoulders.

"Ah." She winced, and ducked out of his grasp.

"What?" His pace halted as he turned to her. "What did I do?"

The tiniest of smirks quirked the corners of her lips. She drew her hair over the front of one shoulder, and then spun on the spot to face away from him. His breath caught in his throat, and he instinctively reached for his pack of smokes. The stick of tobacco he balanced between his lips did little to stem the urge he had to kiss the new ink, but at least it kept his mouth busy. He lit the cigarette, and stood back to take a better look.

"Do you like it?"

He paled at the nervous edge of her question. She was honestly worried that he wouldn't. See how eager she still is to please you?

He swallowed hard as Steph turned back to face him. "Do ya really need the flowers?" he asked, huskily. Her full lips curled into a suggestive smile, and she slowly shook her head. He reached forward to take her hand and pull her into the nearest semi-private spot he could find—the need to show her how aroused the new ink had made him dire—when a deep male voice calling her name turned any previous erotic thoughts to ones of murder.

"Steph!"

Pistol looked up the street at the tall, sharp-dressed, blond ball-bag, and scowled. He better not fuckin' touch her.

"Dave," Steph replied with remarkably less enthusiasm. Knowing that she wasn't happy to see whoever this tosser was only fuelled his irrational hate of the man.

"Didn't expect to find you here." The guy's sunny smile faded as he dragged his gaze over Pistol. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Afternoon off." Steph closed her arms over herself.

Anger burned behind his ears. How could this guy walk up and talk to her like he had a fucking right to her? The asshole hadn't introduced himself, or bothered to ask who she was with. Pistol threw his cigarette down, and stamped it out.

Challenge accepted, mother-fucker.

****

Steph sensed Pete step behind her; the heat of his body framed her as he reached both arms over her shoulders, criss-crossed them over her chest, and tugged her into him. He was threatened, and he marked his territory. When it came to Dave, she couldn't have asked for a better response.

"Good to see you moved on," Dave remarked.

"Thanks."

"Especially to something more ... suitable for you."

She frowned, and placed her hands on Pete's forearms. "What's that supposed to mean, Dave?"

He smirked, the same way he used to when she asked him where he had been all night. "Only that you had a shit-show of ever finding yourself another guy like me if you choose to cover yourself in that crap."

Pete's chin came to rest on her head, and his jaw worked a furious tempo side-to-side.

"Why would I want another douche like you?" she asked.

Pete's chest vibrated against her back as he chuckled.

Irate didn't come close to being able to describe the storm that surged over Dave's features. "So I'm a douche now, am I? And what's this tool? Huh? A pillar of society?"

Pete tried to draw his arms away, but she clamped her hands down. "A person should never judge a book by its cover, Dave."

The prick laughed. "Why? You going to tell me that he's a choir-boy on weekends? The pussy hasn't said a word for himself yet."

"What do you want, Dave?" The final slim strands of patience slipped from her grasp. Today was not the day to be doing this.

"I simply wanted to say 'hi' precious, and know if you missed me."

The second time, Pete moved too fast for her to stop him. He stepped around her, and partially body-blocked her as he faced off against the taller Dave. "I think I'd be right in sayin'—" Pete stated with an eerily cool calm "—that nobody would miss ya if ya simply ... disappeared."

Dave moved closer until the men stood chest to chest. Steph drew back; the energy, and anger which radiated from the two of them unbearable. "Is that a threat?" Dave asked with narrowed eyes.

"Promise," Pete replied. He flicked his lip piercing with his teeth while he watched Dave step back.

Steph moved to Pete's side, and drew his hand in hers. She wanted Dave to be sure of where her allegiance lay, and it sure as fuck wasn't with any delusional fantasy the guy had of them back together.

Dave turned, and called over his shoulder as he left. "I hope you two freaks are happy being weirdo's together."

The words should have stung, but all she could do was laugh.

"What?" Pete asked as amusement twinkled in his eye.

"He sounded like a kid who didn't get his way—that was all. What a lame come-back." Full, rich, and satisfying laughter spilled from her lips. She laughed until tears formed, and then blotted at them with the heel of her hand.

"It's good to see ya happy," Pete smiled. "I think if he had left ya upset, I might have gone after him."

"And done what?" Her laughter subsided into hiccups.

"Killed him."

Steph smiled up at Pete's macabre joke, and then paled as her stomach lurched to her throat. He had that look; the same determination he showed the first night at the foot of her bed. The guy was serious—deadly serious. "Are you hungry?" she squeaked as she headed for the car once more. "Let's go home, and I'll make you something."

He started after her, blissfully unaware of her shock as he approached the vehicle to unlock it for her. "No flowers, then?"

"No. I'm too hungry." Lie. You're too worried he'll hurt somebody the longer you're on the streets.

"I can't argue—" he said, and dropped into his seat. Steph did the same, and looked across the car as he continued. "—I haven't eaten since breakfast. The worms are bitin'."

"Home for lunch it is then."

****

Steph sat opposite Pete at her modest, two-seater table. He literally devoured the BLT she made him, not looking up once in his mission to annihilate the meal. On the contrary, her sandwich lay mostly untouched. Those words still echoed through her mind, and left her appetite somewhere in last week.

'Killed him.'

He was so ... blasé about it. A part of her wanted to argue that he had joked, and that her overactive imagination made him out to be more dangerous than he was. But Ivan's warning about the guy echoed fresh in her mind each time she tried to tell herself she over-reacted. Maybe she should take heed of her friend's warning after all.

Friends.

Her mind side-tracked to the email Cass had sent through that morning. What would she make of the fact Steph hadn't replied? And come to think of it, why hadn't Ivan been in touch? Surely he read the message Cass left on Facebook. Unless ... Cass got to him first. What next? Steph's stomach dislodged from its position in her throat, and hit the floor with a soul-crushing thud. What bullshit lies had Cass spun to Ivan? She should have called him straight after Ben, and got in first.

"What's troublin' ya, Love?"

Holy heck—the man had finally finished his meal. "Nothing much."

"Ya can't lie. It's written over yer face like a bloody mural."

Steph sighed, and pushed her plate into the centre of the table. "I can't help but worry about things with Cass. She sent me an email this morning, before you showed up."

"Did she, now?" His eyes darkened a shade.

"Yeah." Steph frowned, and brought her arms to her chest. "What do you know about it?"

"Not a lot." He shrugged, and pointed to the discarded sandwich. "Ya gonna have that?"

"No. You go ahead." The chair scraped on the tiles as she pushed out from the table, and headed into the small kitchen. "You want a coffee?" she called out.

"Uh," he sighed. "I'd die for one."

Her skin crawled at his flippant remark. What was crazier? The idea she had brought him home after his comment about Dave? Or the fact they now behaved like an old married couple, and had a civilised lunch together? "You didn't mean what you said about Dave, did you?" Her finger flicked the switch on the jug, and then hesitated on the handle of cupboard as he replied.

"Of course I did. If he hurts ya, I'll kill him."

Ice ran through her veins in intervals with her warm blood, and made her body surge in and out of cool flushes. What the heck did he expect her to say back to that? White knuckled, she gripped the side of the counter, and hung her head between her shoulders to gasp for air. The muscles in her legs twitched with the need to collapse; her weight seemingly doubled with every minute that passed.

"Shit. Are ya okay?" Pete's hand snaked about her waist to take her weight, and she revolted against the touch.

Steph's knees gave out before her brain had time to send the message to her hands, and she fell to the floor a crumpled mess. Her hands still grasped the counter.

"What's the matter?" he asked, and tried to hold her once more.

She spun on the tiles, and scooted across the floor on her backside. "No. Don't touch me."

"Jesus." He ran an inked hand through his now dishevelled hair. "What 'ave I done? Why are ya so scared of me?"

"Oh, I don't know," she shouted, heavy with sarcasm. "Maybe because you've threatened to kill people?" her voice cracked on the last two words. Tears flowed freely over her cheeks, and dripped to the floor.

"Have I ever threatened you? Harmed you?" he asked.

Steph's jaw hung slack. The guy was off the chain. He didn't see the problem with murder—only that she had a problem with it. "Are you for fucking real?" she screeched. "What does it matter if you have or haven't hurt me? You said you'd kill someone, because why? He's a self-centred pig?"

Pete frowned, and crouched before her. His arms hung slack between his legs, elbows on knees with careless abandon. "No, Love. I'd kill him—anyone—because they hurt you."

"You're hurting me," she whispered.

He shot up like a jack-in-the-box, and walked back until he connected with the cupboards. "I ... I never meant to." Horror distorted his usually handsome face, and his chin screwed up tight, like he was going to ... cry? Such a cold and malicious would-be killer could cry? Well who would have thought? "Fuck, I'm sorry," he mumbled, then turned and fled the room.

Steph pulled herself onto shaky legs, and started after him—her tears still fresh on her face. "Wait!" she called out as he reached the front door. "What won't you tell me?"

"What do ya mean?" he asked, head hung as he faced away from her.

"It scares the shit out of me to think you would actually kill a person if you thought I was hurt by them, but call me crazy—" she shook her head "—it scares me more to see you upset. What's going on, Pete?"

He snorted a short, callous laugh. "Do ya know what me friends call me?"

"Clearly not," she snapped.

"They call me 'Pistol'." He turned to face her. His eyes had darkened to the bluish-grey of a winter thunderstorm, and a frown pulled his face into a look of disgust. "Ya want to know why?"

"I have a feel you're about to say."

"Because the day me mam killed me brother, I took me da's pistol and held it to her head until the police arrived. That's how serious I am about hurtin' people who hurt those I love."

A painful lump lodged in Steph's throat, and a fresh wave of silent tears blurred the vision of him as he stood dejected in her doorway.

"I don't need yer pity," he growled.

She watched, lost for any words that could do the moment justice, as he opened the front door, and stepped out into the afternoon sun. The bright, warmth of the day outside only served to deepen the dark pit of despair she felt trapped in inside. His mother had killed his brother? And he was there when it happened.

Steph balled her fists at her side, mad at herself for doing exactly as he didn't want; she pitied him. But more-so she was mad at him for not allowing her the basic human emotion of compassion. Maybe she did pity him somewhat? But fuck—who wouldn't after they heard that? He had to be a kid when it happened, surely, and what kid deserved to go through such betrayal? His car turned over, and then pulled away from the house. She listened until the sound of the V8 faded into nothingness. Her throated bobbed as she swallowed hard, but it didn't help. Steph dashed through the house to her en-suite, and promptly brought up all the lunch she hadn't had.

He couldn't protect his brother, so all he wants to do is protect you.

Pistol woke up with a consistent headache—the kind that made a person want to travel back in time and beat themselves stupid for being drunk. He pushed the empty bourbon bottle from the side of his bed, and cringed as it hit the floor with a definite whump. He'd spent the whole afternoon on the piss, and smokes—sure he would drink his way to a certain death. Yet he'd woken up in purgatory instead.

He drew his feet to the floor, and took a moment to clear his head. His eyes tried to focus on a central point to stop the swimming sensation that accompanied such a hangover. No light crept about the black curtains of his room, so it had to be early. Too early. He rubbed his eyes with closed fists, and picked up his mobile from the nightstand. One-thirty ... in the morning. Damn. He hadn't been asleep long enough. No wonder his head thumped like the chopping block at a woodcutter's competition.

What a way to start the day yer mother arrives.

Purgatory, hell, his actual life—he couldn't tell where one stopped, and the rest started.

Steph.

How was she today? He'd left her with some pretty awkward news that people—unsurprisingly—didn't react well to. What did she think of him now? Even more of a monster, because he held a gun to his mother's head? Without a doubt, ya fuckwit. He rolled his mobile between his fingers, unsure if a text would be too impersonal, or if he should bother to make contact. Fuck it. He swiped open a new message, and typed.

Cutie, are you okay?

Sure he wouldn't garner any response, Pistol stumbled to the door, and dragged himself along the hallway wall to the kitchen. He brewed a cup of coffee, and soured at the memory of it being the last thing Steph did for him. He retched at the smell as he poured a mug. With the toxic liquid cradled in his hands, he wandered slowly and carefully back to the bedroom, and sipped at the mug. As much as his stomach roiled at the drink, he needed to break the ice if he wanted a chance to keep food down. He glanced about the room as he supped, and stilled on the blue light which flashed atop his phone. The white backlight stung his eyes when he opened the reply.

What do you think? Of course I'm not okay.

He smiled. There she was. There was his little spitfire. More at ease with the knowledge she at least wanted to speak to him, he tossed the phone aside and drew his focus back to the real task for the day.

His mother.

Her plane arrived in approximately an hour, being an international. Maybe that was why he was awake; he could sense the bitch coming. He absently rubbed the back of his head as he played about with what he would say when he saw her. Did he give a standard 'It's good to see you'? Or a more heartfelt 'Fuck off back to where ya came from'? Most of all, he wondered how long it would be until she showed her face. He wouldn't meet her at the airport—no fucking way. No. Derek had already informed him that his mother knew where he lived. How she knew, he didn't have to speculate anymore. At first he'd been concerned that the old man had turned on him, and Derek now worked with the devil. But 'conversations' with Richard had shown that wasn't the case.

Because that's how serious ya are about killin' those who threaten the ones ya love.

If only Steph knew what he had already done—before and after he'd met her. Jesus, the woman wouldn't stop running until she came full-circle around the globe. There-in lay the problem however. If he couldn't be certain she would ever accept him for who he was—the animal he was—then how on earth did he expect to rectify things with her? Oh, Stephy-love. What am I to do with you?

Pistol snatched the phone from the bed, and swiped her message open to reply. He hesitated, and drew his lip ring between his teeth while he thought.

I think we need to talk.

Her reply came through before he had time to get back to the home screen.

Now?

Of course now. When did she expect? Tomorrow? Next week?

See you in a couple of hours.

He scooped through his drawers for a clean shirt, underwear, and jeans. The fluorescent light stung his eyes as he flicked it on, and walked into the crisp, white bathroom. He reeked of stale bourbon, and if he wanted to show Steph how serious he could be about them, he had to show her how serious he could be about showing her respect. The woman was the perfect mix of saintly, and sinful. She knew how to treat others, but also what he needed. Steph balanced the fine line of public-persona with bedroom kink perfectly. Truthfully, he felt a little off at the knowledge his arrival in her life had brought the latter into the former, but now he wanted to be the one to stand by her side, and say fuck the world. If people she thought of as friends couldn't accept her for who she was—beautiful and unique—then he'd help her find new friends.

Now that he knew what had to be said, he couldn't wait to get it done with.

****

Shit. He was on his way over, and she had Ivan asleep on the couch.

Steph tip-toed out into the darkened living room, and across to where Ivan lay sprawled half-on, half-off the couch. She reached out, and tentatively prodded him in the chest. His hand rose off the floor to swipe her away, and she stifled a giggle. Steph prodded again, and his eyes opened; the whites glowed in the moonlight.

"What's up?" he asked, his voice sleep groggy, and husky.

"I need you to go home." She winced. "I'm sorry."

He sat up, shirtless, and at another time he would have been more than alluring. "Why?"

"I'm expecting someone."

Ivan stood and strode to the light-switch. Steph shielded her eyes from the glare as he flicked it on. "Him?" Ivan's tone was cool, and rightly so.

Steph poured her guts out the entire evening to one of the few people she was—for the most part—certain she could still trust. Apparently he had seen the post by Cass, but had ignored it. He had said women fought all the time, and he hadn't thought much of it.

"Yeah," she affirmed.

"Steph," Ivan cooed. "Have you forgotten what you told me before we went to bed?"

She looked to the floor since she knew exactly what he meant. Steph had cried for hours as she recounted the twists and turns of her 'relationship' with Pete so far. Ivan had looked her in the eye as they set up his makeshift bed, and asked 'What have you learnt from this?' Steph had held his gaze, and replied, 'That I can't fix everyone.'

"I'm not trying to fix him, Ivan."

"Then what are you doing letting him come over at, what is it—" he said, and swiped his phone from the coffee table "—two in the morning?"

She shrugged. "I think I'm trying to fix myself."

Ivan sighed, and collected his shirt from the armchair. He tugged it on, picked up his wallet from the coffee table, and stuffed it in his back pocket with the phone. "Fine. But I'm staying awake, and I won't be far away until you text me to say you're okay. He's dangerous, Steph, You've got to remember that."

"We're all dangerous in one way or another, Ivan."

He shook his head like an adult frustrated at the confusion of a child, and started for the door. "Remember though, Steph—you aren't broken. He is."

She watched with a mixture of sadness, and anger as Ivan left. Yes, he was right; Pete was the broken one. But why was it everyone she knew was so quick to ostracise anybody who didn't fit their definition of 'normal'? Did nobody's parents teach them acceptance anymore? Steph drew a long breath, and stood to make herself a hot drink. Sleep still clung to her like a heavy wool blanket, thick with its hope she would simply return to bed, and to sleep. Not this morning though. As exhausted as her body felt, a myriad of thoughts swarmed through her consciousness. They alone would ensure she stayed awake until the first wisps of dawn light broke the horizon.

Horrible as it would be, she needed to hear what he had to say.

Was there any excuse for a child to turn out no better than a lack-lustre parent? Did the fact his mother killed his brother grant him the excuse to kill, also? He'd already said he was afraid he would become his father—perhaps it was his mother he had to be more wary of? Steph sat at the table she'd shared with him less than a day before, and mechanically sipped at the coffee. Her eyes remained glassed as she stared at the wall, and pondered the logistics of a person's psyche after such a stressful life-event. She, herself, didn't have much to compare it to. Her childhood had been mostly happy, nurturing, and free of anything as painful as the death of a family member. Hell, her grandparents hadn't passed until a few years ago, and she was more than adult enough to deal with it better by then. The only thing that had happened to her had been in her teens, and she had made peace with its effects long ago.

Her front door opened, and stirred her from her thoughts. Every hair on her body prickled with apprehension. Who else would simply let themselves in? Steph drew herself from the seat, and inched toward the entrance. She rounded the corner, and her eyes fell on him as he stood there, as jaw-dropping as the day she met him. He slung his thumbs in the pockets of his black, tapered jeans. The sleeves of a white shirt were rolled to just past the elbows, and he wore a black waistcoat over top which increased the appearance of his wide shoulders. He looked at her from under his lashes, his chin drawn down.

"Come sit down." Steph turned, and made her way to the living room before she skipped the talk altogether.

He eyed the blanket tossed over the couch with curiosity. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No." She shook her head. "Ivan fell asleep last night watching a movie with me. He's gone home now, though." She didn't miss the way Pete's jaw tensed at the white lie. "Relax. I just needed the company."

He nodded, and took a seat.

"So, what did you come here to say?" she asked, and fell into the armchair.

"Why do ya make me feel like I'm the only one with a problem?" he asked.

Steph closed her eyes briefly. "You're the one with the biggest problem."

"Being?"

"Your idea that you can kill anybody that you don't like." She rubbed her temples in slow circles. "You wouldn't actually do it though, would you? This is one of those things guys say to make themselves appear tougher than they are, right?"

His silence answered her with undeniable clarity.

"Have you ... like, already done it? Have you already killed someone?" Steph failed to keep the tremor from her voice. Had he been a ruthless murderer all along? Her palms grew sweaty, and she rubbed them along the legs of her pyjamas.

"That's not the issue between us, though, is it?"

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, and then repeated the action with the top lip. "No. It's not."

"Tell me, then. What is the one reason ya don't want to try and sort this out between us?"

"I don't want to sort it? Weren't you the one who walked out the door, and tried to scare me off with selected titbits from your past?"

He grumbled, and eased into the back of the sofa; his arms spread wide over the back. One leg crossed the other at the knee, and completed his cocky, over-confident look. "It's always been you that has a problem with things between us. You were the one who freaked out when yer 'mate' saw what we were doing in yer private bedroom. You were the one who had a go at me for 'assaulting' ya. And you were the one who flipped out at the idea a man who seemingly gets off on degradin' the women he can't handle, might get his come-uppance."

"Is that what you call it?" she scoffed. "Come-uppance?"

He shrugged, and then folded his arms. The ink on his forearms stood out in stark contrast to the white shirt he wore, and Steph found herself drawn to look at it. She smiled as it hit her—they'd never spent enough down-time together for her to have looked at his tattoos properly.

"What's the 'C' for?" She pointed to a scripted capital C surrounded by daisies.

He glanced down at the detail, and traced the lines with a finger. "Me brother's name was Colin."

Way to put your foot in it, Steph. "Did he like daisies?"

Pete shook his head, still fixed on the picture. "Daisies symbolise innocence."

The weight of a fully-laden truck smashed into her chest. Innocence. "How old was your brother when he died?" she whispered.

He swallowed thickly before he answered. "Two months from his third birthday."

The rims of her nostrils flared in time with her heartbeat. She compressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, but it was no use. The sob escaped past her pathetic attempt to cage her sorrow for him, and came out as a choked whimper. Pete looked up. A flash of annoyance was replaced with a look that said he understood.

"I'm sorry," she managed. "I know you don't want pity, but shit, Pete. That's so sad." Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't want to push the envelope. Instead, Steph drew her knees to her chest, and subtly wiped the moisture onto her pyjamas.

"Agh," he sighed. "I should know by now that you're not the type to pity anyone." He pushed forward, and sat on the edge of the couch with his hands hung limp between his knees. "It is sad. But mostly, it's fuckin' disgustin'."

Steph sniffed away the last tear, and hugged her knees tighter. The look in his eye was pure violence. Whatever place the memory of that day took him, it sure-as-shit wasn't a good one.

"I mean, Jesus, that woman—me own mother—took his life without so much as a second thought. He didn't die slowly, ya know." Pete rose to his feet. His voice also rose with each word. "She had plenty of fuckin' opportunity to stop what she did, but no, the bitch kept on goin'. She ignored the cryin', the despair on Colin's wee face. Fuck, she ignored me screamin'. She just. Kept. At it." He pounded his fist into the palm of his other hand with each accentuated word.

Steph pushed her feet to edge further into the back of the armchair. For the first time, Pete truly scared her. She still had no reservations on her safety; he never looked at her with the same hate he showed now. She was purely worried for anybody that might come across him in such a mood.

Ivan. She'd agreed to text him. Later. Now certainly wasn't the time.

"What happened after the police came?"

He threw his hands to the back of his head, and laced his fingers as he walked to the wall of her living room. Silence echoed between them as he perused her pictures; family holidays, school leaver's party, a cousins wedding. Each of the images portrayed a happy moment in a happy family, and until now she had never been ashamed to have them on display. Now, it simply seemed as though she wanted to ram it down his throat that he never had a 'normal' childhood.

Pete dropped onto the couch once more, and rested his head on the back. "They arrested her. The court case was quick, because they had all the evidence right there, ya know. She was sentenced to fifteen years—no chance of parole."

"Is that all? Fifteen years for the life of her child?"

"That's all," he repeated. "She got out five years ago. I'd managed to avoid her, but last month I got a letter sayin' she was now cleared for travel—" He pulled his lighter from the pocket of the waistcoat, and ran it between his fingers. "—and that I was listed as the contact for her intended destination."

"Will you let her visit?" Steph braced for accusations, questions of her morals. She braced for Pete to say she was insane for her belief he could.

"She'll come either way. She does what she wants." His face remained stoic. He didn't give a single thing away of how he felt to have his murderous mother get in touch. "That's why I went to see Derek. He works as our intermediary."

"Wow." Steph dropped her legs from the seat, and fidgeted her hands on the arms of the chair. "What did he say?"

"She wanted to meet up with me to explain, re-connect."

"And you got him to say no." The connection with her family's friends made sense now.

"Aye."

There was a tonne of things Steph still wanted to quiz him on, so much yet to learn. But the poor guy had shared enough for a night, and by the strained expression he wore as he twisted the toe of his boot in the carpet, he'd had enough. The lighter flew through his fingers at break-neck speed. "If you need to have a smoke, don't let me stop you."

He twitched a smile, and then pocketed the lighter. "I don't want to leave until I know we're okay."

"I think we're okay, don't you?

He shrugged. "I can't trust me instincts anymore. Everybody I've trusted, I've believed in, has turned on me. I think it stands to reason I'm a lousy judge of character."

She shook her head, and slipped off the seat to join him on the couch. He shifted slightly to give her more space as she sat with her body turned to him. "Did it ever occur to you that for once, you may have got it right?"

The eyes which met her gaze held such hope that Steph knew the tears welled yet again. This tough bastard she had been presented with was truly nothing of the sort. The Pete who sat before her was still the same man who would take her wherever, whenever. But now ... now she had managed to get in close enough to peel back the protective coat. Underneath laid a giant softy; a man whose heart belonged in the right place, but equally a man who had never been allowed to show it. All he could do was replicate the environment he grew up in, and at no fault of his own, that environment was a shit one.

"Why do I deserve ya, Cutie?"

"Why not?"

"I'm a failure, Love. I'm scum. If I stayed in Ireland, I can guarantee ya I would have been the same dirt bag me father was. That's why I left, why I came here, for a chance at being more. But what am I? Huh? I'm nothin'."

Steph brought her hands to his face, and cupped his jaw. She forced him to look into her eyes. "You are not nothing, Pete O'Malley. Nobody is nothing."

"Except me mother."

"Yeah, except maybe your mother."

They sat in silence for a moment, and Steph brought her hands to her lap. Pete reached out, and then gently wrapped his hand about hers. "So what still bothers you?"

Her heart hammered in her chest. He put her on the spot, and her nerves didn't like it. "Because I don't know enough about you. Regardless of everything we talked through, you still mentioned murder—I mean that's all it is, murder, Pete. Knowing you'd do such a thing has only shown me how little I know about you. What else am I going to risk if I commit to you? What danger is your old life going to put me in?"

"None."

"How can you be so sure?"

He leant a shoulder into the sofa, and then pulled her to his chest. "Because, me Cutie, I'm not goin' to let anybody touch a single inch of ya without me permission."

"That sounds all well, and mighty valiant in theory, but how can you be sure you'll always be there? What if your past catches up with me while I'm at work?"

"It won't."

"Why? How do you know that?" What could he know, that she didn't?

His arms gave a little squeeze, and her instinct told him it was more about reassuring himself, than her. "Because one thing I've been sure to do is clean up any loose ends over the years. I never walk away from anythin' in me life without either fixin' the source of the problem, or removin' it."

Her skin prickled with a fresh chill. He meant people—remove people—she knew it. "Pete?"

"Yeah?" he loosened his grip on her so she could sit up, and meet his curious gaze.

"How many people have you killed?"

"Only those that mattered." He held her wide eyes with his dispassionate stare. The subject was something he appeared to have made peace with a long time ago.

Question was—could she?

****

Pistol fought the resistance as he gave her a tug, and urged her to nestle back into his chest. He liked her there; the way she curled into him, and kept him warm. He couldn't ask too much of her, and the simple fact she hadn't leapt to her phone to call the cops was enough for now. Tonight was never meant to be about him. He knew that questions about him were inevitable, but when he wanted her to explain what he needed to do to make her come back to him, he never once imagined it would shift the spotlight firmly on him.

By telling her what he had, even though he purposefully omitted specifics, he had made her an accomplice to his crimes. By not reporting him, she aided and abetted. And by telling her, he had handed Steph the biggest trump card there was. Any time she thought things headed too far south, she had a 'Go straight to jail' card to use against him.

That alone would be the greatest test of their trust.

Steph wriggled further into his side, and placed a gentle hand on his stomach. He placed his hand over top of hers, and trapped her to him as she burrowed further under his arm. Her hair smelt of vanilla, and frangipani. The scent was perfection to his senses as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She mumbled incoherently, and her breaths relaxed. Fuck it all, the woman was asleep on him.

Pistol edged his legs out slowly, and kicked off his boots. He stretched out—careful not to disturb her—and toed the coffee table closer so he could rest his feet atop. Steph's arm slipped around his waist as she settled in. He gave in to the urge, and ran his fingers through the ends of her loose hair. The silkiness of her locks would never cease to amaze him—he could run his hands through them for hours.

The light of the room faded as he drew his eyes closed, and rested his cheek on Steph's head. Although they hadn't settled everything that would prove to be a roadblock, they had made progress. His girl had listened to what he had to say, and she hadn't run.

He couldn't have asked for more.

****

Steph woke first; hot and sweaty against his side. Her spine protested the awkward angle her neck had been in, and numbness skipped along her right side as she edged out from his hold. He stirred, and blinked his eyes open. His luscious mouth curled at one corner, and he reached out to smooth her sleep distressed hair.

"Morning, Love."

"Morning to you, too."

He pulled himself up in the seat, and ran a hand over his head. "You're still here?"

She screwed her mouth to the side. "Uh, yeah. I live here."

He chuckled, and the resonance through her body eased the ache in her side. "I mean, ya didn't run screamin' for the hills in the night while I slept."

"Why would I?"

He gave her one of those looks reserved for total idiots. "Ya do remember who I am, don't ya?"

Steph drew straight in the seat, and tucked her knees onto the seat. "Mm-hmm. Mr Pete O'Malley."

"Executioner Extraordinaire." He grinned.

"So you say," she deadpanned. "I've chosen to apply selective amnesia to that subject."

He shook his head with a smile. "Fuck it, Love. I can't resist changin' for ya."

She drew back to straighten in the seat, and regarded him with curiosity. "Change?"

He nodded. "You're makin' me change, Love. Just not how I hoped."

What on earth did he mean by that? "How did you hope you'd change?" She drew her eyebrows together.

He sighed, and ran his fingers over the exposed flesh on her collarbone. "Ya sure ya want to talk about this now?"

No, I want to leave it until Christmas. "Best time as any." Steph frowned.

"Love, the minute I laid eyes on ya I thought you'd be trouble. I thought to meself 'here's a challenge—let's see if I can get this one in me bed'." Steph gasped, and he held out a hand to urge her to stay quiet. "But the second I touched ya, ya infected me." He chuckled. "Here I was, worried that me fucked-up past, me issues, and me problems would be the disease that crippled a beautiful flower like ya. But it was you Steph, always you that crippled me." Pete eased forward to rest his forearm on her knee, and the most luscious smirk tugged his lips. "Baby, you've brought this sinner to his knees."

"No I haven't," she laughed. "I haven't changed you a single bit."

"Haven't ya?"

She shook her head. She couldn't have. He always did what he wanted, and he always got what he wanted. How could she have changed a thing about him? It's not as though the man was a freaking lawyer when she met him—he'd always been on the wrong side of the law. "You tell me then, if you're so sure. What have I changed about you?"

He grinned, and then sighed as he dropped his head back. The subject highly amused him—her not so much. "I came to Australia to start afresh—"

"So you've said."

"Let me finish woman. I came here to get a legit job, to be 'normal'. I wanted to shrug me father's dirty past from me shoulders, and be a real man—work honestly for me earnin's."

"Don't you?" He did have a job at Atonia after all.

His lips twisted as he suppressed a laugh. "Now I do. It wasn't always like that."

Steph gulped back a further panic-attack, and urged her body not to break out in the cold sweat which itched at her skin. "What did you do? Before Atonia?"

Pete threw his arms over his chest, and chuckled. The deep timbre of his laugh raised images of Dick Dastardly, and Muttley from her memory. He thought of something bad for certain.

"I was a contractor."

Steph sighed, and slumped into the seat. "Thank fuck for that. I thought for a moment there you were about to say—"

"That I was a criminal? What did ya think I meant by 'contractor'?"

"Labourer, drain-layer, plumber, you know the thing." She wound her hand as she went through the list.

He snickered, and shook his head. "Try debt-collector," he said. His steely cold eyes connected with hers. "Of the physical, break-yer-fingers-if-you-don't-pay kind."

"Oh." Her face numbed as the colour drained from her cheeks. "So what's changed?" Her fingers dug into the armrest to assist her efforts to stay seated, and not flop to the floor, or vomit.

"I gave it up. I started a real job, and gave it up."

"Because of me?" She prayed to whoever listened that this was the change he spoke of.

"No," he sighed. "Before ya."

"And now?" The words fell on a squeak.

"Now ya make me want to do it again."

"Why?" she whistled through her reed-like throat.

"Because the way I feel for ya, makes me want to kill every dirty fucker on this earth to keep ya safe. I'll do anythin' and everythin' for ya, no matter the consequence."

****

He watched as her face rolled through the emotions. Anger, turned to confusion, to shyness, to shock. The thought had never occurred to her that she was the one who held the power between them. It had always been Steph who called the shots. Any time she wanted to draw quits, he would have been a slave to her request.

She never realised.

"I ... I never knew. I never thought of it like that. I always thought it was me who needed to please you."

"And ya do, Love. You've been under me skin for weeks, and I can tell ya that the mark you've left on me is more permanent than any ink I'll ever choose. You, Cutie, make me want to change. Because of ya, I'll never be the man who set foot in this country again."

A cute furrow drew her expression stern. "You'll never want to be 'normal', and stay on the right side of the law? Because of me?"

"I'll never kid meself that I ever could."

Her expression remained impassive, yet focused.

"Love, some days I wish like hell ya were the one that got away. But other days I think about cuttin' meself to make sure I'm not lost in a fantasy, a mere dream, because you're so right. Ya fit like the last piece to me puzzle."

He could see the cogs work in her head, the thoughts churn. "How do I fit? I mean, you say I make you worse?" Her head dropped, her face hidden from his view.

Pistol slid his free hand under her jaw, and coaxed her to look up. He caressed her lips with his, eager to show her everything he could in one sweet, soft kiss. More than anything he wanted her to know he could do sweet and soft—when the time called for it. "And yet ya stay."

"Because I have to," she whispered.

His heart cramped. Controlling—like yer father. "Why? Why do ya have to?"

Steph's legs slowly slipped from the seat, and she moved her body toward him. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she rested her forehead to his. He inhaled the sweet smell of her; the flowers he would never be able to look at again without the thought of her pure, milky skin. "Because, wrong as everything you do may be, those reactions are you. I have to stay, because being with me, makes you embrace you."

Pistol gripped the sides of her head, and growled into her hair. "How can ya be for fuckin' real?"

"Likewise."

He drew her face upward, and damn near mauled her with the intensity of his kiss. Deep inside, he knew he'd forever be scared she'd leave. "Ya know I'd come after ya if ya left, eh?"

"Without a doubt." She chuckled.

"I'd fuckin' kill every man who touched ya, and lock ya up so ya never left me again."

"See—" she giggled softly, "—you can do romantic."

He chuckled as he stroked her hair from her shoulder. Her flesh pricked beneath his lips as he trailed kisses along her collarbone. "Only me own fucked-up kind, though."

"You know I love you, right?" she whispered.

He drew back, and studied her features. "How?"

"What do you mean how?"

"How can ya love me? After all I've done? After all I've—"

"You've shown me so damn much about myself, Pete."

"But I thought—"

"And I was wrong. Yeah, it's been hard for me to express myself so openly. I guess I've always known what I wanted; I just never had the guts to ask. But with you ..."

"Ya don't need to ask," he finished. He satisfied the urge to brush her cheek as she smiled. Here he was, sure his destruction of her was pure selfishness on his behalf, but the whole time it had been for her—what she needed. "Even so, Cutie, appreciation isn't love."

He caught the flare of her nostrils, the tear in her eye. "You want to know what tells me I love you?"

He nodded.

"Every morning when I wake up, I wish you were there beside me to make me feel beautiful, so that I had the guts to face the day head-on. When you walk away from me, I want to run after you and grab hold of you, never let you go. When you look at me, I wish I could freeze time, and experience the thrill it gives me deep in my chest, forever."

"But all we do is fight. Half the time I wonder if you'd be better off without me."

"We only fight, Pete, because we care. If we didn't care, we wouldn't have the passion to fight for what's right."

"And what's right?" he asked, afraid the answer would be something he could never deliver to her.

"Us." She smiled.

"And ya wonder why I'd kill for ya," he teased.

She scrunched her fingers in his hair, and tugged him closer. "Don't push it." Her bright smile faded like dawn light over the horizon of her face. Darkness replaced the earlier joy. A single tear roamed the soft flesh of her cheek.

"Jesus, I've done it again," he hissed.

"What?"

"Upset ya."

"No you haven't." She shook her head.

"But yer cryin'."

She giggled, broken with a snort. "Because I'm happy, you big doofus."

"Doofus," he mimicked.

"Shut-up." Steph lashed out a soft fist, and smacked him square on the shoulder.

Pistol growled, and grabbed her by both wrists. She startled, but he was determined to show this stupidly insecure woman what she meant. He'd fuckin' well have her, but he'd stun the hell out of her by how he'd do it.

He'd show her how much he loved her.

Steph squealed as Pete dug his hands under her ass, and rose from the couch with her in his arms. His eyes darkened, and her body sparked to life in response. She didn't even entertain the idea of showing indifference to his actions; instead she grinned like a lunatic as he carried her to the bedroom.

He kicked the door wide, and walked through with purpose before he tossed her onto the mattress. Steph sprung into the air on impact, and giggled like a pre-schooler in a bouncy castle. Her heart swelled as she watched his blatant determination, and her insides thrummed at the thought of what he might have planned. Would it be more rough-and-ready? Or something kinkier?

He stood at the side of the bed, hands on hips as he flicked his lip-ring back and forth. "So many things I could do to ya right now."

"Then do them," she challenged, and gave her best come-hither look.

"Nah," he shook his head. "It has to be right."

Steph waited as patiently as she could while arousal coursed through her body. "Anytime now would be nice," she teased.

"Fuck. Don't pressure me woman. I'm not used to thinkin' like this."

"Like what?" she asked, and drew to her elbows.

"Meaningful. Gentle."

"Oh." He wanted to be gentle, and he didn't know how. Steph snorted.

"Oh, fuck ya," he chastised. "Here I am, tryin' to be all gentleman-like, and show ya how fuckin' special ya are to me, and all ya do is laugh."

"Come on." She giggled. "It's hilarious watching your cute expression as you try to think."

"Ya want cute, huh?" he growled. "I'll give ya cute." He dived onto the bed, and held himself over her.

Steph drew her arms up to defend herself as she giggled. He ducked his head to her neck, and bit her. What the fuck? "You bit me!"

"Yeah," he remarked. A shit-eater grin ripped his face in two. "Ya wanted cute. Well puppies are cute, and they bite."

"Aww," Steph teased. "Coochie-coochie-coo." She tickled him under the jaw as she taunted him. The words acted as a red flag to the bull, but so what? The result was bound to be fun.

"Yer bloody askin' for it, woman."

"And you're taking an age to deliver."

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her pyjama pants, and tugged. "How, me Love, am I meant to do anythin' with this incredibly appealin' item of clothin' in me way?"

Steph scowled, and bucked him off to make room. He obliged, and she drew her pants to her ankles, then kicked them to the floor. "There."

"Better ..."

"But?"

"Yer top's still on."

Seriously? Steph shook her head, and then rose up to tug the fabric over her head. He assisted when her arm got caught given the awkward angle she was on, still being underneath him. "Better?" she asked as it also hit the floor.

"Much." His eyes fell heavy, and he made a show of looking her over. "Too fuckin' sexy to keep covered around me."

"You're stalling," she growled.

He quirked an eyebrow, and smirked. "Am I?"

Come on, surely he's going to get naked, too? Steph grabbed a handful of his shirt, and tugged. "Off."

He scooted back off the bed, and slipped the waistcoat over the shirt. Steph chewed her lip as she watched him strip, too absorbed in his playful reveal to pay any mind to her nudity. The white shirt fell apart as he freed the final button, and his colourful artwork lay in the open for her appreciation once more. So many pictures made up the various designs that she estimated it would take a week to find them all, but it was a week she'd gladly spend.

He tucked his thumbs into the band of his boxers, and paused. "All of it," she demanded.

He waggled an eyebrow, then shoved the material down his legs, and kicked it aside. "Cutie wants, Cutie gets."

"Cutie wants that," she groaned, and pointed to his already thick erection.

"Cutie gets," he growled, and launched himself on the bed once more.

Steph squealed as he hooked a hand under her back, and roughly tossed her further up the bed. She threw her arms around his neck, and drew him in for a fast, and frantic kiss. The action set the pace for all that would follow.

His palms kneaded her breasts as he kissed a fast trail down her stomach to her pelvis, where he sucked the flesh of her mound into his mouth, and swirled his tongue over top. Steph groaned, and fisted her hands in his hair. She held him in place as he licked her in several long, hard sweeps.

"Fuckin' delicious," he grunted, and then thrust two fingers in.

"Shit," Steph wailed. The sudden intrusion damn near had her convulse on the spot. "Fuck, Pete."

"I love it how ya don't call me Pistol," he muttered between licks of her folds.

"Why," Steph breathed.

"It reminds me how close ya are to me heart."

Steph bit down on her bottom lip as Pete increased the pace with his fingers. That, combined with his words threw her toward a freefall which had no foreseeable end. "Get in me," she demanded.

"Cutie gets," he reiterated as he drew himself over her.

She eyed his artwork, and ran her hands over his chest, then down his arms. Her jaw fell slack, and a moan pulled her chest tight as Pete rammed home. She growled at the fullness of him, and arched her back to tip her pelvis around him.

"Every time," he murmured close to her ear.

"Huh?" Steph managed between cries of bliss.

He drew her earlobe between his teeth, and bit down gently. "Every time I have ya, it's as tight as the first."

Oh. Was that a good thing?

"It's like yer cunt wants to wrap its fist about me, and remind me who's in charge."

Steph smiled, and clenched her muscles.

"Jesus," Pete moaned. "Keep it tight, and you'll have me comin' in seconds."

"Wait." Steph placed a firm palm against his chest, and he stilled. "Shift."

He drew back, and she cringed momentarily at the loss of connection. He watched her flip to her hands and knees, and edge back into where he sat back on his heels.

"Ya want it like that, huh?"

She glanced over her shoulder at the glorious sight of him; flexed, aroused, and lust-filled. "Hard."

He threw a flat palm out, and belted her across the ass-cheek. "Fuck, you're perfect."

Steph hissed at the burn of the slap, but followed with a groan as the pain heightened the feel of him re-enter. Pete thrust his hips with a grunt each time. Steph raised up, and gripped the solid headboard to anchor herself against his onslaught. She moaned at the way her body jolted with his force.

It felt incredible.

Subjects that had no business in her head at such a time littered her thoughts. She reminisced how Dave would never have been as adventurous as Pete. She also marvelled at how alive Pete made her feel. How could she have missed out on this all this time? Then again, maybe it was fate that she wasted so much time with Dave, otherwise maybe she would have never met Pete? Another slap to her backside brought her firmly back to the now, and she realised how tight her core was wound.

"Fuckin' perfect," Pete muttered.

The tension let go, and her entire body lost any semblance of control as every muscle fell victim to the high she soared on.

With a guttural roar, Pete came. He still twitched within her as he collapsed onto her back. "Jesus, Love. Ya sure ya need to go to work today?"

"Work!" Steph wriggled free of Pete's embrace, and flew into the en suite.

"Hey," he called after her. "What the fuck?"

"No time," she hollered as she wrenched the taps on in the shower. "I need to get ready."

The door opened behind her, and Pete stood in full naked glory, a silly smile on his face. "Did I leave yer head that scrambled?"

"What?" she asked wide-eyed as she stepped into the shower.

"It's only six-thirty."

Steph slouched under the water, and sighed. "Thank Christ. I thought I was done for."

The steam dissipated as Pete opened the door to join her. "Of course ya are," he said with a wicked grin. "What do ya expect when ya tear away from me like that?"

Despite the warm water that encased her, Steph shuddered.

Oh, hell.

"Ya better find yerself somethin' to hold on to, Love."

Steph checked the time on the microwave as she entered the kitchen. "I'm damn lucky I didn't miss the morning in the office. I'm not sure how that would have gone down."

"Fine, I imagine," Pete assured. He leant a hip into the counter and watched as she made coffee.

"What did you say yesterday?"

"That we had somethin' to celebrate."

Steph flicked an eyebrow up. "Did we?"

"We're talkin' again, aren't we?" He shrugged.

Steph crossed to where he stood as the jug boiled. "We are." Her palms lay flat on his chest as she pushed to her toes to give him a quick peck on the lips. She moved back to finish the coffee's, and posed the question. "What about your mother?"

"What about her?"

"When does she arrive?"

He sighed, and drew his arms across his chest. "Today." The spite in his word left no illusions on his distaste at the idea. He took the coffee she offered.

"Do you want me with you?"

Pete shook his head so hard the coffee sloshed over the lip of the mug. He cursed, and changed hands so he could wipe the hot liquid from his arm. "No, Love. I'd rather ya never met her."

"Fair enough." Steph sipped at her cup, lost on where to take the conversation next. She couldn't blame him for the need to shield her from his mother. As best she knew, she'd do the same if that was the kind of thing her mother had done. "You're incredibly brave for seeing her, anyway."

"I'm not gonna seek her out—she can fuckin' well come to me." He sipped at his brew as he scowled. "Ya want a lift to work?"

"That'd be great." Steph smiled. He'd made the choice to change the conversation, and she was more than okay to run with it. The topic of his mother was an awkward one, and the kind of subject you can't find your way out of once you start. "I'll go finish getting ready." He hummed into his mug, his eyes hooded, and she shook her head. "No coming in my room unless I say so, otherwise we'll get nowhere today."

His hand shot out and slapped her on the ass as she passed by. Steph squeaked in surprise, and giggled the rest of the way to her room. She couldn't deny the sticky subject of his opinion on murder would remain a chink in his armour, but for now it was a subject she could happily turn a blind eye to.

As long as he never did it again, what did she have to worry about anyway?

****

Pistol finished the coffee, hot or not, and dropped the mug into the sink. He wandered about Steph's place, and checked out the various pictures on the walls. A stab of unfairness goaded him each time he looked over yet another happy scene, but soon subsided with the sheer curiosity he found looking at pictures of Steph in her youth—before she changed to the woman he knew her as. In every photo, an attractive young girl stared back. Her sandy locks seemed to have natural sun-kissed high-lights, and the warm colour of her skin said she spent a lot of time outdoors. Then overnight, the woman in the photos changed into a colourful butterfly. The change so sudden that the rest of her family members didn't look a day older, yet Steph—she changed monumentally.

What had happened to catalyst the change?

Pistol failed to shake the notion there was more to his princess than she let on, but he also knew how paranoid he could be. He pulled the slider open, and stepped into the back yard. He shut the door behind him, and drew a deep lungful of fresh air, then drew his smokes from his pocket. The packet faired reasonably well given he rested on it all night. He sparked a stick, and stood with his eyes closed as he worked the ember down to his finger, and thumb. The morning played out in his mind. First he would drop Steph off, then duck home for a shower, and change of clothes.

Then the real fun began. Then he hunted out his mother. Sure, he'd told Steph he wouldn't. But he wanted the shit dealt with today—not tomorrow, or next week.

Today.

He still hadn't decided how the conversation would go down between him and his mother, but one thing was for sure. He wanted that miserable bitch to feel the same pain he did. He wanted her to lament, and mourn the loss of her child or so help him; he would give her something equally as hurtful to think about. Colin's wee face flashed in his memory, and he fisted his hands into the lapels of his waistcoat.

Pistol spun for the house, and stalled as his eyes fell on where Steph stood on the other side of the glass. She hadn't noticed him; her back turned as she sorted out her lunch from the fridge. He watched the way her body moved beneath the day dress she wore, and swallowed away the lump of desire which wedged itself in his throat. She's got to get to work. Let the woman keep her job.

The slider rattled in its tracks as he re-entered the house, and she looked over with a warm grin. "Better?"

"Marginally," he replied.

She shook her head, and stuffed the Tupperware container of salad into her over-sized handbag. "I don't know how you do it; smoke. I mean, I know I used to, but the taste—ugh. I can't stand it anymore."

His ego bruised at the knowledge there was a part of who he was she couldn't stomach. He resolved on the spot to kick the habit, starting tomorrow. Today, he may need the distraction for his hands. Her heels clopped on the tiles as she darted about the house, and plucked random items to add to her bag. Why was it that women could never keep their stuff in one place? All tidy, and easy to find?

She stopped before him, a hand flat on his chest. "How do you manage to look so delicious in the same clothes you slept in?"

Lurid thoughts of her naked, and spread out over him left a smile on his lips. "How is it I can't stop thinkin' about bein' inside of ya?"

Her cheeks flushed, and she stepped for the door. "Let's hit the road before the rest of the traffic, huh?" She avoided the situation, but what of it? If she didn't take control, he'd have her on her back, with the dress in another room entirely.

"Whatever ya like, Cutie."

****

Steph opened the door to the rod before he had brought the vehicle to a full stop. Pistol caught her hand as she pushed from the vehicle, and she planted back into the seat, startled. "What?"

His fingers wrapped around her neck, and her balance tumbled into his body with the remainder of his self-control. Steph met his onslaught with a kiss of equal ferocity. She nipped his piercing between her teeth, and he groaned; his fingers tightened on her neck.

"What are you going to do for the day?" she asked.

He let his eyes fall over her alluring sight as she sat in the passenger seat of his rat-rod. Her aqua-green hair, and beautiful ink were classily set-off by the plain white day dress. His eyes trailed down her long legs to the ridiculously high heels she capped her best assets with. Steph's legs were lick-able on any given day, but when she insisted on wearing those damn man-killers, he battled to keep his hands off her. "Hadn't decided," he answered.

"Do you think she'll find you?"

His thoughts of how easily he could take Steph in his car flew out the open window. "More than likely."

"If you need support ..."

"No. You've got yer work to worry about. I'll be fine." He tapped a finger on the shifter, and wished it didn't physically separate them.

"What do you think you'll say?" she asked, albeit a little quieter.

He could only guess how unapproachable his scowl made him appear. "I have no idea."

She hummed her acceptance of his answer, and then drew her gaze to her hands which fidgeted in her lap.

"What's the matter, Love?"

"Nothing."

"Liar." He reached across the car, and drew her face to his. She eased her lips apart as he kissed her, and sighed against his mouth.

"I don't want to cause an argument," she explained when she pulled away.

He drew back, and brought her hand to his lips. "Cutie, if ya need to set yer mind at ease, tell me what's on yer mind. I don't want us goin' forward with anythin' in the way."

She huffed with a little shake of her head. Her distress was clear, and his chest grew heavy with dread. What on earth was so important she was so afraid to ask? "Do you regret sparing your mother's life?" Oh, that.

He nodded. His black heart grew colder, and more ruthless—if that was possible. "Every day." Now he simply hated the bitch more for upsetting Cutie so much when Steph hadn't even met the cow.

"Why did you let her live?"

Pistol shrugged. "I have no idea."

Steph drew his hand to her chest, and pressed against where her heart pounded a tempo beneath her ribcage. "We can face her together, you know."

He pulled free, and slumped into the door. "I don't want ya to see her—ever."

"Why?"

"What's the point?"

Her frown grew. "She's your mother. That's why."

"She won't stick around for long." He tapped an impatient rhythm on the dashboard.

"How can you be so sure?" Steph asked. "You said she does what she wants, so how do you know she's going to leave after making this much effort to get here?" Her hand crept to his leg, and squeezed before it settled.

He drew his eyes closed, and committed the earlier sight of Steph to memory. For all he knew it would be the last time he'd see her. Despite all her words of encouragement, support, and commitment—he knew she'd go. They all did. Everyone he ever loved, left.

"Remember what I said, Love—if I can't fix the source of a problem, I remove it."

The final remnants of his hope that he could ever be enough for her died as her hand withdrew, and the door opened. He sat in the hell that was her silence, and winced as the door shut without a word.

Pistol heaved a sigh, and ran his tongue across his teeth. A single tear which balanced the rim of his eye signified the worst.

She had finally broken him.

No matter how many times I write my thanks at the end of a novel, I don't think I will ever be able to express enough gratitude for my husband. Thank you babe for always being there to tell me you're proud of me, and that I can be as successful with my writing as I choose to be. I promise that the hours you spend alone at night while I hammer away at my keyboard will be worth it.

To my beautiful boys. Although you're too young to even read, thank you for the days near a deadline where Mummy isn't available for play-time. Thank you for giving me space, and riding your bikes when I need a moment to run through edits, format, or market on the 'pootah'.

Love you all, my family, to the moon and back ... and then some.

But equally as important, thank you to you, the reader, for taking a chance on me. I still struggle to fully comprehend that people want to read my stories, and that they truly enjoy them, and want more. Without you showing your support by purchasing, and reviewing, I would have let my self-doubt take over long ago, and Steph and Pistol's story would never have been told.

I love hearing from fans, and sharing your experiences, so please feel free to contact me via Facebook, or my email maxhenryauthor@outlook.com.

Until next time ...

Originally born and bred in Canterbury, New Zealand, Max now resides with her family in beautiful and sunny Queensland, Australia.

Life with two young children can be hectic at times, and although she may not write as often as she would like, Max wouldn't change a thing.

In her down time, Max can be found at her local gym, brain-storming through a session with the weights. Or, she may be out bumping, and jostling her way along a dirt track with the family in hubby's 4WD.

PISTOL is Max's first Erotic-Contemporary Romance, but she also has two Paranormal Romance titles available through all major online selllers.

Battle to Become, and Methods for Mayhem are the first two titles in a series that follows a group of otherwise normal adults through the trials they face as paranormal creatures living in a 'normal' human world.

