Page 43 of Roma King
Garrett grunts in agreement. He doesn’t sit down again. Instead he stares at the door, fiercely watching it like he’s waiting for it to swing open again and he’s preparing himself for war.
He’s always been protective, but this is something else altogether. He really must not like the guy. Must really not trust him. And when Garrett doesn’t like someone, there’s usually a very good reason.
Our conversation resumes, thankfully for Andrew, onto a subject other than female anatomy and periods, but I can’t shake the sound of Pasha’s voice in my head. The sexuality that dripped from his every word as he told Andrew how women loved to fuck at a certain time of the month. And the promise I heard in the rise and fall of his subtly lilting accent, right before he walked out of Hitchen’s.“I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Why would I want to call him? And even if, for some strange reason, I did want to call him, how on earth could I? I don’t have his number. Without going back to the fair, I have no way of obtaining it, either. Not that Iwantto obtain it, but still…
I’m as silent as Garrett for the next thirty minutes, my mind flitting back and forth, trying to decide if I should run over to Sarah’s apartment to tell her what just happened, or if I should simply go home, get out of my work clothes, have a shower, climb into bed and forget the fact that Pasha Rivin even exists.
The boys walk me home not long after. It’s fairly early by our Tuesday night standards, but no one seems to be in very high spirits following the Pasha incident. As I climb the stairs after saying goodnight to everyone, a wad of mail clasped in one hand and my keys in the other, I realize something.
I was wrong before.
There isonething I know about Sarah’s darkly handsome nephew.
Now, I know his name.
16
ZARA
GARDEN LEAVE
The payphone out on the street hasn’t rung once since the mysterious call that directed me to Rochester Park, and yet I still struggle to fall asleep. When I do pass out, I sink deep into unconsciousness, losing myself to the most sexually charged dreams I’ve ever experienced. His hands are everywhere. His mouth is everywhere. I’m charged and breathless as he enters me, and my throat is raw from screaming his name. I cling to him, holding him to me, tasting his sweat, my head swimming as he thrusts himself into me, growling into my ear.
I wake to the sound of my cell phone ringing on my nightstand, but it’s the rich, deep, rough-edged voice in my ear that has my heart hammering like a piston beneath my ribcage.
“Come for me, Firefly. Fucking come.”
I’m frozen in place, tangled in my bed sheets, my body drenched with my own sweat, and a sinking feeling pulls at my insides. No. No way. The name.Thatname? I’ve never remembered hearing that name in my dreams before. But then again, I haven’t rememberedanydetails from my dreams before now. Is there a chance my dream guy has called me that before? Sure, of course there is. But it doesn’t mean anything. How can it? The guy in my dreams isn’t real. It’s not as if I’ve been dreaming about Pasha all these years, and I have willed him into existence. If I was going to will the literal man of my dreams into being, I would make him kind, and considerate, and gentle, and…
Okay, okay.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
Maybe I’m just like most women, and there’s something about a bad boy that has me going weak at the knees. But Pasha Rivin isn’t just a bad boy. There’s something dangerous about him. Something that sends a thrill through me every time I even think the man’s name, but also makes me want to run.
Shit! My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I groan as I finally pick it up and see who’s trying to get hold of me. Accepting the call, I slump back down into my pillows, holding the phone to my ear. “Morning, Roger. I didn’t leave my log sheet at my desk, did I? I know I filled it out, I swear.” I mustn’t have filed my shift paperwork properly last night before I headed home—it’s the only reason I can think of that would have my shift manager calling me so early in the morning.
“No, no,” Roger mutters on the other end of the line. “Your paperwork was perfect. Nothing to worry about there.” He sounds uncomfortable. Awkward. I crack my eyes open, a fraction more alert than I was a moment ago.
“Is something wrong? Do you need me to come in early?”
“No, no. Everything’s fine here. I’m just calling because, well…this is actually quite tricky to say. How should I put this? Um. We’ve had a complaint. About you. It’s…it’s actually quite a serious complaint, and…well, Larissa’s told me to call you and let you know that—”
“What?” I sit bolt upright. “Wait, wait, wait. Hold up. A complaint? What kind of complaint?”
Roger hums. I can imagine the sweat that’s beading on his brow right now. He begins to perspire the moment he has to have a difficult conversation with anybody. Christ, he looked like he’d just run a marathon when he had to tell Mitch in HR that he couldn’t use his personal bathroom anymore, because his shits were too big and kept blocking the damn thing.
Roger’s voice is riddled with anxiety as he trips over his words. “The complaint is…is of a…asensitivenature. You’ve been accused of workplace harassment.”
“WHAT?” I roar the word, my lingering exhaustion gone in a puff of smoke. “Who? Who thefuck…?”
“I think it might be best if we let the victim’s identity remain anonymous at the moment, but we’ll be able to pass the information on to your attorney—”
“Victim?” No, no, no. What the hell is happening right now? Someone at work said Iharassedthem? And now there are words like victim being thrown around? I try to speak, to say something calm and logical, but I’m at a complete loss for words. “I’m supposed to get a fuckinglawyer?”
Roger wheezes down the line. He’s probably rummaging in the top drawer of his desk for his inhaler. “Larissa thinks it might be best if—”
