He wets his lips then rubs them together. “Drawing.”
“Drawing? Drawing what?”
“Whatever my current project happens to be.”
I purse my lips to the side. “Are we talking crayons, markers, chalk?”
“Pencil.”
“Really? Can I see?”
He looks at me with an unexpected frown on his face before diverting his eyes to his lap “No.”
I laugh then try to choke it back when I see his lips pull into a firm line. “Are you serious? You’re not going to let me see them?”
Trick shakes his head with absolution.
“But I thought we were friends.”
“We are, but let’s be honest, if this were a date would you have sex with me tonight?”
If you weren’t gay? Yes! Yeah, that’s so wrong of me.
“No. What’s your point?”
“My point is that some things are personal and require a certain amount of trust.”
I fidget with the frayed hem of my jeans. “So you don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust women.”
Rubbing my hands over my face, I sigh. “I guess I had that one coming. Do you want to talk about it?”
He looks up with tight brows. “Talk about why I don’t trust women?”
I nod.
“No, I don’t.”
My phone rings. We both look at my handbag. “Excuse me.” I dig through everything and find it buried at the bottom. Trick watches with unnerving intensity as I say a few okays and “be right there.”
“Emergency?” he asks as I drop my phone in my purse.
“Yes, a shooting with multiple victims. Sorry, I have to go. Besides, you won’t show me your artwork so we might as well call it a night.” I love the way he tips his chin to hide his grin. He stands and I wave him off. “I can grab a cab.”
“No, I’ll get you there faster.”
I raise an untrusting brow. “I think safer is better than faster.”
“Come,” he yells over his shoulder as I do the one-legged hop, trying to catch up while tugging on my boots.
*
Hair twist. Helmet. Jacket. Ass grab. Yes!
Thankfully no one can see the Cheshire cat grin on my face as Trick weaves through traffic to the hospital. The past forty-eight hours have been surreal. After witnessing so many motorcycle injuries and fatalities, I swore I’d never get on the back of one, yet here I am—enjoying every tummy-twisting minute. The idea of having a true friend had fallen off my vision board; now it’s back on, front and center. And capturing the attention of a guy like Trick … well, there are no words.
Wealth doesn’t always equate to popularity. Slipping out of a sleek limo says wealthy. I’ve done that more times than I care to remember since my father married Rachel. Easing my leg over the back of a motorcycle behind a guy that looks like trouble says popular. At twenty-seven, is it too late to be popular?
I hand Trick my helmet and shrug off his jacket. “Thanks for dinner.” I hug myself, rubbing my arms. It’s the middle of summer. Why am I either freezing or burning up in his presence?
He nods, slipping his jacket on.
“We should hang out again.” In my head it’s a question; in my voice it’s a suggestion.
Another nod. “Come by sometime.”
“I will.” I start to walk away then turn. “Just so you know, I’m not a virgin. So sex on our second date is a good possibility. But since I’m missing the correct anatomy, I’ll settle for a private viewing of your sketches.” If he weren’t gay, I’d still be babbling like the first day we met. But he’s unobtainable, so I have nothing to lose by being myself with him. As much as being with Trick feels like a slow drip of adrenaline, he’s offered me something I need so much more than physical gratification—friendship.
He puts his bike into gear as my eyes focus on his lips. I wait for it … I think a little part of me even prays for it … there it is, the slight twitch of his lips. I read it that he’s pleased, which is perfect because so am I.
*
The switch flips. I’d love to chomp my gum and twirl my hair, contemplating the endless possibilities of my relationship with Trick, but I can’t. Wasting not another second, I hustle to the ER, get changed, and do what I do best—piece together puzzles.
In spite of the nonstop, grueling hours of the clock ticking one heartbeat at a time, I never question why I’m here doing this. Most days I feel like this is my sole purpose in life—giving more than I take. Even with the nasty smells, which are actually my least favorite part of the job, I still love being here.
“You off?”
I turn to Steven zoned into his cell phone screen. “Just about,” I reply, signing my last chart and yawning.
“Breakfast?”
“No way. Bed.” I yawn again.
He slips his phone back in his pocket and smirks. “I like the sound of that.” He wiggles his brows.