Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1) (3 page)

Chapter Three

The temperature outside had dropped during the hours the art opening had droned on. Hunter had stepped out of The Haven while the crowd was still thick, but couldn’t bring himself to walk home. The girl, Greer, the image of her, the real one, the woman he had met in the flesh and not the replica of her he had stared at online for weeks and weeks until this chance encounter, was one he couldn’t shake from his mind. 

She was gorgeous.

But not by any standard that could be measured and agreed upon across the board. Admittedly, this fact was probably why he felt drawn to her.

A brutal gust of wind swept down the avenue, stinging the back of his neck where his skullcap and jacket collar failed to meet, and causing him to round his shoulders not that it preserved what little warmth he felt.

It wasn’t lost on him that he was standing in the shadows and waiting for another glimpse of her like a fucking psychopath, but he was curious about where she might go next. Logic prevailed that she was probably normal and focused and responsible and most likely going to head home when she finally stepped out of Haven, but she had awoken in him a primal urge he knew he wouldn’t be able to control, the part of him that drove his own art.

Hunter had to know the secrets she might be keeping, the ones that only came out at night.

But seriously, he wasn’t a stalker, he told himself, but had to wonder if having the thought in the first place was evidence he might be. It didn’t bode well, so he shook the notion from his mind and let the memory of Greer's shape wash over him.

In a word, she was slinky.

She had the kind of lean figure that clothes seemed to drip off of, even thoroughly layered garments, bundled and wrapped tight to ward off the dead of autumn, its rigid and deceiving temperatures. Her hair was light brown and spilled over her shoulders in a way that made it easy to envision those shoulders bare, and he nearly let himself go there, but the front door of the gallery banged open. Excited, he locked his eyes on it, eager to watch her tumble out with her girlfriends, but he only saw a tipsy guy in a bow-tie stumbling onto the sidewalk with two friends, who had made even worse fashion mistakes - one in a seersucker suit and his less fortunate friend wearing a fedora.

Hunter blew on his numbing fingers and wondered if she had skirted out the back.

He had not pegged her as the type to carry a gun, and he was creative, he had pegged her as a lot of things - soft, bossy in bed, and all the more alluring because of it. He’d gone so far as to imagine her noises, the particular brand of moan she’d let out, enjoying all the things he’d do to her, the degree to which she might arch her back or angle her chin in response to his thrusting. But never had he thought her the sort to venture out and buy a weapon hot off the street. It worried him, yet in the same breath he felt aroused.

The fashion-don’ts wandered up the street, vanishing into the fog that was rolling in off the East River, and Hunter almost called his invested time a lost cause, but then the gallery door sprang open again, and the subject of his interest stepped onto the street like a gazelle breaking out into a clearing. Following Greer was a cackling Asian woman, whose name was on the tip of his tongue but not nagging enough to wrack his brain for, and a black woman, Tasha Buckley, who he already knew he would not want to mess with.

Hunter kept to the shadows, watching Greer smile through a parting exchange with her friends, who seemed to be coaxing her to come along, indicating a bar across the street. But she declined, glancing over her shoulder in the direction Hunter figured she planned on heading towards.

Finally, her girlfriends gave up on her and started off towards the bar. Hanging back and keeping her eye on them, Greer fished around inside her hobo bag and when she pulled her hand out, he half expected to see the gun, but it was only her cell phone.

She took off along Wythe, walking briskly, her cell in hand. Before she could slip away, jaywalking diagonally across the avenue and tucking down N. 5th, he quickly followed, keeping his gaze trained on the sway in her step, her hips being the central focus of his attention.

When he had offered her scarf back, he hadn’t placed who she was. He only sensed his own magnetic interest in her. In the gallery, talking to other artists and also overhearing a select few who were gearing up to show their pieces in The Phoenix Juried Art Competition, had been when he connected her name with her face. He had seen her image online a few times, but hadn’t scrutinized it like he had the articles explaining her quick rise onto the radar of several art galleries. At the time, he had developed a healthy resentment for the name Greer Langley, if keeping a critical eye on the competition was healthy. Now, he couldn’t believe the coolly sarcastic and beautiful woman he had spoken with behind The Haven was the one woman whose burgeoning career he was aiming to destroy.

Hunter followed her, but hung back after she turned right onto Bedford Avenue where pedestrians thickened along the sidewalk due to the countless bars and restaurants that were open and would remain so until the wee hours of the morning.

Weaving through and keeping at a distance to ensure she wouldn’t catch him if she happened to glance over her shoulder, he tapped a clove from his pack of cigarettes and paused only to light it.

He started off again, as soon as he had it lit, but she was nowhere. His heart punched hard in his chest at his carelessness. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off her. As he quickened his pace, trying and failing not to clip shoulders with any passersby, he realized she must have skirted down a side street.

Hunting for the particular shade of her scarf, which he figured would set her apart from the other women hustling up and down the avenue, he slowed up at each cross street and took a moment to scan down it as far as he could see, all the while kicking himself for letting her go and also the fact that he was indulging such an unproductive urge.

But seriously, he wasn't a psychopath.

He’d certainly never done this before. And he had to wonder the source of his intrigue. Was it based on the Greer he had just met in person, or the Greer he had previously read about, the one he felt was threatening his standing in the art community? Or was it the reality in-between; the possibility that a hot and personable woman could so easily and inadvertently bump him down the food chain he had worked tirelessly and for so many years to climb?

What the hell was she doing with a gun?

Finally, he spotted her about half a block up Lorimer heading east. The wind on Bedford had been mild, but starting down Lorimer he was confronted with a chilling gust that felt like a wall of ice. Despite this, he pressed on and soon Greer paused in front of a wrought-iron gate, which she opened, passing through and latching it closed behind her, before she padded up the stone stoop of an apartment building.

If she had been fast with the gate, she was even faster with her key, scraping it into the lock and getting inside without so much as glimpsing over her shoulder.

He paced up the block and checked the building number as soon as it came into view. The tin numbers were nailed in crooked and read: 467.

Just as he had thought.

It was a long eight blocks before he got to his apartment on Humboldt Street and it was so cold out that when he reached it, the very sight of the converted warehouse he’d come to call home warmed him.

After a minute of wrestling with the dead bolt, which never seemed to cooperate, he spilled into the quiet entryway, slapped the heavy steel door shut behind him, and wasted no time jogging up the two flights of stairs that separated the ground level from his lofty studio apartment.

But as he reached the landing and turned, hooking around to his door, he knew the night wouldn’t be over so easily.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, catching his breath and hoping she would go away.

Ashley Moore was the girl every guy wished would pick up her phone after 2:00 am, and more often than not, she did, especially when Hunter was calling. Unfortunately for him, it had been a slow dawning realization that this was not a one-way street. Ashley had been starting to assert as much by pulling seemingly innocent stunts like this one, showing up out of the blue, unannounced and smirking playfully because of it.

He wasn’t in the mood.

“I brought beer,” she said, indicating the weighted plastic bag in her hand, which hung in the shape of a six-pack.

She let out a heaving sigh meant to draw his gaze to her chest, and though the tactic had worked in the past and though he flicked his eyes downward, getting a sense of the pink, low-cut tank that fit her with vacuum packed exactness where her fluffy faux-fur coat wasn’t covering her, there was nothing particularly appealing about Ashley at this very moment.

“I thought we talked about this,” he said, hinting at the rejection he had locked and loaded, but was hoping he wouldn’t have to pull the trigger and state outright.

“That we’re keeping it casual,” she supplied before using an easy air to add, “we talked about it. What’s more casual than a few midnight beers? I don’t have to stay over, Hunter. If you’ve noticed, I’m pretty efficient getting out of your hair... after...”

She set the bag of beer down and neared him, her dainty hands and long, manicured fingernails, grazing his stomach where his jacket met with the waistline of his jeans. The grin spreading across her face seemed to say it all, and Hunter couldn’t blame her for her bold effort. He had brought this on, encouraged her for months, but at the end of the day, he simply wasn’t the guy she wanted. If Ashley hoped to transform something fun and infrequent into something real, it just wasn’t going to happen.

He settled his gaze on her glossy mouth, as she pouted, asking, “One beer?”

“I’m a pit stop, not a destination. I thought we were clear on that.”

“A quick drink isn’t a destination.”

“A quick drink isn’t what you came here for.”

She smirked and when she said, “True,” her voice was a breathy whisper. Ashley hooked her fingers under the waistband of his jeans, asking, “When should I come by?”

He groaned, though under his breath, dreading a formal break-up, as inevitable as it was, which would invite a drawn out closure talk he didn't have the energy for, but she completely misread the groan, leaning in, rising to her tiptoes, hoping to find his mouth with hers.

“I don’t have any time for the next two weeks,” he blurted out before she could kiss him.

Taken aback, her expression went slack, as she stared at him.

“I told you about the Phoenix,” he pointed out. “I have a piece and it's nowhere near done.”

“I know about the Phoenix,” she said in a whiny tone that made her sound half her age.

Sighing with relief, he said, “Thanks,” which was enough of a prompt that she backed away and took hold of the plastic bag.

As she passed by him, rounding towards the stairs, she said, “Sex is good for creativity, you know,” and then padded down, her high heel boots tapping each stair as she went.

Hunter couldn’t agree more, but Ashley wasn’t at all who he wanted in terms of sex.

Keying in and flipping on the lights, he entered his apartment. True to the nature of any converted warehouse, the studio apartment was broad and industrial with a sixteen-foot ceiling and windows so high and rusted there was little point in trying to open them.

As he walked through the space towards his kitchen, which was little more than a patch of tiles in front of an old refrigerator, he rounded various sculptures he had carved over the years, pieces he loved but no one would buy, the evidence of his talent and failure all wrapped up in the sinewy clay figures of women who were also beasts.

If Greer portrayed lovers who would never meet, Hunter sculpted grotesque enchantresses. They each used their art to depict their experiences, and he wondered, as he plucked a bottle of IPA from a half empty six-pack in his fridge having gotten the craving thanks to Ashley, if his life and Greer's would soon impose a new theme on their artwork.

Would his subjects evolve if he could somehow spend the night with her?

Theoretically, it was possible, but deep down he knew he wouldn’t get the chance.

Life could be such a bitch.

Staring at the dewy label of his Stone IPA, he was lifted from contemplating the finer points of how the age old adage, what goes around comes around, was affecting him personally, when his cell began vibrating in his back pocket.

As soon as he read the name and number flashing across the LCD screen, he swiped hard, answering the call, and the first phrase out of his mouth wasn't a friendly greeting, but an angry one, each word spat out through clenched teeth.

“What the fuck happened? Now she has a gun.”

Chapter Four

The late morning sun was streaming through the bay windows at the back of her studio and on any other day the warmth of it might have calmed her, but Greer’s heart was punching up her throat at how late her model was.

She was ready to fucking kill Jennifer for this.

If it wasn’t bad enough that Jennifer had found the guy through a friend of a friend of an artist of another artist at the tangled end of such a long game of telephone that Jennifer couldn’t even tell Greer the name of the guy or give her his cell number, her best friend in the world also wasn’t answering her phone. And Greer had called her five times and texted twice as much to get a read on just what in the hell was going on.

She tried to smooth out her frazzled emotions. Pacing wasn’t helping, but at least it helped burn off some of her pent up agitation.

Aiming to stay productive, she neared the couch where her model would be lying and fluffed the pillows, not that it made an ounce of difference.

Her clay was under plastic to retain its moisture, but figuring she would need it readily available as soon as her tardy model showed his sorry face she pulled the plastic off and wet her hands in a bowl of water that was resting at the foot of her sculpture.

The clay lump, life-size though it was, would need a total overhaul if she expected to place in the top three at the Phoenix. With wet hands, she stroked her palms over every last inch of it and tried not to cringe at its lumpy muscles and lack of spirit.

Suddenly she noticed her studio was too quiet and quite frankly, she was too sober. For past sculptures, she had spent long hours studying Brandon, who was undoubtedly the love of her life. There was nothing awkward about his nude repose on her couch. But knowing she would soon be staring at a complete stranger, who would be naked as sin if he ever showed up, she figured she could use a stiff drink to steady her nerves.

She stalked out of her studio, passing through the archway where green, stenciled ivy lay woven along the molding - the color of which had reminded her of Hunter’s eyes, or vice versa as the case might have been.

Hunter.

The electric thrill of meeting his gaze had been a stark echo of how she used to feel around Brandon, and for this reason she knew the sexy stranger who had happened into her evening two nights ago was dangerous. Not that she would ever see him again. Greer reasoned there was no real danger other than letting herself get sucked into ideas that would never come to fruition in real life. And she had certainly indulged in them, lying awake at night, letting her mind wander, lingering in bed in the morning, inviting in the memory of him as if it were a motivator to start her day.

Beyond the archway, she scanned the area - her neatly made bed, her desk which she never used except to pay bills once a month, the kitchen where empty wine bottles far outnumbered full ones.

In the kitchen she perused her options - red wine, white in the fridge, whiskey in the cabinet, which called to mind that there was no way in hell she’d dive into hard liquor at 11:45 am, and next to it rested vodka and several mixers.

White wine would do, so she poured a generous glass, fought the urge to leave Jennifer another panicked voice mail message, and rounded into the bedroom where her laptop sat on the bed. Her audio system was wirelessly connected to i-Tunes, so she pulled up a playlist without giving much consideration to the actual songs and started the first track.

By the time she crossed back through her studio to her work-in-progress sculpture, she had drank exactly half the wine out of her glass and realized the song drifting lazily through the speakers in each corner of the room was a little steamy all things considered, but just as she was about to double back and pick out a more sensible song list, the buzzer blared, announcing that her model had finally arrived.

Though she startled at the sound, she wasted no time getting to the intercom box, pressing the Talk button, and asking, “Are you the model?”

The second she pushed the Listen button, a guy’s voice came through competing with the static of the intercom.

“Yeah, can I-”

Killing the call, she pressed the Door button, allowing him in, and pulled the door open then waited impatiently to hear him padding up the stairs. So eager was Greer to get started on the hour with her model that would cost her hundreds, she didn’t think twice about the white wine in her hand or her unusual choice of dress, which barely indicated she had changed out of her bed clothes this morning - a thin, white tank, no bra, a lacy gray cardigan draping open in front, and black yoga pants with thick woolen socks.

When she saw a dark skullcap and cool green eyes, her lips parted in shocked recognition for who was approaching her door. She heaved the door open as he neared, cocked her head - a reflex she couldn’t help - her furrowing brow, however was within her control so she smoothed it out, as well as her shocked expression, and said, “Ah hey. You’re my model?”

“I’m not late am I?” He said with a clever smile, insinuating he knew exactly how late he was.              

“You’re a model?”

“Is that okay?” He asked, shifting his weight where he stood outside her door.

Confusion wasn’t productive, so she widened the door for him to pass through and tried not to check him out from behind, as he stalked slowly into her studio, glancing around and taking in the unusual surroundings.

She closed then locked the door and as she started for her sculpture, he pivoted facing her. His gaze touched the white wine in her hand, and when he raised his eyes, she caught him lingering on her chest where her nipples were hard under her thin cotton tee. As she discretely wrapped her cardigan, covering herself in such a way she hoped he wouldn’t peg as her response to him staring - she was trying desperately to keep this cool and not awkward - he cocked his head, taking in the song that was lightly playing.

“This is kind of a 2:00 am tune, isn’t it?”             

“I wouldn't know. I work around the clock,” she said dryly, as she rushed to her clay and found something interesting about it to avoid meeting his gaze.

“So this is going to look like me,” he said, nearing the sculpture.

“I just need a little help in terms of the proportions.”

“Right.”             

When she looked at him, she caught his eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of her sculpture’s genitals.

“You know this is nude modeling, right?”

“Yeah, I know the deal.” Eyeing her work more carefully, he added, “You might have to scrap most of this. I’m pretty buff.”

She cracked a smirk, cocking her brow, as she sarcastically suggested, “I’ll handle the art. You just take your clothes off and get settled on the couch.”

His laugh came deep and breathy, as he said, “Yes, Ma’am,” and paced away towards the stool she’d set off to the wayside from the couch.

He was confident, she observed. He didn’t blush from the idea of being naked around her, and as he made slow work of peeling off his jacket and his skullcap, setting each on the stool, Greer got the sense he was good with women and knew it.

Gradually, and stealing as many glimpses of him as she thought she could get away with, Greer sat on the stool beside her sculpture.

Hunter was pulling his tee shirt up and over his head, and though he was facing away from her, his muscular back, the line of his spine, his hard shoulders, and toned arms when he finally peeled the tee off, were too much fun to study.

Shirtless, his dark hair a mess of cowlicks, and his hands busily folding his tee, drew her eye to the jeans he would need to shed before she could get started. They were bleached and faded, scarred with natural holes, but hugged his ass so well she found it challenging not to smirk. The garment flattered his legs as well and she had to remind herself to breath, sip her wine, and focus, as he wrestled his boots off and then stripped off his jeans.

Underneath were boxer-briefs and she had to stuff the huge smile on her face with more wine, when she realized they were purple. She had always had a thing for guys wearing feminine colors, and when Hunter faced her, she noticed he was trying not to grin just as hard as she was.

If he was about to say or ask something, and he looked like he might, he shifted gears, once again cocking his ear towards the speakers as the song changed.

“I love Disclosure,” he said through a crooked smile, his excuse perhaps for the grin on his face.

As if she had no idea he was referring to the band that was playing, she said, “I’m not sure it’s wise we open up to one another.”

He laughed, saying, “Right.”

She drew in another sip of her wine, which sent his dark brows rising.

Then he teased, “I’m fine, thanks. I never drink in the morning. But nice of you to ask.”

“You’re working,” she pointed out, implying he definitely shouldn’t drink.

“So are you.”

“But no one’s paying me.”

He pursed his mouth into a frown that called to mind just how perfect his lips might fit against hers, and commented, “I’ll take your word for it.”

A tension filled silence followed, one where Greer eyed his boxer-briefs expectantly and Hunter held her gaze, getting it but also hesitating.

“It’s chilly in here,” he said finally like a pre-emptive excuse for what she was about to see.

Giving him privacy, she stood and began smoothing more water over her clay, as she said, “Don’t worry about it; I’m only going to be looking at your arms and chest. Those are my problem areas at this point.”

Hunter was swift and calculated, pulling his boxer-briefs down on a forward bend and cupping his genitals on the way up. When he met her gaze again, the shape of him looked delicious, arms flexing, his big hands cupping himself, the lines of his thighs, the delicate arch of his abs where they wrapped around his hips, all statuesque yet sexy since he was undeniably real, warm and hard, flesh and breath, a man in her midst on the other side of a line she shouldn’t cross.

Approaching him with an air of authority, she explained, “Okay, I need you on your back on the couch.” He turned for it, and she could see him visualizing her direction as she voiced it. “If you could lie back with your right hand behind your head and the other draped on your thigh, like this.”

Greer lay on the couch, emulating the exact position she wanted him to take. When she pitched her left leg up, her knee bent, and she rested her hand on it, glancing up at him. But her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him, tall and hard, gazing down at her. Backlit though he was, his green eyes fired, cutting through the shadows on his face, and if she wasn’t mistaken, she thought she caught his mouth curl ever so slightly at one corner, as if he enjoyed standing over her.

To clear her head, she babbled on. “It should be comfortable enough to hold for the full hour, but if you need breaks, like if your hand falls asleep or something, just say so.”

Popping up, she made a point not to look at him whatsoever as he got into position on the couch. Instead, she focused on the clay, analyzing the shape of her figure and the changes she would need to make based on the man she had spied.

When she turned, Hunter was set in the correct pose and staring into his eyes was all she could do not to sneak a peek at his penis.

Of course, within a few seconds she failed.

Hunter’s voice came smooth and deep when he said, “I thought you said you weren’t going to look at my dick.”

Quickly, she stammered, “I’m not. I didn’t.”

“You did.”

She nervously gulped her wine. “Proportions matter,” she argued. “I just, I’m not-” More nervous gulping ensued and when a hot flush of alcohol buzzed through her veins, she tried again. “I’m paying you.”

Mercifully, he didn’t tease her further and Greer was able to begin, studying Hunter, tearing clay off a fresh slab at her feet, wetting it and smoothing thin layers over her sculpture to build up its chest, the subtle curve of its pecs, and the shape of each thigh. As she worked, the songs rolled one to the next, and at times Hunter drew in deep breaths of air that drew her eye to his body in ways that weren’t productive.

“So what are you making it for?” He asked, nodding at the sculpture.

“There’s a competition coming up,” she said without looking up from the neck she was fine-tuning. “I didn’t do so well last year.”

“Big cash prize?”

“Yeah, but that’s not why I entered.”

When the conversation lulled, he asked, “What are you going to call it?”

She quirked her mouth into a sarcastic smirk, saying, “Jackass.”

“Jackass? Don’t tell me I inspired that title.”

“You may have,” she told him then drained her wine and considered grabbing the bottle from the kitchen. “Give me a sec.”

She hopped up and padded into the kitchen, threw the fridge door open, and grabbed the bottle of wine. When she returned, she immediately noticed Hunter had shifted out of position.

“Damn, you moved.”

“Did I?”

She set the bottle on the floor next to her sculpture and neared him.

“So how do you know Jennifer?” He asked, as she hovered over him.