Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1) (5 page)

As soon as he had it, she urged him out the door and shut it, Hunter never having asked for a kiss he so desperately wanted.

Shaking it off, he padded down the stairs, rounded out the door, and as soon as he descended the stoop, he passed through the wrought-iron gate.

The eight-block walk home to Humboldt Street woke him up. The air was crisp and at one in the afternoon the sun had a sharp orange cast that lit up Bushwick, its dive bars and coffee shops, the sidewalk cafes that were too stubborn to take in their outdoor tables even though the temperature had been dropping with each passing day.

When he reached his apartment, he found his friend, Aidan Marks waiting at the steel door.

“What’s up, man,” said Aidan, folding his arms against a gust of wind blowing up the street.

“You going to explain?” Hunter wasn’t pleased. He hated being out of the loop.

“You going to let me in?”

At 6’3” with a boxer’s stature, Aidan was beyond intimidating, but only to those who didn’t know him. Half black and half Puerto Rican, he had received countless grants and awards thanks to a lucky combination of extreme artistic talent and his ethnicity. Minorities were often favored in the academic art world, but Aidan’s work more than made the grade. In the past three years alone, he’d won several art competitions by a landslide, and his achievements had nothing to do with the old school art scene, as white and stuffy as it was, catering to artists who had risen from under-privileged backgrounds, out of guilt.

As Hunter scraped his key into the lock, a strange smile came across Aidan’s face.

“You got laid,” he concluded.

“Man, fuck off and get inside.”

When they reached his apartment, Hunter keyed in then drew the curtains back to let in the bright, early afternoon sunlight, as Aidan plopped down on his couch, spreading his legs like the thug he wasn’t and tapping a cigarette loose from his pack of Camel’s.

Though Aidan wasn’t a sculptor like Hunter, but a highly talented photographer, he had as much riding on The Phoenix Juried Art Competition as anyone. And this was the reason Hunter hadn’t quite trusted his long-time friend’s hurried explanation over the phone two nights ago. High stakes often compelled a person to make huge risks, and whatever had transpired between Aidan and Greer had compelled her to buy a gun off the street.

What had really gone down between them?

Hunter wanted to know, but was already uneasy to hear the story.

“She’s got a gun now?” Aidan prodded, clamping his cigarette between his teeth and lighting it.

“You were supposed to get a little dirt. That’s all,” he said, lowering into a lounge chair and planting his elbows on his knees.

“There’s no way to do that without breaking in.”

“So you broke in?”

“Look,” he said, settling into a comfortable repose, which alerted Hunter to the possibility that his friend was posturing, faking his way through down-playing what had obviously been a nerve-wracking encounter for Greer. “There’s a bigger plan at work here. Greer’s just a small part of it.”

Hunter didn’t have the foggiest idea what Aidan was referring to, but it didn’t matter.

“I’m calling it off,” he asserted.

“You can’t call this off.”

“In terms of targeting Greer, I can. It’s over.”

“No shit?” Aidan was leaning forward with interest. “She’s the girl you fucked?” He laughed and clenched his cigarette between his teeth so that his hands would be free to give Hunter a slow, affirmative clap.

“Stop saying I fucked her.”

“Why? You think she’s better than that?”

Shrugging, Hunter considered the best phrasing to get his friend to understand.

“We had a good time. I’m going to see her again. Whatever you’re cooking up, leave her out of it.”

“So she’s special?” He challenged.

Hunter glared at him then dropped it, lightening the mood. He knew Aidan well enough to understand the rough-and-tumble photographer had a penchant for always needing to be right, so arguing against him would get both of them nowhere except into a heated debate, even if the topic was as benign as his love life.

“She’s also your biggest competition,” he pointed out as if setting the stage for the justification of the big plan he had alluded to.

“I’m not worried about that.”

“The rest of us are,” said Aidan, eyeing him with new skepticism. “You’re not the only sculptor in our crew, or have you forgotten?”

“Man, what aren’t you saying?”

“The others want her out of the competition.”

Flying into sudden offense on Greer’s behalf, he demanded, “Meaning fucking what, Aidan?”

“Meaning just that, bro.”

“What the hell went down that Greer’s response was to buy a gun?” He asked, but before Aidan could elaborate, he launched into another point. “You get that if anyone she doesn’t know suddenly shows up at her place, she’s going to pull the trigger? You want that kind of heat? This is serious shit, man.”

“Look,” he said again in a tone Hunter was beginning to resent. “We’re just thinning out the top dogs-”

“Thinning them out how?”

“Troy and I hit a couple of studios.”

“Hit them?”

“We were careful. No one was home. We leveled the place.”

Hunter stared at him in disbelief, then for clarification, asked, “You destroyed their artwork?”

“Hey man, there’s fifty thousand on the line.”

“What happened to being the better artist?”

“What happened to fair juries? What happened to no politics in picking winners? You know how these competitions go. The fucking nephew of the top juror wins. We’re all sick of it.”

“Greer isn’t anyone’s niece,” he pointed out, but Aidan only shrugged.

“She’s rubbed people the wrong way.”

“So you and Troy showed up thinking she wouldn’t be home, but she was?”

“Essentially.”

“What if you get caught? What if she fingers you?”

Aidan locked eyes with him. “If she does anything stupid like that...” he trailed off and Hunter could see rage broiling behind his eyes, “then let’s just say it was smart of her to get a gun.”

Springing to his feet and towering over his so-called friend, who he no longer recognized, Hunter stated, “Stay away from her.”

“Or what?” He challenged with such an easy air that Hunter’s stomach clenched into a knot. “You’re a part of this-”

“I had no idea what you and Troy were up to!”

“You’re a part of it,” he asserted. “And if the cops come knocking on my door, I’ll send them to yours next.” Aidan rose to his feet and stalked in on Hunter until they were standing nose to nose, breathing hard, and itching to turn the argument physical. “If you say a thing, I will rope you into this so tightly the cops will think it was you who broke into her place.”

His mind was racing, but with his back to the wall like this, Hunter couldn’t grasp a compromise fast enough.

“The good news for us,” he went on, his tight face relaxing with a sly grin, “is that you’re on the inside now. You do what we say, and we’re cool.”

Calculating, while drawing in a deep breath, Hunter clarified, “I’ll do what you say, and you leave Greer out of this. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it?”

It was a long moment before Aidan snorted a laugh, but when he did, Hunter didn’t trust whether or not it had been an indication of agreement or something far darker.

Chapter Six

“I can’t believe you’re done,” said Jennifer, as she poured more Shiraz into Greer’s glass even though it wasn't empty. “I’m envious.”

“I had a burst of inspiration,” she said with a shrug, huddling in closer to Jennifer and Tasha where they sat on the rooftop of Tasha’s apartment building. “It was a lucky break.”

The nightscape before them sparkled, city lights like pinpricks cutting through the hazy atmosphere of fog and smog. Bushwick was gritty, but came alive at night, a mysterious perk that emerged every time the sun set. Somewhere on the street four stories below a woman cackled and her friends joined in, as they stomped drunkenly down the sidewalk.

It had been a few days since Greer’s unexpected encounter with Hunter and the erotic result. Often the sight of him had sprung to mind - Hunter lounging on his back, his hardening erection, how he had looked, felt, and sounded when she was straddling him, taking the length of him inside her, and riding him.

She took a sip of her wine to clear her head and watched Tasha cut a wedge of Brie, setting each soft piece on a plate. In Greer’s estimation, she was in a dark mood, but Jennifer and her knew not to pry when Tasha brooded like this. It was safe to assume her photographs hadn’t been developing correctly, and because of this Greer was trying to keep mum about her own success completing
Old Flame
or
New
as the case might end up being.

Jennifer wasn’t being nearly as sensitive. Leaning in to give Greer a little shove with her shoulder, she asked, “So the model worked out?”

The mere question had her grinning, visions of Hunter’s naked body springing to mind all over again, and though she made an honest effort to mask her reaction, pressing the rim of her wine glass to her lips, Jennifer knew her far too well to let her get away with holding out.

Her eyes widened and a sharp gasp followed. “Girl! How did you spend that hour?”

As Greer avoided eye contact, conjuring her version of a poker face, Tasha lifted her gaze with sudden interest.

“Oh spill it,” she ordered. “I could use a story that isn’t art related.”

“Where did you find him?” Greer asked, narrowing her eyes at Jennifer and implying she had plotted against her, but it didn’t work in terms of turning the tables.

“Friend of a friend. I told you that.”

“You didn’t know he was the guy from The Haven?”

Interjecting, Tasha asked, “The one from The Haven?” She punched her arm in the air. “I told you he was checking you out.”

“Which is why I’m wondering about this so-called coincidence,” she countered, cocking her eyebrow up skeptically at Jennifer, who was smirking so sheepishly it might as well have been a confession. Realizing that, Greer crooned, “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“How the hell did you pull it off?”

With a self-deprecating air, Tasha rolled her eyes, muttering, “This is why I have to get out of the studio every once in a while. I miss all the good stuff.”

“You were there,” Jennifer told her, punching her thigh in a way few would ever dare with Tasha. “When Greer stepped out the back, I struck up a conversation with the guy.”

“I wasn’t there,” she said impatiently.

“Technically you were. You’d wandered off to sulk in front of that photograph of an old man, remember?” Shifting her attention to Greer, she added, “He wasn’t shy about stating his interest.”

She couldn’t help but smile.

“I know how you feel about being set up,” she went on. “So we kept it under wraps.”

“Scheming the whole friend of a friend angle,” she clarified.

In a singsong tone that boasted satisfaction, Jennifer cooed, “You’re welcome.”

“Was he good?” Asked Tasha.

“He was forward.”

“But was he good?”

Staring out at the night view, but only seeing Hunter in her mind, Greer couldn’t suppress the smirk that was threatening to answer for her.

As if it wasn’t obvious enough, Jennifer spoke on her behalf. “Of course it was good. She got laid and plowed through two weeks worth of work, finishing her sculpture. It had to be mind blowing.”

Finally, she admitted what her friends were squirming to hear. “It was productive, I’ll say that much. I haven’t thought about Brandon once since then.”

Locking eyes, Jennifer and Tasha silently agreed that a virtual miracle had occurred.

“When can we swing by and see your masterpiece?” Asked Jennifer.

“And more importantly,” Tasha interrupted, “when are you going to see him again?”

“I’m not.”

As soon as she declared it, the mood between them drooped.

“My sculpture is finished. I can’t afford a running distraction. It’s been hard enough to get him out of my head.” Gauging their unanimous surprise, she added, “I really need to concentrate on my career.”

Leveling with her, Jennifer took on a firm tone, stating the facts of the matter, as black and white as they seemed to be from where she was sitting on the chilly roof. “When you’re single, you wrestle with creative blocks and work slowly. When you tangle with a hot-as-hell guy, a creative burst follows. How can you not see that?” When Greer didn’t respond except to sink into careful consideration, she mentioned, “Does he have your number?”

“He hasn’t contacted me.” She was quick to point that out, but the information caused her stomach to bottom out in a way that unnerved her. She had been functioning mainly because she hadn't let herself think about it. She had even deluded herself into pretending maybe he had lost his phone and neither of them had any way to contact one another. It implied that no matter if they were each pining to get together, they simply wouldn’t be able to, which she found both safe and sadly romantic. But Hunter did have the means to get in touch. He simply hadn't - after all two full days had elapsed since they made spontaneous love on her couch - which meant perhaps it hadn’t been as special to him as it was to her.

Reading her disappointment, Tasha offered, “I bet he’ll get in touch.”

“Do you want his number?” Jennifer was quick to pull her cell out of her jacket. “I have it.”

Debating, Greer drew in a long sip of Shiraz, but it didn’t stop Jennifer from barreling ahead. She began tapping the LCD screen on her cell and a moment later Greer’s phone vibrated in the front pocket of her jeans.

As a qualifier, Jennifer said, “For when you get artist's block.”

“Right.”

Darting her gaze to Tasha, she asked, “Are you ever going to be done cutting that cheese?”

“It’s done, I'm done,” she teased, sliding the plate towards Jennifer, who was double fisting the cracker boxes they had brought up.

As they ate, Tasha commented that they could use some music up here and Jennifer refreshed their wine glasses.

“Oh hey,” Tasha blurted out as if suddenly remembering something important. “I ran into Wesley Berg.”

Curious, Greer met her gaze. “The painter?”

“Yeah. Someone broke into his studio last week. Totally leveled the place.”

Pausing with shock, her glass didn’t reach her mouth before she asked, “Leveled it?”  

“Yeah,” said Tasha. “It wasn’t a robbery. Some asshole busted the window in and basically destroyed his apartment.”

Stunned, Greer’s heart started punching in her chest, memories of her own disturbing attack creeping into the back of her mind. She pushed them down, forcing herself to focus on her friend. “His art?”

“Damaged beyond repair.”

Quickly, Jennifer added, “I heard the same thing happened to Danny Fifer. He’s fucking devastated.”

With a sense of gravity, Tasha concluded, “Anyone entering The Phoenix has to watch their back.” She snapped her eyes at Greer. “I mean it. You can’t leave your windows open.”

“Why do you think it has something to do with The Phoenix?” She asked then offered, “I’ll keep my windows locked, but how would it have anything to do with the competition?”

“Just a hunch,” said Tasha. “Danny won last year and Wesley placed third. They’re both enrolled to show work this year. They’ve got nothing else going on. It adds up.”

“Shit,” said Greer, jumping up.

“You’re heading out?” Jennifer plucked up the glass of wine Greer had set on the ground.

“I didn’t lock my windows,” she explained, suddenly rattled the attack she had survived weeks ago wasn’t random.

“See?” Tasha barked, annoyed. “You have to take care of yourself. Christ, I’m glad I said something.”

“So am I. Later.”

Greer padded across the roof, threw the emergency door open, which they had propped, and rushed down the stairwell with her hand shoved deep into her hobo bag, fingers feeling around for the slick metal of her gun, while an overwhelming paranoia mounted in her chest, as the attack seeped into the forefront of her mind.

For the millionth time, she mentally kicked herself knowing she should’ve called the police after the attack. And in the same vein, guilt was seeping in. She should’ve told her friends about it. At the time, she hadn’t wanted to worry Jennifer and Tasha. She had assumed it was a random incident; that it had been the result of the questionable neighborhood she lived in. It never crossed her mind she had been targeted. But if Wesley and Danny had been hit shortly after her, then her friends could still be at risk.

She resolved to tell Tasha as soon as she got home, but first she needed to make sure her studio was intact.

As she cut along Lorimer Street, five blocks shy of her apartment, she almost wished the bastard, whose face she hadn’t seen, would dare mess with her again. The gun was power at her fingertips.

That night nearly a week ago, which she had done a soldierly job of pushing from her mind ever since, Greer had barely made it up to her studio door. It had been dark and quiet in the stairwell. At two in the morning, she hadn’t thought much of the stillness, figuring her neighbors were fast asleep. She would have never in a million years thought that solitude could be dangerous - no one to hear her scream, no one to come to her rescue, or fight off the man, who had snuck up behind her.

Greer had barely scraped her key into the lock, had only just pushed the door in a crack, when she felt hands on her, jerking her back with such force that a jolt of adrenaline had rushed through her, scrambling her mind. It had seemed like an eternity before she made sense of it, but her assumption had been frantic and unfocused. Her greatest fear of being raped had sent her into a fit of screaming and thrashing. In an instant, she had turned into a wild animal, got a few hard jabs in, elbowing his ribs, stomping on his foot, and riding the swell of blows he delivered to her back and the side of her head that had stunned her so badly she almost lost consciousness.

She would never forget his voice, which had been laced with urban cadence and harrowing command -
Get inside
.

He had repeated it, over and over again, but she knew if she followed his order, it would seal her fate and he would have been able to do his worst.

When she had refused, he threw her to the ground, kicked her, and called her an uppity bitch. She had been so dumbstruck he let her go that what he said next barely registered -
This isn’t your world, bitch. Go back to New Hampshire.

It had taken every ounce of strength she had to crawl into her apartment and lock the door, and the relief that followed pulled her into a deep sleep, as she collapsed onto the floor.

If he had been a perfect stranger, how would he have known she was from the Granite State? Days later, she had written the comment off, telling herself there were enough articles about her floating around online that anyone could easily find out such a detail. She had assumed she had a stalker on her hands, and had bought the gun accordingly.

But as she neared her apartment building, Greer arrived at a much darker conclusion. Whoever had attacked her wanted to scare her into moving back home, and his motivation for doing so had everything to do with The Phoenix Juried Art Competition.

Voices billowed out into the stairwell, as she climbed the stairs, conversations and arguments muffled through the walls, which she found comforting. It wasn’t so late that her neighbors were asleep. Life was flourishing all around her, though hidden from view.

When she reached the second floor landing and rounded through to the staircase leading up to her floor, she heard the loud stomps of someone flying down the stairs at her and before she could fathom their velocity, she was knocked backwards, tripping to the landing and barely catching sight of the man who had collided into her.

“Fucking watch it!” She yelled after him. He hadn’t even bothered to stop and help her up, much less apologize. Getting to her feet, her hip smarted where it had struck the ground, but she decided she would live, and padded up the last set of stairs.

The second she saw her studio door, her breath hitched in her throat and the worst jolt of nerves flooded her veins.

The door was open.

Listening hard, her ears pricking up to detect the slightest sound, Greer only heard her pulse pounding in her ears, as she neared the doorway. Dread was ratcheting up her spine, but she eased inside, grasping the handle of the gun deep in her bag.