Honeytrap (8 page)

“So you had a visitor in the café yesterday?”

Ugh, she wanted to talk about Micah. “It's no thing, Mom. He was just picking up his food.”

“Frannie said he was rather chatty. And leering.”

I made a
psht
sound.

Mom pursed her lips, then said, “I already disapprove of Rex, so I don't want to pile on, but . . .”

“You ‘disapprove'?” I laughed. “You sound like you're about to go all
Downton Abbey
on me.”

“Every once in a while, someone needs to be the crotchety old countess dowager.” She bent to pluck some oregano out of the ground. “I don't know how much you've heard about Micah Wyatt's exploits, but he's a wild one. You don't want to get mixed up with him.”

“You might want to kick such a dangerous element out of your café the next time he shows up then, yeah?”

“I'm serious, Shelby Terra. It's one thing to have Micah eating my food, but another thing to be hitting on my daughter. He gets around, and after what you went through with Rex, you don't need that.”

When Mom used my middle name, I knew I shouldn't joke. But I was getting the feeling that she was projecting onto me since, back in the day, she'd been wild enough to get pregnant really young. It wasn't that she regretted it, though. I'd never sensed she would take back her affair with whoever Father Dear was. As a matter of fact, I had a sneaking suspicion that my dad had been some great love of Mom's—a star-crossed romance with a bad boy that hadn't worked out for whatever reason.

But maybe that was only
me
projecting.

Anyway, was Mom trying to say that I shouldn't have to endure what she'd endured with all the scandal? Was she trying to save me from more of it?

I hated to break it to her, but I was already the Aidan Falls Empress of Scandal.

“Mom,” I said, bending down next to her. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that I wouldn't touch Micah Wyatt with a ten-foot pole?”

She narrowed her blue eyes at me. “I hear most women start out saying that about him, but he's such a silver-tongued rascal that they change their tune right quick.”

I wanted to ask her, yet again, if that had been the case with my dad. Would Micah be able to give me an answer, though? How much did he really know about my father, if he wasn't pulling my chain?

As if Mom suspected that I wanted to talk about my dad again, she went into full avoidance mode, leaning over and kissing my cheek. “Rainey and Juanita are covering lunch today, along with Frannie, and if Evie is half the server I think she is, the café should be in good shape. Don't come in until dinner service, okay?”

“But . . .”

“But you want to help.
I
want you to have some fun before you go back to school and hit the books as hard as you're going to need to in order to get your grades back up to snuff.”

I'd almost taken summer school to make up for my lack of scholarship-worthy grades, but the damage had already been done. I was going to check out other scholarships, though, and hope there was some lovely soul out there who extended second chances. Mom had enough money to cover another year of tuition for me, and there were grants available, as well, and if I could sock away the money from being tipped-out in the café for pocket expenses and rent, I'd barely make it through next year. Then my luck would run out if I didn't shape up.

“I won't let you down, Mom,” I said.

“I know. We all have second chances, Shelby—it's just a matter of knowing where to find them.” She brushed back the hair from my face. “I heard
Breathless
is playing at the Ritz.”

The coolest of cool movies, the French new wave via the early '60s. I'd seen the flick during an elective film appreciation class last semester, but it was one of those stories I could watch a million times. Also, Mom had raised me to be an appreciator of both art and sentimental old hangouts in Aidan Falls, so the Ritz had always been a favorite of mine. It was a failing art-house theater that had recently opened itself to party rentals when they weren't showing classics. Sad.

Did you ever go to the Ritz with my dad?
I wondered, not daring to say it out loud.

I stood. “Sounds like a good way to spend the afternoon. Are you sure you don't . . .”

“Mind? No, Shelby. Skedaddle, my love.”

She shooed me out of the herb garden, and I waved at Rainey and Juanita, too, darting into the house, grabbing my phone, purse, and a sweater for the theater since I always got cold there, especially with what I was wearing today—a sleeveless baby-doll blouse and jean shorts with sandals. I looked up the Ritz online as I went to my pickup.

The movie wasn't playing for another hour, so I thought about swinging by Evie's, but decided that she should concentrate on getting ready for her first day at the café. No sense in making her late and getting her off on the wrong foot with Mom.

Instead, I went ahead to the Ritz, finding that the old-fashioned box office out front was already selling tickets. Mr. Carmichael, one of the only non-football freaks in the county, sat reading a dog-eared pulp paperback behind the glass. When I approached, he seemed surprised that anyone was giving him business, and he squinted out of the window.

“Shelby Carson?” he asked, flashing a smile at me that revealed very impressive veneers.

“Hi, Mr. Carmichael.”

“What a pleasure! You here to see some Godard?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Evie's not with you?”

He peered around, and I wished I could bring every one of my friends—as many as there were in Aidan Falls—to see the movie. The Ritz needed the business, and my heart broke a little at Mr. Carmichael's disappointment that I was alone.

“We'll be here all summer for whatever you show,” I said.

“Excellent.”

He rang me up, and when I went inside, he magically appeared behind the refreshment counter that sat amongst the crown-molded ceiling and the gold-railed staircase that led to the balcony. I bought a soda, Jujubes, and popcorn—as much as I could afford. He seemed happy enough with that.

“Know what would be cool, Mr. Carmichael?” I asked on the way to the balcony.

He raised an eyebrow.

“
Rocky Horror Picture Show
at midnight every month. Charge a bunch of money because there's nothing in this area that books it. Fans will come from all around—especially Texas-U—and if you get a bigger presence on the Internet, I'll bet you can even find volunteers to do the cleanup. There're hardcore freaks who'd die to have someplace around here showing it.”

From his frown, he seemed to know what the
Rocky Horror Picture Show
entailed. Toilet paper, slices of toast, a deck of cards, and an assortment of other props fans tossed around during the movie, based on what was happening with the dialogue and songs. But then he nodded.

“I've thought about it before, but you might have a point. I heard you were studying business, Shelby, so keep the ideas coming.”

“Will do.” I smiled at him, then went to the staircase. I found a seat in the front of the balcony and turned my sweater backward, slipping my arms through the sleeves like I was wearing a Snuggie. Then I settled in for some newreels, subtitles, and black-and-white cinema.

The gilded angels that decorated the theater against red-velvet walls made me sigh, and I slumped in my plush chair. Heaven. One place that let me escape from everything going on outside.

After I'd polished off my popcorn and saved my candy for later, an elderly couple sat in the seats below the balcony, near the screen, but no one else came in as the lights lowered and the movie began.

White letters on the black screen, hip, sultry jazz music,
Breathless
.

I felt someone else enter the balcony area, sitting in the row behind me. Crap. So much for escaping. But I threw myself back into the movie, sipping my soda through its straw.

When a familiar voice sounded near my ear, I flinched, almost spilling.

“You were supposed to stay on your side of town, Angel.”

I sat up, my pulse joggling at the sight of Micah Wyatt leaning over the seat next to me, wearing a canary-eating grin.

As I stared at him, my inner Lana Peyton started to take over, pure desire gliding down my body from my chest to my tummy, then lower, where it pooled and whirled, hot and moist. Outside, every inch of my skin felt like it did whenever I had a fever—achy, light, sensitive to the kind of touch that would make the simmering hurt go away.

It was like Micah knew how he affected me, his famished eyes grazing me up and down, undressing me in the laziest, most titillating way possible.

Defensively, I shoved my soda into its holder and pulled up the collar of my backward sweater as if that would cover all of me. “This isn't your side of town,” I said in a rushed whisper.

“It isn't?” He peered around the balcony, then shrugged and rested his chin on his arms, which were still propped on the chair. His whisper was even lower than mine—and calmer. “How about that. My sense of direction is certainly lacking today.”

“What're you even doing here?”

He'd trained his gaze on the movie, where Jean-Paul Belmondo was driving his car, talking in French to the camera about how useless women were. The movement on the screen flashed a low, silver-cool light over Micah's face, giving me a heart-thumping moment in which I could look at those sculpted cheekbones, the thick lashes around lethally compelling eyes.

“I'm here for the same reason you are, Shelby,” he finally whispered. “Can't a guy enjoy a day at the cinema?”

“Oh, right. You just showed up here when I did. Convenient.”

He straightened up, lifting his hands in surrender. “All right, I saw you driving through town and wheeled my ride around on a whim. It's my day off, so I figured why not?”

He'd seen me driving and decided to follow? In a way, I felt hunted, but in another . . .

I was wanted . . . by him.

I wasn't sure if I should be weirded out by the whole thing or, once again, flattered. He sure was putting a lot of effort into snagging me, bet or no bet.

Desire lapped against the lining of my stomach as I stayed facing him. He met my gaze, sending my libido into another tizzy.

“I knew you wouldn't want anyone to think I was here with you,” he said, “so I waited some time in my parking space until the movie was supposed to start.”

“Thanks for the consideration?”

“Nothing to it, Angel.”

God. “Don't call me that.”

“It's because of your hair.”

Before I could anticipate him, he reached over and took my hair between his fingers, rubbing the strands together. Like a wordless fool, I could only watch his long fingers work, wondering what they'd feel like petting other parts of me.

A throbbing tightness between my legs urged me to press them together. What made him think I would ever give in to him?

Lana
, I thought. He'd heard about Lana Peyton and how she'd had uninhibited online sex with Rex. Did he see some of her in me? Was that why he wasn't giving up?

I leaned away from him, and he let go of my hair. But he kept absently rubbing his finger and thumb together, like he could still feel me.

I couldn't help it—I watched him, imagined him spinning his voodoo over me while we were someplace alone with each other, making me need and want while I dropped all my defenses and let myself go for him. But I'd told Evie that I wasn't going to have another relationship based on neediness and physical attraction, and that's all this ridiculous interest in Micah was—pathetic and primal. He might want me, but I had to have trust in anyone I was with from now on. I wasn't going to repeat the mistakes I'd made with Rex.

In the background, the antihero of the movie sped down the French country road, passing cars, his motor running hard as he caught the attention of some cops and led them on a chase. Since I'd seen the film, I didn't need to watch now to know what was happening. But I hadn't come here to pant over Micah, either, and with an emphatic roll of my eyes, I sat forward in my seat again, intent on ignoring him, adjusting my sweater over my front, even if it was getting real hot in here.

I settled back into watching the French hood give the cops the shaft, feeling Micah lingering behind me. And when he got out of his seat, I thanked God. Maybe he'd go home now.

Not quite. He sauntered right into my row and flopped into the seat next to me, slumping in his chair, his hands clasped on his wide chest as he took up all the room he could with bent, sprawling legs.

Slowly, I trained my gaze on him. “You've got to be kidding me,” I whispered.

“Better view.”

Now his soap-and-spice scent made my head reel. Under my baby-doll top, I could feel the tips of my breasts peak, and it wasn't from the A/C. The garment had a built-in bra, and my nipples were pressing against it, sensitized.

We watched the movie in stilted peace for a bit, the film careening past my vision, my brain hardly taking any of it in, even as a cop found the antihero on the side of the road. All I could think of was Micah, inches away from me, his muscled arm hogging the armrest between our seats, his skin making my own buzz beneath my sweater. In my peripheral vision, I saw him focusing on the movie like he wasn't doing a darn thing to me just by being here.

But was every one of his thoughts on me, too? Or did he bother girls at the theater so much that he was used to multitasking, watching the movie and needling his prey at the same time?

When the hood shot the cop onscreen, Micah made a
huh
sound. “What a douchebag,” he said under his breath. “That'll get him in the stew.”

“Quiet.”

“Just sayin',” he whispered. “That kid's not very smart, and he thinks he's as cool as Rex.”

Like I needed
this
.

As he rested his head back against the seat, he turned to look at me. “Even my cousins want to slap around your ex until his head deflates, and they're all football alums.”

Forget the movie—was this my chance to ask about Jadyn Dandritch and how involved the twins had been with getting Micah to seduce her?

Below us in the lower seats, the old couple were talking to each other, the man asking his wife what'd just happened on the screen. Maybe he couldn't see all that well or hear much, either. Hopefully, they weren't hearing me and Micah in the balcony.

“There's a rumor,” I whispered to Micah, “that your cousins bet you couldn't seduce Jadyn.” Okay, so it'd only been something Evie had theorized about and not much of a rumor at all.

“I told you, Jadyn wasn't a bet.”

“So Deacon and Darwin didn't put you up to it?”

Micah fixed his gaze on me again, the light from the screen making his eyes clearer than ever. “Would it surprise you to know that I just plain like women, and I don't necessarily need a bet to be with one?”

“That's why you're . . .”

“A man-whore?” He laughed shortly. “I don't care what they call me. If people around here have hang-ups about sex, that ain't my fault.”

He made his lifestyle sound so simple, but there had to be more to him than just being a slut. What did sex actually give him on a deeper level? Anything?

I started to quiz him again, but he raised a finger to his lips. “Shh. I'm watching.”

I drew back, turning to the screen again, surprised that he'd shushed me. When I peeked back at him, I caught him grinning again.

What a tool.

More film rolled by, almost incomprehensible because I couldn't concentrate, not even when Jean Seberg and her pixie cut came on screen and she flirted with the hood.

I tucked my hair behind my ear and, somehow, that caught Micah's attention. Hah. Score for me.

“You ever think of cutting yours?” he asked.

He was talking about Jean Seberg's hair. I shook my head.

“Good.”

Just as bold as ever, he reached over again and swept the length of my hair behind my shoulder. My skin burst into a tangle of shivers as I thought,
He's got a definite fixation
.

But he didn't stop with my hair. He brushed my neck, and my lips parted with a soft gasp.

I had a choice—smack his hand away or do nothing. And, God help me, my head was swimming, my body lethargic with delight, and I couldn't bring myself to smack him. Not yet.

“If you did cut your hair,” he whispered, “you'd look like that girl on screen. Just as blond and pretty.”

“Yeah, right.” Jean Seberg was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen.

He was still running his thumb over my neck. Could he feel the beat of my pulse? And why was I still letting him do this? It had to be the darkness, which was surreal enough to allow me to deny that he was actually touching me and that we were all part of a movie-world fiction that wouldn't exist outside the theater. Or maybe I was looking for an excuse to let him continue.

Lana would let him
, I thought, my eyes fluttering closed as his fingertips traveled just below the collar of my sweater, to the dip below my throat, between my collarbones. That sensitive hollow where he'd be able to feel me swallow like the unsure girl I was.

“So pretty,” he whispered with a low edge. He coasted up my throat again, to my chin, skimming over it, then coming to my mouth with his thumb. He traced my bottom lip, and my eyes flew open.

This was happening.

He must've sensed my oncoming smack, because he shifted in his chair, sitting up, leaning over until his mouth was next to my ear.

“Haven't you ever made out in a movie theater, Shelby?”

His words were like a caress, warm and soft. I pressed my legs together again, trying to chase away the twisted thrill there. But I wouldn't let him get the better of me, and I
wasn't
going to let him chase me out of here.

“Of course I have.” Big talk—the kind of talk Lana Peyton would throw around.

“Then why're you so prim right now?” he asked, tickling my ear again. His breath smelled like mint gum, as if he'd been preparing for a seduction.

“I'm not prim. I'm just not interested.”

“You're not?”

He removed his hand from me, but as he did so, his knuckles brushed the side of my breast. I flinched, and under that sweater, I shivered some more, goose bumped and pulse-pounded.

Had that touch been an accident? I wasn't sure anything was with him.

He was still watching me, making me restless, and when he gently slipped his hand under the other side of my face, under my jaw, deftly guiding me toward him, I forget all about resisting him.

He pressed his mouth against mine and . . . Oh, God—soft, full lips, and he knew how to use them. He sipped at me as I lifted one hand in helpless mercy, my mind swirling with whorls of color, like a black-and-white movie that was blooming with the red of an off-limits desire.

Slowly—so slowly—he kissed me, leaving me dizzy. He lazily dabbed more tiny kisses to the corner of my lips, then trailed down to my jaw, back up, pressing his mouth against mine harder this time, but not too hard.

Then again, it was all easy. So damned easy.

All the while, he stroked my neck with his knuckles, and I instinctively wiggled in my seat, a hunger building in me, pushing me to get closer to him, even as a nudge of common sense shouted from somewhere in my mind to stop.
Don't give in. Don't go there
.

Then . . .

Then he pulled away.

Surprised, I touched my lips, which felt swollen, sensually bruised. He casually settled back into his seat, once again locking his gaze on the movie, where the hero and heroine were lounging around her bedroom, flirting innocently yet dangerously.

The hood and the schoolgirl
, I thought. From screen to reality.

Suddenly, my surroundings jumped out at me, reminding me where I was: the flickering projector above our heads, the golden angels smiling down at us, the emptiness of the balcony and smell of popcorn, the elderly couple on the lower floor.

Had Mr. Carmichael, the projectionist, seen us kissing?
Had
the old couple heard anything?

Micah whispered again. “Now you can say you've made out in a theater—or at least been properly kissed in one.”

Below us, the old man's voice sounded. “What's happening, Dottie?”

I kept my voice to a nonchalant, soft scratch. “You caught me off guard.”

“Sure I did.”

“But nothing's going to happen beyond this.”

“Well, Shelby, you'll be glad to know I've got all your concerns covered if something just as unscrupulous does occur.”

What?

He kept his gaze forward as he leaned slightly toward me. “I'm talking about how you laid down the law to me last night. I've got all those worries of yours solved.”

I vaguely remembered giving him reasons why we wouldn't be hooking up. 1) I was not attracted to him. 2) He was bad for my reputation.

It seemed he'd just blown number one out of the water. I was sure that's why he'd laid a kiss on me without warning, just to prove I was wrong. Damn him.

He looked up at me from his slouch, crooking his finger for me to get closer. I refused to, but when he grinned again in that irresistible way that I was having a hell of a time fighting, I sighed in exasperation and slumped in my seat, compromising.

“Did it ever occur to you,” he said, “that if no one ever sees us together, your whole ‘Micah will make me look bad' issue goes out the window?”

Going to private places . . . with him. Kissing in the shadows, feeling his hands on me in the darkness where secrets could stay silent. That damp twist between my legs pierced me, reminding me that the need for him to touch me was even worse than before.

“Don't get cocky just because you caught me off guard,” I said, dismissing him.

“Any way you like it, Angel.” He smiled. “But no one would ever have to know.”

His words were like foreplay, and my body tightened and pounded harder as he stayed silent, leaving me speechless. I felt plumped down below, like I needed to alleviate the ache, like I'd never relax until that knot there was untied.