Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1) (2 page)

Angling her gaze as discreetly as possible, Greer peered through the crowd and spotted the guy from the street artfully diverting his eyes as soon as she caught him.

“How long has it been since you had a little D?” Asked Tasha, brows lifting.

“A little D? Never,” said Greer, getting cheeky. “Now, a big D is a different story.”

“Shut up,” said Jennifer. “You haven’t had a big D since Brandon and you know that was ages ago.”

“Salt on my wounds, Jennifer,” she said, none too pleased to be reminded.

Greer stole another peek in the guy’s direction and even though he had disappeared, she still voiced her take on who and what he was all about.

“You might think he looks good,” she began. “But I bet you he’s everything wrong with this city.”

“How’s that?” Tasha challenged.

Drawing in a deep breath, Greer got creative. “He’s lived here a year, maybe two, on his parents money. He doesn’t have a dime, doesn’t have a real job. He thinks he’s an artist, probably uses the term
hipster
because he thinks it’s cool. His name is something boring as hell like Chris or Matt or Jeff and he comes from an oil family in Texas or he’s the heir to a mustard empire-”

“Mustard?” Tasha asked as though she was offended on Greer's behalf such a poser had dared glimpse their way.

“Or some shit,” she went on. “He thinks he can blend. He thinks no one will notice his outfit costs more than my rent, like he’s one of these chumps who pays two hundred extra for the holes in his jeans. And worst of all, he’s bad in bed.”

“Hang him,” said Jennifer with a crooked smile.

“Yeah, selfish in bed because he’s too pretty and never had to work for it.” In conclusion, Greer grabbed Tasha’s white wine, knocked it back, and said, “Fucking waste of space.”

Tasha eyed her empty glass when Greer slapped it in her hand, and said, “So tell us how you really feel.”

Snorting a quick laugh, Greer summed it up. “How I really feel is not drunk.”

But when she excused herself, she didn’t make a beeline for the refreshment table. Rather she veered through the crowd until she found the rear exit door.

She stole a sly glance over her shoulder to make sure her friends weren’t following after, as a few guys reeking of cigarette smoke barreled into the gallery. She caught the door and stepped out into the chilly night, breathing a sigh of relief to be alone.

That sculpture had been on point. She hated to be just another bitter artist, but riding the low of her creative block and seeing a real piece of art made her feel like a flailing failure. But that wasn’t what had her rattled.

It was her neighborhood that had her bones quaking. She had never feared it before three nights ago. But when a man had stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her, sending her heart punching up her throat, her instincts reeling, and her reflexes freezing in the worst way possible, she’d instantly lost her blissful sense of safety that her block in Bushwick was even close to crime free.

Stepping away from the door and beyond the glare of the overhead light that was hanging just above the pitched awning above her head, she put her hand on her bag, grasping for the reason it was so heavy.

She shouldn’t have bought it, she thought, as she reached inside the floppy leather, feeling her way through an ad hoc mess of belongings until she reached the gun at the bottom of her bag.

Who knew where this thing had been? Who it might have killed? What kind of record the police had on it? She had been scared and impulsive when she ventured into Spanish Harlem for it. She hadn’t asked any questions. She’d barely mumbled a word only slapped a wad of cash into a thug’s palm, snatched the gun, and rushed to the subway, terrified she might be caught.

She didn’t want to have to use it, not at any time and not for any reason, but deep down, as Greer pulled it from her bag and stared, she knew she would.

When the exit door popped open, Greer was lost in the thought, wishing she had reported the attack. She barely had time to shove the gun in her bag before she sensed someone looking at her.

Turning and expecting to find Jennifer or Tasha, Greer locked eyes with the guy from the street and the look on his face was one she couldn’t quite read.

Chapter Two

His cool green eyes, the specific color of which reminded her of the ivy vines she had stenciled along the archway that separated her bedroom from her studio space just one neighborhood over; his jawline and the angle of his cheekbone, the faint dusting of stubble mapped between, and the mess of dark cowlicks sprouting out from his skullcap, intrigued her, but not as much as the glint in his eyes. Greer knew when a guy was interested in her and this one certainly was.

The way his left brow cocked upon discovering her out here alone made her heart punch in her chest. He parted his lips and a subtle curl formed at one corner. He was getting ideas, she thought. Ones he shouldn't considering their encounter a half hour ago had been brief and nearly wordless.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” He asked, indicating the pack of clove cigarettes he was holding in his hand.

It didn’t sound like a routine overture meant to imply he planned on smoking whether or not she objected, which was what she was used to. But rather his cadence conveyed he would genuinely like to know and would react accordingly. For some reason Greer found this sweet, but suppressed the smile that was threatening to soften the hard shield she was in the habit of wearing on her face, in her posture, two proverbial fists in the air, stomping through life and constantly on guard.

When her response didn’t come right away or at all, an easy smile spread across his face, and she got a bit lost in its asymmetry, the curl of his lip on the right side exposing a patch of gums, the way his eyes fell to his pack, all of which seemed to say he was aiming for a bit of conversation and might not give up easily.

“Would you like one?”

Greer lowered her gaze to his pack, as he flicked a cigarette free. She plucked it out, thanking him in a voice so airy it was merely a breath.

Gesturing with it, she added, “For my scarf,” then tucked it between her teeth.

“Oh yeah?” He asked, his brows snapping up in mock challenge. “I do you the favor of retrieving your scarf and in exchange I do you the favor of giving you a smoke?”

“Something tells me you want company and you’re welcome.”

She broke eye contact only to lean towards the flame he struck with his lighter, but still managed to catch his eyes flaring with excitement as though her cocky response had in any way resembled flirtation.

Tilting his head, he said, “Thank you,” in a smooth tone that sent a warm wave fluttering through her stomach in response, stirring her in a way she hadn't been in a very long time. Funny how a guy’s voice could elicit a reaction so beyond her control it could seem like a magic act.

“What do you think of all that?” He jutted his chin at the door and returned his gaze to her, sucking on his clove and igniting Greer’s imagination as to what other things he might like to suck with those lips.

She allowed herself a moment to smile, angling her eyes down to drink in the completely unattractive sight of the scarred concrete at her feet in hopes it might sober her up from the effects his charm was having on her.

“It’s informative,” she said.

He furrowed his brow at that, perhaps not understanding how art could inform.

“I dabble,” she went on, a half-hearted attempt at clarifying while also concealing how greatly her life revolved around her sculptures. “So I like to stay informed about what other artists are up to.”

“What do you dabble in?”

“Clay.” She flicked her cigarette and added, “Sculpture.”

“What kind of stuff do you sculpt?”

“My subjects?”

“Yeah,” he said, holding her gaze a bit too long for her to entirely buy that he really wanted to know. Again, she smiled to herself and he asked, “What?”

“Nothing, no,” she stammered. When she met his gaze again, his expression shifted. He was reeling it in - interest? lust? visions of what he'd like to do to her? - and it had her thrown. He was good looking enough, he could easily push harder, be bolder in his intent, and she wouldn’t need too much convincing to go for it, maybe even behave out of character to seal the deal. She found it curious that he seemed to want to be taken seriously. “Sorry, I spend a lot of time alone, cooped up in my studio, and then when I venture out, I realize I’m not fit for human company.”

He smiled, letting out a breathy laugh and told her she was doing fine.

“They’re love stories mostly,” she said, finally making a shred of sense, or so she thought until she once again caught his eyebrow cocking up like a question mark. “So, okay, I never sculpt an actual couple. But I’ll make a woman, for example, in a tense pose, longing for a part of her she can’t find. Then I’ll make the man she’s pining for, maybe he’s reaching out.” Reading his pinched mouth, she quickly said, “It’s not cheesy. It’s beautiful. I’ll set them across the room from one another.”

“Beautiful? Sounds sad.”

“It’s both, I guess.”

“Why is that the story you tell?”

Greer fell silent, even though she didn’t want to and tried to pull out of it, but his question resonated so greatly with how she felt, what she thought to herself, asked herself each night before going to bed, waking up, the living statement that both chilled her bones and warmed her skin like a waking nightmare she couldn’t escape. And because of it she had to take a breath to consider for the millionth time why that was.

As she did, he studied her, not impatiently for an answer, but perhaps because of how she looked arriving at her answer. She was getting the feeling he was enthralled.

Shrugging and admitting to herself that what she was about to say hadn’t a prayer of living up to either of their expectations, she offered, “Unrequited love; everyone can relate, so why not tell that story?”

He glanced past her up the alley, but when she looked over her shoulder there was nothing there except a row of dumpsters in the shadows and beyond them a flickering street light.

“What’s your name?” She asked then drew in a long drag of her clove.

“Hunter.” He rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me it’s a girl’s name.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“But you were thinking it,” he pointed out.              

“Was I?”

Indulging her, he stared into her eyes, searching for the truth. “Maybe not,” he admitted after a long moment. “And you’re Greer?”

His voice hitched up, but it didn’t sound like a question.

“Yeah, how did you know my name?”

As if to stir intrigue, he said, “I keep my eye on all the local artists. And I wouldn’t call what you do dabbling.”

His statement caught her off guard and flattered her at the same time in such a way that scrambled her instincts, but her biggest impression within the five minutes she’d spent in the privacy of sharing a smoke with him was that Hunter, whose last name she didn't know, was a man she might like to spend more alone time with.

Just shy of slipping into a fantasy inspired by the shape of his lips, the angle of his shoulders, and the wall of his chest beneath his jacket that looked so much like hers she wondered if this was kismet, she was jarred from her reverie when her cigarette singed her fingers, having burned down to its butt.

Letting it fall, she blew out a sharp stream of smoke between her teeth, and stepped on it, twisting umbers into the concrete.

Just as Greer was about to succumb to the craving of touching eyes with him, which had surged every time she cut her gaze away, she startled when someone dashing through the alley abruptly shrieked. She didn't so much process it as react without thinking like an animal would to dodge predatory danger. In an instant, her shoulders hunched, hand clutching for the gun, gasping and shifting her weight in such bizarre overreaction that Hunter widened his eyes, staring at her.

It was only a drunk guy streaking through, harmless and wild in his personal thrill for Friday night.

Greer tried to laugh it off, relaxing and straightening her posture, but she had already given herself away, lingering shell shock from a night gone wrong all too recently.

She couldn’t get a read on what Hunter might be thinking. She didn’t dare look at him, and she was still desperately forcing a self-deprecating laugh that was starting to sound strained. Letting it die out, she told herself to use her friends as an excuse, head in, find Jennifer and Tasha, and call it quits on this flirtation now that she had blown it.

But Hunter stopped her. “This isn’t a bad part of town.”

What he meant was,
relax, it’s not a war zone
, but she was too embarrassed to bother recovering in order to stay out here with him.

She turned for the door, but when he asked, “How long have you lived in Brooklyn?” it was just enough to prevent her from disappearing inside.

Lingering, angling her gaze over her shoulder at him before she stepped through the doorway, she said, “Long enough to know that the craziest person on the train wins.”

And then she left him, entering the crowded room where music was now booming. As she made her way, weaving towards her friends, Greer didn't know Hunter had stated under his breath, “Crazy like a gun in your purse?”