Bringing Down the House Page 2

  “I was told there might be some painting involved,” I say coyly. Because, honestly, I’m having fun. “So why don’t you want her to hire someone new for HR? Got something against benefits?”

  Hot Stuff makes a rude noise. “You kidding? None of the actors get any. We’re glorified volunteers. It’s ridiculous to have an HR rep when there are less than a dozen full-time employees. Ridiculous and expensive. She should pay us more and hire some high school dropout to sit on the sidelines and offer us juice boxes and Goldfish. At least then we’d get food out of it.”

  So he’s an actor, huh?

  I’m not surprised. He certainly has the looks for it. And the attitude.

  I tilt my head. “Who used to do the HR job?”

  He laughs with what seems like genuine amusement. “Leaf. Why do you think she’s trying to pawn it off on someone else?”

  At this point in the conversation, someone else might have stormed back into Leaf’s office and said, Screw you and your thankless job. Maybe followed up by tossing one of the miniatures at her. And yet…I’ve always gotten a contact high from being around bickering. From burrowing into other people’s secrets and messes. Maybe it’s lingering dysfunction from my childhood. Hell, I’ve done enough reflection in Bad Luck Club to know it is. The problem is that I don’t feel any compulsion to change.

  This job is going to be an absolute nightmare, and I. Am. Here. For. It.

  “You seem high strung,” I say.

  Hot Stuff grunts. “You seem violent.”

  “Only toward people I like. How about we get you a drink, and you can tell me everything about this place?”

  He tilts his head and studies me. “It’s eleven a.m.”

  It’s said as a challenge, but I can’t tell whether he wants me to back down.

  I won’t.

  “Is that your final answer?” I ask. “Because I think you kind of missed the point of the question.”

  “Yes to the drink,” he says, “but I’d like to know your name first.”

  “I’m Nicole,” I say, “and you are?”

  “Damien.”

  He reaches for my hand, and I step in close and kiss his cheek, enjoying the sensation of his stubble tickling my lips, the hard press of his chest beneath my hands, and the surprise in those light eyes, which, upon closer inspection, are a grayish shade of blue.

  Oh, this is going to be fun.

  Sure, Cal would point out that not only am I turning my back on the spirit of the one-month challenge, but that I’m also doing the last thing any HR professional should.

  Damien may not be a full-time employee, but he’s clearly deeply invested in the theater. Messing around with him is far from appropriate.

  The thing is, I don’t technically work here yet.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NICOLE

  “I’d never heard of this place before,” Damien comments, eyeing me over his gin and tonic. We’re sitting across from each other at a wooden table for two, on chairs that might very well collapse.

  “That’s because the food’s terrible, and the server is rude,” I say. “And yes, I meant server, singular, because I’ve never seen anyone else working here. He may or may not be the owner. It also has an abysmal Yelp score. Most people know to avoid it.”

  Amusement dances in those distracting gray-blue eyes. I’d say those lashes are wasted on a man, but I quite enjoy looking at them. “Haven’t you heard? Yelp’s dead. No one uses it anymore.”

  “How would you know?” I ask, lifting my brows. “Did you deliver a eulogy at its funeral?” I wave a hand. “Don’t answer that. It’s not dead. In fact, I wrote a shitty one-star Yelp review for this place last night to make sure it stays uncrowded.” I gesture to the rickety chairs and tables surrounding us, all empty, and the sour-faced server approaching us with two worn menus. I come here fairly often, and I think his name’s Jamie, or maybe Jeremy. “Lo and behold, it worked.”

  “That was you?” the server asks, tossing the food menus on the table even though we specifically said drinks only. “You didn’t have to say that about the bathroom. We clean it once a week.”

  Damien makes a face. “You’re not making a great case for the place, man.”

  Grumbling, the server stalks away, and Damien’s attention shifts to me, sending an electric zip right through my middle. He’s much too sexy for one person—it’s downright selfish. The thought’s pleasing because it suggests it’s not my fault for breaking my promise to Cal. Any living, breathing woman would want to jump Damien Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is and climb him like a tree. Who am I to withstand his charms?

  “You know, you didn’t make a great case either,” Damien says, tapping his chin with a long, tapered finger. “It may be June, but it’s before noon on a Thursday. Maybe that’s why this place isn’t crowded.”

  I let out an amused grunt. “Oh, so you’re a lawyer when you’re not playing pretend? At any given time, seventy percent of the people you see on the streets in Asheville are unemployed, underemployed, or tourists.”

  “And which are you?” he asks, studying me.

  “I can paint sets,” I say, “remember? So at the very least I’m underemployed. What about you? I’m guessing being an actor in a third-rate troupe isn’t paying your bills.”

  He lets out a not-so-amused grunt and takes a sip of his drink, my eyes tracking his Adam’s apple as it bobs.

  Fuck, he’s sexy. I’ll bet people throw their panties at him when he’s on stage. Actually, they probably do it when he’s walking down the street. I’m feeling a little twitchy to throw mine at him right now.

  “No,” Damien finally says, reminding me that I asked him a question. “No one’s getting rich off it. We spend hours practicing for plays that run for a few weeks or maybe a couple of months, and if we pooled our earnings together, we couldn’t even buy a decent camera.”

  “Camera,” I scoff, nearly choking on a sip of my vodka soda. “Okay, boomer. And you said Yelp’s dead? Why would you need a camera; don’t you have a phone?”

  “Is this a bid for my number?” he asks, his cocky arrogance back.

  “If I want it, I’ll ask. So if you don’t act for the money, why do you do it?”

  He grins and runs a hand over his jaw, which is unfair, really, given how much I’d like to do it for him. “Because it’s fun. Because I like fucking with the directors by changing their scripts. Most musicals have really shitty backstories, and I consider it my duty to right that wrong.”

  “So why do they keep hiring you?”

  “Because I’m good,” he says with calm certainty, and I believe him. “And the fans like to guess what I’m going to do next. It’s become a whole thing.”

  “Are they ever right?”

  “Never,” he says. “I make sure of it.”

  It occurs to me that he is probably the problem that Leaf wants me to curb, but I don’t have much interest in helping her there. Because I’d really like to see Damien act—his way, not hers. He’s a live wire, and Leaf is a fossil who’d like to live in a hermetically sealed box. That’s probably an unfair assessment, given I’ve known her a couple of hours, but unfair assessments are sometimes the most accurate.

  “And do you play nice with the other actors?” I ask.

  “Sometimes,” he says, and I wonder if he means it as a double entendre. Doesn’t matter, Nicole. Whatever this is has an expiration date of today. “We have a lot in common. Except for Gary.” He gives me a conspiratorial look. “I have this theory that he’s secretly the Pritchard Park Flasher.”

  “No,” I say, on the hook.

  He gives me a playful look. “He has the same trench coat, and he’s always talking about his penchant for not wearing underwear.”

  “Well, let’s arrest him.” I’m actually half-serious—I’ll be keeping an eye on this Gary—but I let him think it was a joke. “Any other personalities I should be on the lookout for when I’m painting sets?”

  He shrugs. “Amber’s ‘happily married,’ but she always tries to sleep with the new director, presuming it’s a guy, and Patrice and Matt are screwing. But I guess none of that affects painting sets unless they get into a fight and throw fake presents at each other again like they did last Christmas.”

  I laugh. “Sounds like a good time.”

  “A lot of the other actors vary from play to play, but we’re the ones who stick around. It’s…nice.”

  Until I blow it apart by playing bad boss at Leaf’s bidding.

  “You said you had something in common with the others. What is it?”

  Damien looks me in the eye for a long moment, his expression inscrutable, before answering. “We all love pretending to be other people because we don’t want to be ourselves. How’s that for honesty?”

  “I don’t believe you.” I flick the saltshaker at him, and he catches it, the muscles in his arm flexing pleasingly. “You’re much too beautiful to hate yourself.”

  “Who said I did?” he says with a grin, then lifts his hand and licks off a sprinkling of salt, as if preparing to take a tequila shot.

  I feel a buzzing electricity in my body, as if I had on vibrating panties.

  “So, why don’t you want to be yourself?” I ask, interested despite myself.

  He smirks. “Haven’t you heard it’s possible for there to be too much of a good thing?”

  I retrieve the cherry from my drink and suck it off the stem, because two can play that game. “No, Damien, I don’t think it’s possible to have too much of a good thing, but sometimes I like to be really, really bad.”

  He swears under his breath, bringing a smile to my face, then slides a big, capable hand under the table and onto my thigh, sending little zips along its path. “Where the hell did Leaf find you?”

/>   “I found her,” I say, hiking his hand up higher, under the hem of my skirt.

  Jamie or Jeremy comes back around, glances at the ignored menus and makes an aggrieved sound. “No food?”

  Damien surprises me by keeping his hand up my skirt, tracing widening circles toward my panties. It’s deliciously distracting.

  “Didn’t we tell you no?” I say. “I refuse to eat anything from this place that’s not at least partially grain alcohol.”

  “So you said in your review,” Jamie/Jeremy grumbles.

  “She was right,” Damien says, but he’s looking at me as he says it. “I’ll take the bill.”

  On this pass, his finger skims all the way up to the lace band of my panties.

  “I can see you touching her under the table,” Jamie/Jeremy says, glowering at us. Damn. He really took that bad review to heart. “We may reuse our garnishes and serve frozen food, but this is a classy establishment.”

  “No, it’s not,” Damien says, not moving his hand. “And I tip well…when I get good service.”

  That’s enough to send Jamie/Jeremy scurrying off behind the counter. I suspect we don’t have much time, so I say, “Leaving so soon?”

  “We are, yes.”

  Damien’s so cocky, I’d like to pull a one-eighty and reject him just to teach him some manners. But the thing is…I don’t want him to learn manners. I like him like this—wild and sarcastic and unusual. I can see why people come to the theater for show after show, wanting to see what he’ll do next. He’s mesmerizing.

  “And what if I wanted to finish my drink first?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

  His fingers dust across my panties. “You don’t. If it’s anything like mine, it’s weak and flat, and I can make you a better one at my apartment.”

  “Huh. You make drinks too?”

  “I’m a man of many talents.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” I take a sip of my drink, which is truly terrible. “Who are you playing in the next show?”

  He frowns a little, as if I gave him whiplash by changing the conversation so fast. “The Dread Pirate Roberts.”

  “I thought you only did musicals.”

  “It is a musical.”

  “So you sing while you pillage towns and seduce women.”

  Amusement and lust flash through his eyes as his fingers brush across the front of my panties again. “Yes, Nicole. Yes, I do.”

  Jamie/Jeremy returns, tripping over his feet, and without looking at the bill, Damien withdraws his hand from my skirt, unfortunately, and slaps down some cash. “Let’s go.”

  “Okay, Pirate Roberts,” I say, taking in the sight of him. “I will come with you. But only because I have no choice.”

  The look he gives me wells between my legs, and he takes my hand, his grip sure and strong, and pulls me up from my chair. Then he surprises me by lifting me up off my feet, carrying me effortlessly in his arms. His hard, hot chest is pressed against me, and I can already tell that his body is every bit as spectacular as his face. Well, the upper half, at least. But a man like this has to have an impressive cock. Anything else would just be false advertising.

  “Bye, guys, have fun!” Jamie/Jeremy says, much more cheerful now that he’s been overtipped.

  Damien doesn’t answer, just looks down at me with plenty of smolder and leaves the restaurant.

  “You going to carry me all the way home, Dread Pirate Roberts?”

  “I live two blocks away.”

  “You said you’d never heard of that restaurant,” I say, amused by the stares we’re getting from people on the sidewalk. One particularly brazen woman even snaps our photo.

  “I make a point of not hearing about places like that.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, running a hand over his T-shirt and arms. It’s a black shirt, nothing special, but the way his arms and chest fill it out is enough to give a girl thoughts. I’m so turned on, I could spontaneously combust. It’s an intoxicating feeling, like dancing on the edge of a cliff, music blasting. Maybe that’s why I’m so screwed up. This feeling, this high, is something I can’t help but seek. But even I’m smart enough to know that pursuing anything other than a very pleasurable afternoon with this man is as stupid as dancing over the cliff. You never want to dance over the cliff.

  Still, I can have it for today.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NICOLE

  I’m not used to being surprised. Most men are predictable. They follow schedules. They eat the same breakfast every day (or none at all). They walk the same way to work. They fuck around with women who look identical to their wives. But Damien is proving unpredictable.

  He carries me all the way up to his apartment—a third-floor loft that’s on the small side but big enough that I know he’s not paying for it with Goldfish and juice boxes. I have a split second to take it in—the living area is clean and tidy, and there are a surprising number of matching throw pillows on the couch—and then he starts to lower me against the door.

  I stop him by wrapping my legs around his waist.

  “Who are you?” he asks, giving me a look that suggests I’m defying his expectations too.

  “I’m Nicole,” I say with plenty of attitude. “I like shitty restaurants and dislike most people. Haven’t you been paying attention? I don’t like repeating myself.”

  He leans me back against the door, my legs still encircling his waist, his dick pressing into me, needy and hard in a way that suggests I won’t be disappointed.

  “Oh, I’ve been paying attention, Nicole,” he says. “You’re the sexiest misanthrope I’ve ever met.” He leans in and kisses me, sucking on my bottom lip and ending with a bite that has me digging my nails into his back through his shirt.

  He groans, then pulls slightly back, studying me. “Is your hair really pink, or is that a wig?”

  “Why don’t you pull on it and find out?” I ask, giving him a look of challenge.

  Staring into my eyes, he reaches up with one hand, the other still pinning me to the door, and tugs the back of my hair until my head tips back. Then he lowers his lips to my neck, kissing and sucking and biting. His lips are soft, but they’re demanding, just like I’d hoped.

  The slight pain mixed with a flood of pleasure is intoxicating as hell, especially with his cock rubbing against me through his pants and my dress. Even more so as his lips trace down my neck. When he reaches the wood buttons of my dress, he reaches up with one hand and rips the neckline open a little, one of the buttons pinging away, revealing the bees tattooed beneath my collarbone. The move is sexy as hell, and I’m reminded of my wish to role-play. Because if anything could make this even better—

  I snap my head up. “Do you have a pirate hat in here?”

  He doesn’t look surprised so much as gratified. Kind of like he was hoping I’d ask.

  “I do.”

  “Wear it,” I insist, and he lets me slide down his body, as if he wants me to take notice of how hard he is for me.

  Like I could have missed it.

  “Only if you will too.” He’s giving me that cocky-as-hell grin again, and there’s admiration and humor in his eyes. His hand lingers on my ass and gives it a squeeze.

  “So you want me to be another pirate instead of your wench?”

  His grin spreads wider. “Wenches are boring. The Dread Pirate Roberts exclusively fucks other pirates.”

  There he goes again, being unpredictable.

  “Kinky,” I say, trying not to show that I like what he said. Reaching down, I trace his hard dick through his pants. “Pirates take what they like,” I say. “I think I could get behind being a pirate.”

  He leans in and kisses me, squeezing my ass again, his tongue plundering my mouth while mine plunders his. When he finally pulls back, it takes him a second to recover. I like that too.

  Smiling, his gray-blue eyes sparkling, he says, “The high seas will never know what hit them.”

  Then he takes my hand and tugs me through the living space and into his bedroom.

  For a second, I’m disappointed. His bedroom is so generic it could have been stolen from a Pottery Barn catalogue. There’s a king-size bed with more of those throw pillows—does he buy them in bulk?—and two matching nightstands with matching lamps. Across from the bed is a dresser topped with a TV.