Page 68 of Wicked Pickle

“Never. Makes it easier.”

His jaw tightens. “For anyone?”

I shrug like maybe that’s true. “For now, it will be easier for you. Then it will be easier for whoever’s next.”

He lets out growl. “Tomorrow is my day off from the bar. Where will you be?”

I want it to be in his bed, but I can’t overplay my hand.

“I’m headed to the public library on Duvall.”

“To study?”

“Alone, probably. It’s my favorite library. They have the cutest room in back for book sales. It’s almost always empty, but if you stand in the right spot, you can see out over the stacks. While you’re reading, of course.”

Diesel lets out a long, slow breath. “Text me the address.”

Looks like there will be a next time.

CHAPTER 22

DIESEL

Merrick’s at the bar by the time I get there. He takes one look at me slamming my way into the back office and shakes his head.

He leans on the door frame. “You fucked her again. Already.” It’s not a question.

“What of it?” I drop into the chair and drag a set of delivery receipts toward me.

“Not your style. But then, not your usual woman.”

I shrug like it doesn’t matter in the least and start sorting the receipts into categories to be stuck in their appropriate files. Booze. Beer. Food. Paper goods.

Merrick raps the frame twice. “See you out front.” Then he’s gone.

I sit back, no longer pretending to look at the paperwork swimming in my vision. I can’t see anything but Symphony. It’s like I’m fourteen goddamn years old.

I open the drawer and drag out the sketch I did of her in the bridesmaid room. Was it only two days ago? I already see flaws in the work, details I know better. I snatch up a pen and start correcting what I can, then find myself turning the paper over and drawing a new one.

Symphony, on my bed, my hand on her neck, crosshatching on her cheeks to show the way they’ve pinked up. Legs wide, my dick aiming for her.

I drop the pen. This is an obsession. I’m no longer sketching to get something out of my head. I’m drawing her to keep her there.

But I can’t stop. I root around for a mostly blank invoice and use the edge of the desk to rip off the plain white section.

This new sketch is different, Symphony at the door of the classroom, looking cocky as she sticks paper to the window with gum.

Did we take that paper off? I’m not sure we did. Something fun for the custodians to find, like a used condom in an empty trash bag inside a locked room.

I finish the sketch and flip the paper over, starting another. Symphony on the bar, hip cocked out, dancing in a tank top. I take extra care with every curve, hips, shoulders, breasts.

I haven’t felt this way before, ever.

Still not feeling the control I’m seeking, I find another scrap of paper and this time focus solely on her face. Wisps of hair on her forehead, the tiny ears, her bright eyes. Those lips.

I take my time, putting in every detail from memory.

But somehow looking at only her face makes me feel even more hot, so I snatch up another half-used page and draw her bent over the desk, nipple peeking out from her flattened breast, naked ass in the air, and this time, I can make every fold and crease of her pussy to exact proportions.

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