Make Me Page 3

  Abby’s litany of Italian curses was stayed when a commotion to her left captured her attention. Warmth flickered and glowed in her chest when she saw Russell arguing with a police officer, trying to get through the makeshift barrier. Oddly, a part of her had been expecting him even if she hadn’t consciously acknowledged it. The officer seemed adamant about keeping him out, but Abby pressed her hands to her heart and gave the man a pleading look, finally succeeding in making him relent.

  Russell was by her side a split second later, kneeling on the concrete and running his eyes over every inch of her. He was filthy, sweating, and breathing heavy. One of the most welcome sights she’d ever encountered in her twenty-four years. “Ankle?” he barked over the sound of shouting and sirens.

  She nodded.

  “How?”

  Abby was so busy marveling over how good it felt to have someone there—just for her—that she forgot the question. “What?”

  He appeared to implore the sky for patience. “How’d you hurt your ankle? Were you . . . were you close to the blast? Has a paramedic looked at it yet?”

  “No to both questions. And I don’t need a paramedic.” She clapped a hand over his mouth when he started to argue. “It’s really stupid. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “No, but tell me anyway.” His voice was muffled against her hand. “I need a moment.”

  She wanted to question him about that statement, but his deepening frown told her it wasn’t a good time. “The blast happened across the street while I was going down the emergency stairwell. That’s where I was when you called. I dropped my phone.” It occurred to her then that Honey and Roxy were probably worried. “Can you—”

  “We’ll call them in a minute. Finish the story.”

  His irritable tone made her grin. Who needed continual approval? Not her. That she could continually piss off Russell and yet he kept showing up? Never staying away for long periods of time no matter what happened? It made her feel as though she was more than just a sum of her accomplishments. “When I bent down to pick up my phone—because I could hear you yelling at me—my high heel slid back and got caught in the gap between stairs. I fell forward, and my ankle stayed where it was.”

  Russell seemed to be counting to ten as his eyes closed.

  “Are you going to do that thing where you pinch the bridge of your nose at me?” She tilted her head, studying his expression. “It seems like a good time for that one.”

  Instead of answering, his hands shot out and retrieved the high heels from her feet, taking special care not to jostle her hurt ankle. Then he snapped the heel off of each shoe, in turn, and threw them into the nearest sewer grate.

  Abby’s jaw dropped on a gasp and stayed that way as Russell scooped her up off the sidewalk. “You are unbelievable, Abby,” he growled. “A gas leak leads to an explosion. The entire city block is being evacuated, and you think it’s a good time to fall down some goddamn stairs. You could have broken your neck.”

  “Russell, those were Roxy’s shoes.”

  “Fine by me.” He turned them sideways, squeezing past the barricade. “So long as you can’t borrow them anymore.”

  “She’ll never let me borrow anything now.”

  “You see this?” His voice boomed down at her, but against the backdrop of police radios and emergency vehicles, it was a comfort. “Those shoes could have cost you your life, and yet you defend them. New theory. When it comes to shoes, women have Stockholm Syndrome.”

  “You’re just trying to take my mind off being scared.”

  She thought she heard him respond with I’m trying to take my mind off of it, but he was temporarily drowned out by sirens. When they crossed the street into slightly quieter surroundings, he glanced down at her, then away. “You were scared?”

  “Terrified.” Abby forced herself to keep a straight face. “I forgot to back up my work on the computer. If the building had exploded, I would have lost a full day.” That earned her a glare. She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder just as they reached his truck, which he’d essentially abandoned in the middle of a side street. “That was good thinking, parking outside the blast zone.”

  “Stop making jokes about it, Abby.” He lifted her higher against his chest and opened the passenger-side door before setting her down easy on the ripped seat. The interior smelled like paint, sweat, and pine, such a pleasing combination that she took a deep inhale. She reached for the seat belt, but Russell beat her to the task, strapping the worn nylon across her body and securing it with a click. Without a job to occupy himself, he appeared at a loss for what to do with his hands, but eventually he crossed his arms high over his chest. Then he just looked at her. “I knew it as soon as I heard the sirens, Abby. Knew you’d somehow manage to be in the middle of all this. Do you know how I knew?”

  “How?”

  “There’s a belief that men and women can’t be friends. Have you heard that one?”

  Abby shook her head. Russell shifted in his boots, a telltale sign he was getting ready to impart a crazy, new theory. She propped her fists under her chin in anticipation.

  “This is the universe telling us we broke code.” He nodded once, as if to emphasize his point. “I made friends with someone determined to step on broken glass or fall headfirst down a set of stairs, and now I have to run all over the place making sure it doesn’t happen. I don’t have to do this with Ben or Louis.”

  “Because they’re men.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re thinking I’m sexist.”

  “I’m not thinking, I’m knowing.”

  “Ah, but I don’t have to worry about Roxy or Honey, either.” The corner of his mouth tugged. “See that? Maybe I’m not sexist. Maybe I’m just an Abbyist.”

  Hoping to disguise the hurt—even over an obvious joke—she pushed back her shoulders. “I’m glad you came, but I would have made it home on my own, Russell. I’m fully capable of taking care of myself even with these pesky ovaries.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I hereby absolve you of any extra responsibility you believe my Abby-ness has burdened you with. You’re off the hook.”

  His shoulder jerked beneath her touch. “I never said I wanted to be off the hook.” Muttering beneath his breath, he leaned down to inspect her ankle. “Why were you sitting there alone? I thought your father worked in the same office.”

  Abby kept her features schooled, but her heart had leapt into her throat. “He had a meeting uptown. He and my stepmother are probably calling my phone nonstop.”

  “All right.” Russell handed her his phone with a grim smile. “Call everyone and let them know you’re alive. I’ll worry about getting you home.”

  He started to shut the passenger door, but she stopped him. “Russell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m really glad we’re friends.” She clutched the phone against her chest. “Even if you are an awful chauvinist sometimes.”

  Chapter 3

  THE RED LIGHT turned green, but Russell’s foot felt glued to the brake. A car honked, effectively reminding him he was operating a motor vehicle and needed to stop zoning out. Although zoning out would have been a welcome change to picturing Abby cartwheeling down a staircase while chaos reigned around her. Picturing her huddled on the sidewalk, seeing her attempt to stand and failing over and over again. She’d been right across the street from a fucking explosion. Even now, emergency vehicles blew past him, heading toward the still-fresh scene while he and Abby drove toward Chelsea.

  Russell focused on Abby’s musical voice as she spoke into his phone, listing her symptoms to Honey—a premed student at Columbia. He was grateful she had phone calls to occupy her on the drive, mainly because it prevented him from relaying any more bonehead philosophies. You’re off the hook. Goddamn, she had no clue how on the hook he actually was. He’d found her whole and healthy half an hour ago, and it still felt as though someone had taken a circular saw to his intestines. There was an inner voice chanting you almost lost her, y
ou almost lost her, when in reality, he didn’t have her. At all. Couldn’t have her.

  A newer, more intense awareness beat in his gut now, though. He might have put up a good front to Abby, but the truth was, he craved the privilege of being her hero. To not fail her, the way he’d failed on that long-ago day so firmly lodged in his memory. It was different with Abby, though. A different shape. Unique and . . . mighty. Looking out for her, taking her home to soothe her aches . . . it made his blood pump faster. Since they’d started driving, he’d had the same mental image several times, and it only got more explicit with each go-round. Carrying Abby up the stairs, laying her down on that pristine white bedspread and taking her mind off the pain. Getting rid of his own in the process. He wanted her legs spread, those wide, hazel eyes acknowledging that Russell took care of her, all while he drove his cock into her body. Jesus. As if he needed another reason for her to think of him as a raging sexist.

  Even worse, Russell knew why the need for Abby was at a fever pitch today. He earned an honest living with his hands. A living he was proud as hell of. But he had nothing to offer Abby, whose family could buy his family home and Hart Brothers Construction a thousand times without breaking a sweat. His protection was his offering, and he’d been allowed to somewhat utilize that part of him today. His traitorous gut was attempting to trick him into feeling worthy of Abby. He had to resist that false notion at all costs.

  Abby was meant for bigger and better things than him. Someone who could discuss The Grapes of Wrath or listened to that All Things Considered podcast he’d seen on her phone. Hell, someone who shopped at Brooks Brothers instead of borrowing clothes from his actual brother. But he could keep her safe until those things came along, and he’d be grateful for it. Now he just had to ignore his every instinct and keep his hands off even if they begged for the chance to squeeze her curves, stroke the sweet, untouched parts beneath her clothes. Christ. Why couldn’t he stay away from her? Russell knew the answer to that too well. Being around Abby was torture, but staying away was all-out murder.

  They drew close to Abby’s building and lucked out with a spot half a block away, on West Seventeenth Street. He gave Abby a look that said stay put, before rounding the car and plucking her off the seat. She tried to stay stiff in his arms, probably in light of his recent condescension, but gave in after about ten feet.

  “Did you get ahold of your father?”

  He frowned when she stiffened again. “I left a voice mail. He probably didn’t answer because of the unknown number.” That struck Russell as odd. If his loved one were missing, he would answer every single call that came through, hoping for news. “Anyway, our building wasn’t damaged, so my parents have to know I’m fine. I’m more worried about Honey’s experimenting on me when she gets home.”

  Over his dead body. “When will that be?”

  “Not until tonight. She’s running a Little League practice at her baseball field in Queens,” Abby explained, referring to the city-block-sized gift Ben had bestowed on her as part of the world’s best apology. “And I told Roxy to stay put at Louis’s. There’s no point in their running home when nothing is wrong with me. And you’re here.”

  I’m here. He almost laughed over how unthreatening she found him when he spent hours every day picturing her naked. Russell stopped at the front door to her building and waited as she searched through her purse for keys. Good God, the amount of shit these girls carried around in their purses. After he succeeded in getting them all to wear flats, downsized purses would be his next quest. His musings vanished as she turned those hazel eyes on him and moistened her pink lips.

  “You probably need to get back to work, too, right?”

  “Work,” he rasped. “Right.”

  Why was she looking at his neck? The spot she stared at felt hot, and he barely quelled the urge to rub at it. “If you want, you can stay and watch a movie.”

  Worst idea in history. “Which movie?”

  “The Notebook.” Abby laughed at whatever involuntary expression of distaste he’d made. “I’m kidding. Magic Mike.”

  “Abby.”

  “Kidding again.” Her smile blinded him. “I could go all day.”

  She unlocked the front and second inner door, finding her apartment key on the ring as he carried her toward the third floor. Russell tried his best to ignore the dark, primal satisfaction of returning her home safe, but it thumped inside him, a fist on a drum. He should leave now. No, he would leave now.

  That resolution was left in the dust when she wiggled free of his hold, giving him no choice but to set her down . . . and watch helplessly as she limped toward her bedroom. So much for primal. Russell dragged a hand down his face, over the scratchy beard forming on his jaw. He would rather take a sledgehammer to his own ankle than leave her alone with an injury. The next few hours were going to hurt.

  Russell went to the freezer and rummaged for a frozen bag of peas, tossing it once in his hand. Then, like a man marching to the gallows, he followed Abby toward her bedroom and hovered just outside her door. “You decent?”

  “Fully clothed.” Her yawn reached him. “Your virtue is safe.”

  Trying not to choke on the irony of that, Russell entered her room and came to a quick stop. Paperwork everywhere; on the floor, her dresser . . . every flat and semiflat surface. Stacks of it. Three laptops. Two whiteboards were propped against her closet, words and figures written on them that reminded him enough of high-school algebra to send a shiver down his spine. The last time he’d been in her bedroom was to kill a spider, but that had been months ago. He did everything in his power to keep their interactions as far away from a bed as humanly possible. But he remembered every detail of her room, and it definitely hadn’t looked like a NASA command center the last time he’d been there.

  He gestured to one of the whiteboards. “What is all this?”

  Abby sat on her bed, surveying the mess with what appeared to be detachment, but there was tension around her eyes. Still, she shrugged. “Work stuff.”

  Something about her tone, less upbeat than usual, bothered him. “Working some overtime lately?”

  “A little.”

  Why was she being so vague? A series of flashbacks from the last few weeks hit him one by one. Abby falling asleep beneath the fireworks, Abby not able to make it through a two-hour movie without passing out on his shoulder. Abby showing up late to the Longshoreman, still in her work clothes. “How much overtime are you working, exactly?”

  His slightly harsher tone seemed to break her out of a trance. “Russell, I love that you’re always angry with me, but can it wait until tomorrow?”

  Too much to process at once. “Always mad at you?” That was not true. Was it? Russell felt the sudden need to sit down. It seemed his life would be flashing before his eyes tonight because he flipped through every memory of Abby and couldn’t recall a single time he hadn’t been harsh with her. Of course, his attitude had only been a way to hide his sexual frustration. He’d never been mad at her, but she didn’t know that. “Why would you love my being angry with you?”

  She eased off her work blazer, letting it fall behind her on the bed. Just like that, he was a trapped animal, feeling the equal need to pounce and blow the joint at a full-out sprint. “Everyone is always happy with me.” Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “That sounds vain, doesn’t it? It’s true, though. I do what is expected of me. What I’m told. I say the right thing and dress in an appropriate manner for all occasions, despite your opinion of my footwear. I’m predictable. People don’t have any reason to get mad at predictable. But you . . . do. You get mad.”

  Russell was so focused on the words coming out of her mouth, he didn’t realize she’d been unbuttoning her blouse until it came off . . . revealing a white tank top. Thank God. Eyes up, asshole. She’s telling you something important. Russell heard himself swallow. “Predictable people don’t take a chance on two strangers as roommates, letting them move in the same day. Predictable people don�
��t almost get blown up. Or did you forget about that part of your day?”

  Her lips twitched. “I have a feeling you won’t let me forget.”

  “I don’t like that you think I’m always mad at you, Abby. That makes me feel like a dick.”

  She yawned again, tipping to the side. “Yes, but you’re my dick.”

  Aw, shit. He knew—he knew—she’d meant that in the most innocent way possible, but it didn’t stop his stomach muscles from knotting into a series of intricate patterns and pulling hard. Which made him a complete tool because the girl was clearly exhausted, eyes fluttering with the need to close. Worry beat back the majority of his desire as he surveyed the cluttered room once again. Was it normal for someone in her position to work so hard? Had she gotten a promotion?

  “Russell, stop thinking so hard and put on a movie.” She inched her way backwards on her elbows and collapsed back onto a pillow, making her tits bounce. Come on. What had he done to be tested like this? Grabbing the closest distraction like a lifeline, Russell leaned down and placed the bag of frozen peas on her ankle, adjusting it so it would remain in place. She was wearing nylons, but no way in hell was he taking those off, so the ice would have to do its job through the sheer material. When he looked up at Abby, she was smiling that my hero smile at him. It put the fucking sun to shame. “Wet Hot American Summer is on demand,” she said around a sudden yawn.

  “We’re watching it in here? What about the couch?” Code fucking red. Come up with an excuse to get her out of here. “Look at me.” He gestured to his grimy construction clothes. “I can’t lie on your white bedspread like this. I’ll leave an outline.”