Only Trick Read Online Free Page B

look from the outside. My fear is met with another toothless smirk.
    Smug ass!
    The elevator grinds to an equally jerky halt. Trick slides open the gate and steps off, turning on the lights. With less hesitation than before, I follow him like a horse he’s breaking with fear, not trust. He lives in an old warehouse. It has monstrous open ceilings with exposed duct work and conduit and a panoramic grid of windows at the far end. The walls are all naked red brick and there’s a spiral iron stairway in the distant corner, leading to an open loft area.
    “I’ll get you a jacket.”
    “I’m fine.” I force myself to stop the nervous friction of my hands rubbing against my arms. It has to be eighty degrees on this upper level, but I still have chills.
    Trick continues to the stairway, of course not acknowledging a word I’ve said.
    This place is void of interior walls with the exception of two translucent glass brick walls about ten feet high near a cluster of bedroom furniture. Watching the stairway for his return, I ease my way over and peek around the corner of glass—it’s a bathroom. Shuffling on my toes to silence my heels, I move toward the kitchen so he doesn’t see me snooping near his bedroom area. With my hands clasped behind my back in innocence, I wait for Trick. Beyond the sitting area in the middle of the room are multiple figures near the far windows. The dim lighting makes it impossible to tell if it’s more furniture or something else. It looks like different things draped with sheets.
    “Here,” Trick says coming down the stairs, holding out a black leather jacket.
    “I like your place.”
    He raises a single disbelieving brow at me.
    “I do. I like the industrial feel.”
    He gives me a slow yeah-sure-you-do nod, clearly not convinced. In my own home I surround myself with modern decor trimmed in clean lines and very little clutter. Step-mommy Rachel thinks it has a hideous “sterile” feel to it: stainless steel appliances, white and shades of gray paint, and all hard surface flooring.
    “You’re a man of very few words, Patrick Roth.” I smile, hoping to capture the ultimate prize—a return smile.
    “It’s Trick, and maybe you’re a woman of too many words. Put the jacket on. Let’s go.”
    “You could offer me a drink.” Internally, I grimace. Where did that come from? I have no idea what I’m doing or what’s my angle—my motivation. It might be fifty percent stupidity and fifty percent curiosity. Okay, more like seventy-thirty.
    He sighs. “I don’t have anything to offer you.”
    What does that mean? Are we still talking beverages or something else, as in he’s gay and I’m not?
    “Wine?”
    He shakes his head.
    “Beer?”
    Another shake.
    “Tea?”
    No shake, just a glare—a you-just-woke-the-beast glare.
    Don’t say it; don’t say—
    “Water?” I whisper, a squint of apprehension on my face.
    Gah! I’m pathetic.
    His jaw clenches as he turns. Retrieving a bottled water from his refrigerator, he tosses it to me. I catch it and stare at it for a few seconds.
    “What?” he says with biting aggravation.
    My nose wrinkles. “Well, my teeth are sensitive. I can’t drink cold water.” God’s honest truth.
    He rests his hands on his hips and looks up at the ceiling, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.
    “I’m fine with tap water.” I squeak the words out like I’m waiting for the ceiling to collapse.
    He grabs the bottle from my hands, screws off the top, and gulps down the contents. Then he fills it with tap water, glancing back at me with an evil scowl. “Jacket. Go. Now!” He hands the bottle to me, brushing past to the elevator.
    The clicking of my heels echoes with each step as I hurry to catch up. On the descent, I take a small sip of the water and give him a sheepish sidelong glance. He doesn’t look at me, eyes firm ahead, hands fisted.
    *
    Leaving me and my lukewarm water on the elevator as if I no longer exist, he flips on another single