The Waiting Game (Garvey Fields) Read Online Free Page B

frown, but it passed, it always passed. I looked at my hands; the palms callused from lifting heavy weights, and smiled. I liked the fact that I hardened skin from weight training; I’d worked hard for my six pack, pecs and big arms. I wasn’t going to win Mr. Olympia and I wasn’t a freak of nature NFL player but I was strong and looked solid enough to deter only the drunk or high.
    My nicely polished patent leather shoes carried me to an arch way that acted as the doorway to the lounge, and stepped onto the redwood flooring. The music was much louder now, annoyingly so, but the brunette who looked like Alicia Vikander, didn’t seem to be bothered. She just sat on an oversized leather couch and sipped a tall glass of Baileys. She had a remote in her hand and changed the track to Tinashe Pretend . She was curled up with her bare feet under her and had populated the couch with most of the loose pillows from other couches as though she were in the midst of a lumpy duvet.
    She didn’t turn her head when my shoes met the flooring, so I took the opportunity to look her over. She's was tall, about five foot nine or ten inches, green eyed and high cheek boned. Her breasts were about a 32C, and she was slim, owning a fabulous pair of legs with a great ass. Her legs were shown off by short denim shorts, her dark tanned and very flat stomach was on display as she reclined because her t-shirt was designed to lift. I was behind her and could see down her top at the rounded mounds of her breasts loose in an untied bikini top, the temptation to slip my hand down was overwhelming.
    “You going to stare all night or say something?” she said opening her green eyes and looking at me directly.
    “You like Tinashe, Miss Cormount?” I asked politely.
    She didn’t say anything, just stared. She had nice eyes and the dim light made them look bigger and softer, but they looked empty and without expression.
    “You like Usher,” I added eventually.
    “Not to get all weepy over,” she said in a toneless voice.
    I rocked back on my heels and looked at her; she turned the volume down on the sound system.
    “The bar staff said it was okay to hang here a little, I get lonely in my room, is it okay?” she said or asked or suggested. I wasn’t sure because her voice had suddenly gotten all deep and husky.
    “As long as you keep it down a little and are back in your suite by four I’m fine, don’t want the management getting all testy, know what I mean?”
    “I don’t mind Usher,” she said. “He makes money, you know the right way and you’ve got to respect it. I just, I just like my music with a story that means something, like Marvin Gaye or Maxwell.”
    “Maybe you could like a little Mozart,” I said.
    “Whatever, you think I'm too young for that kind of music?”
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty nine.”
    “Oh,” I said, she looked about twenty one.
    “It’s Pilates,” she said answering my unasked question.
    “So what, do you work out to?”
    “Why do you give a shit, wanna watch me do squats or something?”
    “Nah, just interested in how music can act as a conduit to the change in mood which essential means a musician can be an acoustic alchemist.”
    “I thought you were security,” she said, arched her back, shook herself out a little and closed her eyes. I glanced down her top again, she had shaken off her bikini top to show me her soft breasts with brown nipples.
    “Sing me a song,” she said.
    “It’s too late and my singing voice only works after nine and breakfast.”
    She let out a loud sigh, “I know what you want, I know you sneak glances at me when you think I'm not looking,” she said.
    I hadn’t tried to be subtle about it.
    “So why have you been watching me?” she said.
    The answer was obvious, but experience had taught me not follow my first thoughts or loins. She could be an exhibitionist type flirt who enjoyed attention from black men. If I tried to jump her bones, cop a feel or