by RC Boldt
Well, a version of Martha who’s male and handsome, of course.
Now that I think about it, Dax is fast becoming one of those guys who gets more attractive as you get to know them. The more you learn and peer beneath their layers, the more intriguing they become.
Not that I’m interested in him like that, of course. He’s not only my friend, but my client, too. Plus, it’s no secret he doesn’t date women who look like me.
Which reminds me…
“Can I ask you something that’s… a little personal?” I wince, but hey, we’re friends, and friends talk and are free to ask questions, right? And quite honestly, for some reason, it’s something that’s been nagging me.
“Sure.” He’s moved from where we’d been sitting at the large kitchen island to wash our dishes.
Get this, the guy doesn’t like to run the dishwasher unless it’s a large load with a bunch of dirty dishes and silverware from a get-together. He’s a freaking unicorn, I swear. Does dishes without any complaints. Isn’t fazed by menstrual cycles. Bakes and cooks. Is sweet and handsome as all get-out.
Total unicorn.
“Um, well.” I try to figure out how to pose my question in the least intrusive way… and promptly fail. Screw it. I’ll just come out and ask. “Is there a reason you never date women who are, well, white?”
The pause in scrubbing the plate is nearly infinitesimal, but I catch it and wince, hoping I haven’t touched on a subject that angers him.
Great job, I berate myself. Go ahead and piss off your friend who’s gone out of his way to salvage your birthday from the gutter.
Not immediately responding, he rinses the plate and places it on the drying rack. He dries his hands on the towel and leans against the counter facing me. I get the feeling he’s stalling and trying to carefully form an answer.
Finally, he tucks the towel through one drawer handle, and his eyes settle on me with unnerving intensity. “It’s not a pretty story.”
I lean in closer, resting my forearms on the cool granite. “It’s none of my business.” I offer an apologetic look. “I’m sorry if I—”
“Don’t apologize.” His voice is more gruff than I think either of us expect because his expression morphs into one of remorse, and he exhales slowly. “During my senior year in high school, I hit my stride with football. I was flying high. Plus, I was set to be valedictorian of my class. Things were great.”
He slides his hands into the pockets of his shorts and looks away, his sightless gaze caught up in memories with a wistful quirk of his lips. “I hadn’t dated much, but I had a serious crush on the head cheerleader. She was the stereotypical beautiful blond, blue-eyed captain of the cheerleading squad. Everyone fawned over her. For a while, she started paying me attention.
“She’d compliment me on the plays I’d had in a game over the weekend, how well I’d run the ball, et cetera. It morphed into us having study dates for chemistry class—which I excelled at, but she’d been struggling with—at my house and then sneaking kisses between classes at school. She’d come over to prep for tests, and at the end of the semester, when we got our grades, things suddenly changed.”
I frown in confusion, wondering where this story is leading.
He raises his eyes to mine. “I was floored when she started acting like I’d contracted the plague the next day at school. I stopped by her locker like usual and went to kiss her. She backed away with this look of pure disgust. Like being near me made her physically ill.”
My stomach twists itself in knots, knowing whatever he’s about to divulge next won’t be good.
“She laughed and pushed me away. Said she’d only needed my help to get her on track with her chem grade. Her position on the squad was at risk due to her grade and…” He trails off for a moment, and my breath lodges in my throat. “Then she told me she’d never be caught dead dating a black dude, regardless of whether I was half black or not. That I should stick with my own kind.”
I gasp, unable to withhold my reaction. “Dax.”
He shrugs as if it’s nothing. “It’s the past, but I guess it’s always lingered in the back of my mind.”
I slip off the barstool and rush around the counter to hurl myself at him. With my arms wrapped around him, and my cheek pressed against his firm chest, I murmur, “She’s an asshole. Tell me where she lives, and I’ll sign her up for subscriptions to animal porn or something.”
His chest rumbles beneath me, and I bask in the fact that I made him laugh, at least a little. He pulls me snug against him before pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. “It’s all good,” he says in a subdued, hushed tone. “But I’m kind of glad you brought it up because it tells me I need to work on that. Self-improvement and all.”
I scoff before whispering, “I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”
“Think so?”
I nod against his chest and breathe him in. God, he always smells so damn good.
“Did you just sniff me?” I’m thankful for the humor laced in his voice rather than the haunted quality it had just moments ago.
“Not my fault you smell so good,” I tease, then sobering, I lower my voice. “Can I just stay here for a moment longer without this being weird? Because I think we could both use a really great hug right now.”
He answers me by drawing his arms tighter and releases a barely audible breath. “You’re good for my soul, you know that?”
I snuggle against him contentedly and whisper softly, “Likewise.”
Unfortunately, there’s no denying the fact that once I find him a perfect match, our dynamic will change. I’ll be back to square one.
Solo once again.
So, I bask in his embrace, in the way he holds me like I’m something precious and fragile, while I can. Like I’m important to him. Like he doesn’t want to let go anytime soon.
And deep down, a part of me yearns for him to never let go.
“Darce.” A heavy hand grasps my shoulder and gives me a gentle jostle. “You’ll hurt your neck. You need to head to bed.”
I’m so tired, I can barely open my eyes let alone shake off the sleep that’s pulled me under. The exact moment I realize where I’m at—not at home, but with my cheek resting on a mammoth-size muscly thigh—and who I’m with causes me to sit up with a jolt.
“Shit!” My hands fly to my hair to smooth down what I’m certain is a mess. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.” I gesture to Dax’s lap and cringe at the sight of a wet spot on his thigh from where I evidently drooled on him.
I freaking drooled on the guy’s leg. Kill me now.
I cover my face with my hands and let out a groan of mortification. “Can the floor just open up and swallow me, please?” Then I squint at him from between my fingers. “I’m sorry.”
He grins. “For falling asleep on me? Or for the drool?” Amused, he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Or for mumbling in your sleep about how I’m the most amazing man you’ve ever known?”
I snicker. “Whatever.” At his pointed expression, I roll my eyes, and add, “All of the above.”
The grin widens, and he flashes that perfectly white, toothy smile he’s known for. “Apology accepted.” He returns his attention to ESPN SportsCenter on TV, which appears to be wrapping up.
Oh my God! SportsCenter comes on late at night—that much I know.
“Exactly how long have I been asleep?”
A smile colors his voice. “Only for about six hours or so, Rip Van Winkle.”
“Hey!” I nudge him with my elbow, and he grunts playfully before turning off the TV and getting up from the couch.
“I need to get you ready for bed.”
My head snaps up in surprise. He just laughs and ruffles my hair affectionately. “All girls should have a slumber party on their birthday.” He heads toward the stairs and stops at the bottom step. “Come on up, and I’ll get you a change of clothes.”
I slowly rise from the couch and smooth down my now wrinkled clo
thes. I approach where he stands at the bottom of the stairs. “Slumber parties normally consist of staying up all night and talking about boys.”
“And braiding each other’s hair,” he supplies quickly.
I eye his short hair pointedly. “Apparently, that activity’ll be one-sided.”
He releases an exaggerated sigh. “Guess I’m shit outta luck, then.” Then he fixes a hopeful expression on me. “But I do have nail polish from when Violet stays with me.” He starts up the stairs.
I trail him, but I can’t disguise my dubious tone. “You want to paint each other’s nails?”
“If it’s something you want to do on your birthday, then sure.”
He says this casually as if it’s no big deal. Like all guys go around freely offering to paint nails with a woman on her birthday.
Once we get to the top of the stairs, he takes a left turn and disappears in one of the rooms on the right. I follow him and hover in his bedroom doorway. The covers on the enormous bed look hastily tossed back as though an afterthought.
His back is to me while he rummages through a dresser drawer. I gaze longingly at the bed. At Dax’s bed.
I know he’ll show me to a guest room because that would be the appropriate thing to do. He certainly should not let a female friend sleep in the same bed with him.
But it sure would be nice to snuggle.
Oh, shit. I stand even straighter as an edge of panic weaves its way through me.
I’m getting way too attached.
“Let me find something for you to wear to bed, and I’ll let you get some rest. We both have a long day tomorrow, right?” With a quick glance, he flashes me an easy smile.
“Tomorrow?” I pose slowly, wondering what he’s referring to.
“The mixer.” He shoves the drawer shut and turns to pad over to me. When he offers me a large T-shirt and a pair of boxers, I accept them gratefully.
“Oh! Yes, that’s right.” My words come out rushed, and I hate the underlying nervousness evident even to my own ears.
Dax merely eyes me with a hint of amusement. “Let me show you to your room.”
I step aside to let him pass through the doorway ahead of me. As he strides down the hall, I allow my eyes to skim along the back of those formidable shoulders and the solid, sinewy arms that held me earlier. He has the kind of embrace that makes the rest of the world fade away. Like he can single-handedly slay dragons.
I sure wish I’d had a Dax long ago.
Darcy
Just shy of sixteen years old
Brentwood, Tennessee
SPEAK THE TRUTH EVEN IF YOUR VOICE SHAKES.
I hold my head high even amid the sneering I receive as the two cops escort me out of the house. One carries a single black trash bag containing all my belongings.
This house has never been a home.
The ornate mini-mansion served as a disguise to the depravity living inside.
This house had turned into a living nightmare. It’d been where, once again, the people who should have protected me, failed.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” the perfect PTA mother and mayor’s wife yells in outrage.
“We’re pressing charges, young lady!” The mayor eyes me like I make his stomach roil.
And him. The golden boy himself doesn’t bother to hide the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Captain of the football team. The most popular guy in our high school. The guy nearly every girl swoons over.
Dark blond hair that’s always perfectly styled, a smile so flawless it could be featured in an orthodontist’s brochure, Lacoste shirts with the collars popped just so, and the BMW SUV he got for his sixteenth birthday all mask the sick, demented boy beneath the seemingly perfect handsome features and muscular physique.
He leans in toward me at the last minute. “You’re gonna regret this.”
I know the officers believe he’s angry because of what happened. Or rather, what he claims happened.
He looks a little rougher around the edges due to the wounds I inflicted. That satisfied gleam in his eyes is because he’s successfully twisted the story. This family’s endless cash flow will ensure his claims are accepted as the truth.
My police escorts are too busy muttering to one another about how teens today are “nothing but trouble.” I refuse to leave with an ominous cloud of guilt hanging over me.
I jerk and quickly turn, breaking from the officers’ hold on my forearms to face him and that satisfied, cocky grin. With as much force as I can, I drive my knee up between his legs and into his groin hard enough to know my knee will be bruised like hell.
But it’s worth it.
Chaos immediately ensues. I’m rushed—practically dragged—out the door, but I hear nothing. I block out the exclamations of outrage and derogatory comments in my wake.
Soon, I’m quarantined in the back seat of a police car that reeks of body odor and vomit. Only then do I release a long sigh.
It’s one mixed with both relief and satisfaction. I scowl at the fear that weaves its way into my emotions. Because I know I’ll have this hanging over me for the rest of my life. I’ll be tainted.
As we head toward the precinct and the scenery flashes past my window in a blur, I make a promise right then. A simple vow to myself.
Never again.
22
Darcy
The incessant vibrating ringtone of my phone rouses me from the best sleep I’ve had in a while. Dax made sure I had my purse and cell phone before he’d wished me good night. His final birthday hug had warmed me through to my core.
I reach out and feel around the bedside table for where I’d left my phone, silently cursing the person on the other end for waking me.
Then, in my still-present sleep fog, I do what I never do.
I answer without checking the caller ID.
“Hello?” Sheesh, my voice sounds husky, like I—
“Oh my god! You’ve had birthday sex!”
The shrieking voice has me wincing painfully. I pull the phone away, certain she’s ruptured my eardrum. Cautiously, I bring the phone back, still a good two inches away from my ear, and whisper, “I now have one working eardrum, Ivy. Please tone it down.”
Thankfully, she drops her voice to a more normal level. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday, Darce.” The anguish in my sister’s tone soothes the tiny cracks in my heart. I know she’s had her hands full, and there’s no way she’d willingly forget.
“I know. And it’s okay.” I realize I’m not merely placating her. I’m telling her the truth. It is okay.
Because Dax made it that way.
Her voice drops even lower. “So, how about telling me why you have the I’ve just been sexed up voice?”
I make a derisive sound. “I spent the night at Dax’s.” When an audible gasp sounds on her end, I rush to finish with, “In the spare bedroom.”
I turn over to lie on my back with a sigh. “Ivy, we’re friends. Get the crazy ideas out of your head.”
“I don’t have crazy ideas.”
“You do.”
“I do not. I just know the power that man’s smile holds.”
My lips form a slow smile. “Yeah, that dimple is crazy potent.”
It takes a moment for the silence on the other end to register. Shit.
“Huh. That dimple is crazy potent, isn’t it?” Ivy drawls.
Dammit. She’s getting ideas.
“No. Stop right now.”
“Stop what?” Ivy asks, feigning innocence.
“Ivy.” I drag out her name in warning.
“Darcy,” she mimics.
I whisper, “Please don’t make this into something it’s not. He’s my friend. And…” I trail off and have to clear my throat to work past the sudden tightness in my throat. “He means a lot to me.”
My sister exhales loudly. “Just… be careful.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “Always.”
“So. Tell me what you did for your birthday
.”
I cringe and carefully omit the part involving my bar visit. Instead, I entertain her with details about Dax feeding me, my baking lesson, and then falling asleep on his couch.
“You fell asleep?” Ivy’s tone is gentle with a hint of worry. “You need to stop working so damn hard.”
“Honestly, it was late. And it’s been one hell of a week.”
“That’s right. You have his mixer coming up.”
“Tonight.”
“Oh, crap! That’s tonight?” She lets out a long sigh. “I’m so out of the loop these days.”
“You have your hands full. It’s to be expected.”
“Yeah, I know.” My sister yawns loudly. “Man, this kiddo certainly didn’t start things off the smooth way.” She gives a little laugh. “Speaking of, when are you coming over to see your goddaughter?”
“I will this weekend if that works. I just wanted to give you guys some space, especially since you were dealing with… everything.”
Ivy snickers. “Go ahead and say it. My boobs were dying from this kid. Who knew a tongue and lip tie could make breastfeeding so damn painful? Ugh.” As if on cue, little Ella sounds in the background.
“Someone’s awake.”
“She’s so damn demanding,” Ivy jokes, but the underlying affection is clear in her tone. “I’m really sorry I missed your birthday, Darce. I suck. I promise I’ll make it up to you,” she adds softly. “And we’ll celebrate you being touted as the ‘Duchess of Dating.’” She singsongs the last part, but I can hear her pride.
“Oh, stop.” I laugh softly. “Go take care of that sweet girl. I’ll talk to you later. Love you.”
“Love you back.”
After ending the call, I stare up at the oversized blades of the ceiling fan circling above me. I need to get my butt in gear because the last thing I need—the last thing I want—is to wear out my welcome.
I rush to the en-suite bathroom and use the toothbrush and toothpaste he pointed out to me last night. I swear, he plans for everything. Last night, I’d poked around beneath the vanity and discovered nearly everything a guest could need. Body wash, shampoo, conditioner, razors, lotion, toothbrushes, and toothpaste. You name it, he has it stocked.