by RC Boldt
“Dammit.” She lets out a long sigh. “Okay. I’ll just have him dig around a bit. I promise that’s all.”
“Please don’t compromise Jackie. She’s good people.”
She nods. With a concentrated expression on her face, she taps a few times and then brings the phone to her ear. Eyes on me, she promises, “We’ll figure this out.”
She must get an answer on the other end, because she asks them to hold on for a second. Turning to me, she holds my gaze, and the confidence in the depths sets me at ease a little more. “The main thing you need to know right now is what she said to you wasn’t the least bit true.”
With that said, she exits, murmuring softly on the phone, leaving Becket and me in the kitchen.
“Well, hell.” His laugh is tight, slightly forced. “If there ever was a time when I could use a stiff drink…” His mouth quirks up.
“You said it.” I slide onto a barstool with a tired sigh.
“So, what’s the plan in the meantime?”
I scoff. “I don’t have one.”
Across from me, Becket leans his forearms on the slab of granite that makes up the island. “Well, you could always call her bluff.”
I scrunch my face. “What?” Has he lost his mind?
He lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m saying, you could call her bluff on needing someone her own kind.”
I press the heels of my hands against my closed eyes. “I don’t know, man.”
“You’re scared.”
I drop my hands, anger surging to the forefront. But I realize my friend’s not trying to piss me off. He’s only stating the truth.
“Yeah,” I breathe out.
“I get it.”
And I know he does because I was around for the fallout with him and Ivy.
“Just consider it.” He shoves back from the granite and starts plating dinner. Our conversation shifts to safer topics, and the mood lifts, but possibilities plague the back of my mind.
If she lied to me, that might mean she still has feelings for me.
If she lied, she might be trying to protect me from something. Or she’s trying to protect herself.
Or both.
Long after I leave Becket and Ivy’s place and return home, my thoughts remain unsettled. Like a goddamn masochist, I sprawl in the large chair in my living room.
As soon as I lean back, I’m inundated with memories of her. Of Darcy watching me touch myself, letting me touch her. The way she kissed me, the way she touched me... The way she cried out my name when I made her come apart.
It couldn’t have all been her biding her time until she met someone else.
It just couldn’t have…
45
Darcy
Hitched® Tip #12:
Words hurt. They can cut deep. Always speak with great care.
♥
The first call—Thursday night
“Hello?”
“Are you alone?”
No hello in return. Just a deceptively calm question. God, I miss his voice. I pinch my eyes shut. Just the sound of his deep, gravelly voice makes my heart ache.
I miss him so damn much.
“Yes.” That’s all I can manage. I need to keep this short.
“Huh.”
Something in the way he utters that response has me bristling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dammit. I shouldn’t even be talking to him, let alone engaging with him like this.
“Just figured you’d already be doing filthy things with your new man.” His voice deepens when he adds, “Your man who’s your kind.”
My sharply indrawn breath betrays me.
“What? You don’t remember what you said to me?”
I swallow thickly. “I remember.”
“So, who’s this new man of yours?”
“You wouldn’t know him.” The words spill past my lips before I realize it, but it’s out of pure desperation. I can’t do this. He was supposed to be done with me. He’s supposed to hate me.
God, that hurts just thinking it.
But I can’t drag him down with me. Which is why I continue spouting off nonsense. “He’s tall and has blond hair and blue eyes. He’s perfect.”
His patronizing, “Mmmhmm,” grates on my nerves. Just when I decide to tell him not to call again, he catches me by surprise again.
“Does he lick your pussy as good as I did, Duchess?”
My breath catches in my throat. The filthy words combined with the husky quality of his voice send my mind replaying the times he put his mouth on me. How hard he made me come. The way I writhed on his tongue.
Unable to withhold the faint whimper at the barrage of images his question elicits, I hear him murmur, “That’s what I thought.” Arrogant satisfaction colors his tone, and when I begin to sputter, he cuts me off. “Sweet dreams, Duchess.” The call ends.
He freaking hung up on me.
Friday night’s call
“It’s Friday night, and you’re alone, huh?” His smug tone grates on my nerves. Not to mention, he’s apparently done with normal telephone greetings like hello or hi these days.
“Aren’t you?” I demand. God, why am I talking to him again? Evidently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
“Nah,” he says casually. “I’m hanging out with Katy.”
“Great. Well, you should probably get back to her, then.” When will it not hurt so bad?
“You okay over there, Duchess?” The concern in his voice is mixed with something that sounds like amusement. Which makes no sense.
“Fine.” My answer is clipped.
“I always thought Katy was cuter before she joined The Plastics.”
What the…? Is he on drugs? Why is he talking about his newest woman and her joining—
I clench my teeth as it dawns on me. “Dax Kendrick. Are you screwing with me?”
No doubt about it this time. He finds this amusing. “Not at all.”
Lies.
“You’re watching Mean Girls.” It’s not posed as a question but a statement.
“And you could be watching it with me. If you weren’t so busy with your new man who’s ‘your kind.’”
“Would you stop saying that?!”
“Why?” He’s far too calm. This only intensifies my agitation.
“Because you’re not even supposed to be talking to me!”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I—”
Oh, shit. I almost fell for it.
The other end grows quiet. “Tell me this. Is there even some other guy you’re interested in?”
Please sound convincing. Please sound convincing. Please sound convincing. “Yes.”
FAIL.
“Uh-huh.” A mixture of amusement and disbelief colors his voice. “Well, I’ve gotta run. Sweet dreams, Duchess.”
Just like the night before, he immediately ends the call.
Saturday night’s call
The next night, I vow to not answer. And I don’t. I send the call to voicemail.
When my phone begins ringing immediately afterward, I answer it with attitude pouring out of me.
“What?” I demand.
He tsks.
He. Freaking. Tsks.
“Duchess.” His low murmur sends shivers shimmying down the length of my spine. “You sound like you need something to help you relax.” His hesitation is so brief, I barely notice it. “Maybe you need to tell that new guy of yours to up his game. I could offer him some tips.” His tone is congenial as though he’s offering to share recipes or something. “Like how you moan louder when I suck on your—”
“That’s enough! Is there a legitimate reason you called?”
“To see how you and your new man were hitting it off,” he supplies easily.
I stare up at the ceiling and exhale loudly. “Please stop calling me.” There’s no heat behind my words. It’s more resigned than anything.
Defeated.
I’m greeted with sil
ence—enough that I think he’s hung up again without any notice.
“You aren’t going to wish me a good game tomorrow?” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was a hint of hurt in his voice.
“Have a good game tomorrow, Dax,” I say softly.
“Good night, Duchess. Sweet dreams.”
When he doesn’t abruptly end the call like usual, I whisper back, “Good night, Dax.”
After the call ends, I lecture myself about how this is for the best. But it doesn’t do much good.
I miss him even more.
Sunday night’s call
I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I hadn’t timed my shower and typical nighttime routine in preparation for the chance that Dax would call again.
The Jags had a home game against the Redskins, and it seemed like it was an easy win. Dax and Kyler looked much better than they had. The few games beforehand had been awkward to watch with the two of them not quite in sync.
My phone rings right as I’m crawling in my bed. I reach for where it sits on the nightstand and let it ring two more times. Hesitation has me answering it slower, maybe because I don’t know what he’s up to. Why he’s doing this. He hasn’t asked to see me, to come over, or to have me over.
I can’t figure him out for the life of me. Why won’t he just leave things be?
“Hello, Dax.” Damn the breathlessness that enters my voice.
“Hey, Duchess.” I close my eyes as his voice washes over me. He sounds tired, but there’s definitely an underlying happiness there.
“Congratulations on another win.”
Surprise edges into his tone with a little hint of affection, too. “You watched me play?”
Shit. This is not keeping your distance, I internally scold myself. Opting for a nonchalant tone, I offer, “I was flipping through the channels…”
His husky laughter greets my ears. “Of course.”
He doesn’t believe me. But he’s right to be dubious. I watched every single minute of the game. My concentration was especially fierce when he was on the field. It’s ridiculous, but I felt closer to him simply by watching him on the television.
His voice drops an octave. “I hoped you might watch me play.”
I need to change the subject. “Look, I think it’s best to stop these calls from here on out.”
There. That sounded confident and was straight to the point.
A long sigh greets me.
“You still never told me about your new man.” Silence hangs between us before he adds, “You know… the one you broke up with me for.”
I heave out a long, frustrated breath. “I can’t do this.”
“There’s no reason we can’t still be friends.”
“I can think of a million reasons,” I shoot back, my exasperation getting the best of me.
“What would those be?” he asks with maddening calmness.
“The fact that you’re intimately acquainted with my vagina is one of them.”
His laughter travels through the phone and swirls around me, taunting me with its intoxicating warmth. “As adults, can’t we get past that?”
“I think it’s best we don’t spend any time together.”
“Why do you think it’s best?” All humor has evaporated from his voice, leaving behind an odd edge.
I can’t do this. “Please don’t call back.” My voice is a pleading whisper. “I’ll have to block your number. It’s just… It’s better this way.”
There’s no response aside from a frustrated grunt.
“Good luck with the rest of the season,” I offer diplomatically.
“Will you be watching? Will you cheer me on?” A hint of vulnerability has edged its way into his tone.
For this reason, I give in, and admit, “Of course.”
Silence.
He ends the call after a softly spoken, “Then good night, Duchess.”
I set my phone aside after blocking his number and stare at it until it becomes blurry and out of focus.
Only then do I realize it’s because I’m crying.
46
Darcy
I lean back in my chair with a long-drawn-out sigh, only to wince. Gingerly, I pat my right side, closer to my hip where the bandaged skin lies beneath my clothing. I’d decided to add another tattoo because, as crazy as it may seem to others, having this inked on my skin gives me more courage.
Speak the truth even if your voice shakes.
The tattoo serves as an insistent reminder of what I need to do.
I tried to be strong and stand up for myself before, but I failed because my voice wasn’t loud enough. Because I wasn’t confident enough, and I allowed the power of money to silence me.
This time will be different. This time I’ll ensure I’m heard. That my voice reaches each individual whose own voice may not be as strong or as loud as mine. For those who might be afraid to speak out.
This time, I refuse to let fear rule me. I won’t allow someone else’s voice to overpower my own, despite the fact it might boom louder.
Back then, he was louder, but all he spread was lies. Denials.
Now it’s my turn to be loud, to amplify my voice. To spread truth and reveal him for what he really is.
Before, I wanted to be brave, strong, and capable, but I didn’t believe in myself enough.
I won’t dare move forward until I speak with Ivy, though. It struck me as odd when she’d informed me of her plan to start back to work today of all days: the Friday prior to Christmas. I hate to do this on her first day back, but I need to sit down and discuss everything with her. And with Becket, too, for that matter.
Voices carry down the hall, alerting me to their arrival.
“I don’t see why you can’t stay home a little while longer.”
“Because I’ll go batshit crazy—erase that from your memory, Ella—if I stay home any longer.”
I have to work hard at stifling my snicker at Ivy’s response.
“I just don’t want you to overdo it.” There’s a hint of worry in Becket’s voice.
“I’ll be fine.” I recognize my sister’s resolute tone. There’s no changing her mind once she’s set her sights on something.
With a sigh, I rise from my chair and walk to the open doorway. A laugh is pulled from me at the sight of what Becket’s toting.
“Didn’t realize it was move-in day.”
He meets my amused gaze with one of his own. “Gotta make sure we’ve covered all our bases.”
Under one arm is a box for an infant swing. Looped over his other arm is a seat connected to padded bars with hanging toys. He’s carrying an overstuffed backpack that I assume also contains more baby stuff, if the side pouches with soft crocheted rattles are any indication.
Ivy rushes up, carefully hugging me since she has a sleeping Ella strapped to her front in the carrier. She leans back but gives me one of those we need to talk looks.
“Give us a minute or so to get things set up.” She glances inside her office, where Becket is arranging baby items. Her eyes lock with mine. “Then we’re going to talk.”
Uh, what? “That’s supposed to be my line.”
No one responds, too busy with loading my sister’s office with 2.3 trillion baby items.
I return to my desk and manage to tune out the amusing banter between husband and wife as they playfully debate the best spot to set Ella’s items. Finally, once it’s quieted down, a soft rap sounds on my open door.
Becket stands there, dressed casually instead of his usual suit and tie now that he’s off work for the upcoming holiday. These days, he holds a position as a civil engineering consultant with the University of North Florida.
He hesitates in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. Leaning against the doorframe, he slides one palm out to brace the doorjamb and levels his brown eyes on me.
“You okay?”
His softly spoken question is barely audible over the sounds of protest coming from my sister’s offic
e. Apparently, Ella’s woken up, and she’s not too happy. Ivy coos with an, “I know, I know, sweetie. Let’s get your diaper changed, and you’ll be happier…” and soon after, everything quiets down once again. Only a few coos and babbles follow.
I stall and take a sip of my coffee before answering. “I’m working on it.” Attempting to regain my composure, I lean back in my chair and exhale slowly. “Do you have an extra minute or so?”
“For you?” He nods. “Absolutely.”
If I hadn’t cried buckets of tears over the past week, his immediate response would have me sobbing all over again.
“Can you and Ivy come in here and have a seat? I’d like to talk to you both.”
He disappears with nothing more than a quick nod. A moment later, they reappear. Becket carries a small baby chair with the attached toys on the padded bars, and they quickly set Ella up off to the side before taking the two seats across from me.
I press my lips thin, trying to determine how to start. With a sigh, I tip my head to the side. “How about we start with what you know or what you’ve heard?”
They glance at one another. Ivy answers first.
“Well, Dax came over the other night…”
I tense, bracing for whatever might follow.
“He was upset.” My sister looks at her husband, as though faltering.
He picks up the slack. “Basically, he’s a lovesick fool.”
She swats at him. “Beck!”
“What?” He holds up his hands in a what can you do? kind of way. “It’s the truth.”
Ivy rolls her eyes. “Okay, so the quick rundown… He told us what happened, and we didn’t believe a word of what he said came out of your mouth.”
She pins me with a hard stare. “He mentioned someone took photos of you two when you broke things off that night and posted them to the local gossip section of Folio. I pulled them up and”—her brows lift, a knowing expression on her face—“I noticed something about your fingers.”