Caught Up In You: Edgeplay: The complete serial

by McCormick, Jenna

  It hasn’t even been a full day, Snarkarella points out. He lied to you, hid things from you. If you go back to him now, he’ll browbeat you into submission. And not the fun, kinky kind either.

  I close my eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the truth in her words. She got what she wanted, I left Connor. But all I can hear is the worry in his voice, the panic revealed when he thought I’d been kidnapped. No matter what’s happened to me or what might happen in the future, I doubt I’ll ever rest easy knowing I hurt someone who loved me.

  * * *

  “So then I came here.”

  Rochelle lets out a low whistle. “Holy Crow McIntyre, that is one hell of a clusterfuck.”

  I push the Pad Thai around in my bowl with chopsticks. “Yeah.”

  “Do you really think Connor set out to seduce you as some sort of revenge plan against your grandfather?”

  “Honestly Rochelle, I don’t know what to think. My judgment is all wonky. I never would have thought Pops capable of helping kidnap a little boy, but he did.” Another stray tear escapes. I’m leaking like a rusty spigot, moisture flowing freely from my tear ducts.

  “Well, this happened before you were born. You didn’t know him before, didn’t know what he was like with your grandmother.”

  I nod, accepting her wisdom even as I say, “He was always so patient and gentle with me. You should have seen him tending the plants on the estate. Coaxing them to grow and thrive. He did the same thing for me. People don’t usually change that much.”

  “Except for Connor. What do you think he would have been like if not for his abduction?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t even imagine it. Unlocking his memories drives one side of his personality and the other is focused on coping with it.” I pick at a loose knot in the chenille blanket on my lap. “What if there are more?”

  Rochelle’s eyebrows draw down. “More what?”

  “More sides to Connor. Dissociative identity disorder is two or more distinct personalities, and odd things have been happening. Like stalker type stuff. The car bombing, the weird present on my doorstep. What if there’s someone else in there, someone bent on revenge?”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh honey, you don’t really think Connor would ever hurt you like that?”

  “Not the parts of Connor I know, but how deep does the rabbit hole go?”

  We sit in silence for a time, watching the fire in the grate.

  “I miss him so much, Rochelle, but there’s just too much standing in our way. His baggage, mine, my family legacy. It’s insurmountable.”

  “Look, I may be a product of Hollywood, but I honestly believe in happily ever after. It has to be earned though, through hard work and overcoming the things that stand in your way. If you run away, if you don’t face the challenges head on, you don’t deserve the ultimate reward.”

  Despite my melancholy, my lips curve up. “You’re right, you are a product of Hollywood.”

  “Maybe I’ll have that tattooed on my ass. Lola wants me to get a tattoo.”

  “How are things going with you guys?”

  “Slow. Steady. It’s new for both of us. We’re talking about moving in together, but you beat her to it.”

  “Sorry.”

  We talk a little more and my tension eases. Despite her fervent belief in happy endings—the story kind, not the massage version—Rochelle is incredibly down to earth and easy to talk to. She talks about the places she’s visited and the sights she’s taken in. About how she likes to immerse herself in a character’s location well before filming starts, to get a feel for who she’s supposed to be portraying. We watch one of her movies together, a retro film noir piece from early in her career. By the time it ends she’s snoring softly on the couch.

  The snoring starlet. Too bad you don’t have your phone, you’d get a million hits on You Tube, Snarkarella says.

  Like I would ever betray her trust that way after all she’s done for me. I cover her with the blanket and head to my monochromatic room. Again sleep proves elusive, so I imagine going to all the places Rochelle has been. In each frame Connor is by my side, but a lighter, happier version of Connor, one not burdened by ghosts from his past.

  The pounding on the front door wakes me from a dead sleep. The digital clock reads 4:50 in the morning. This is no social call.

  Darting from the bed, I head into the hallway. Rochelle is already at the door, and though the security chain is on, I jolt with unease at the sound of Connor’s voice.

  “Damn you Rochelle, is she here?”

  “Connor. Go home.”

  “Answer me!”

  “One of my neighbors is gonna call the cops if you don’t settle down.”

  I can’t stand by and let her fight my battles for me. That weak, traitorous part of me is thrilled he found me so fast. At the same time, I’m dismayed that I really can’t run very far before he’ll catch me.

  “It’s okay, Rochelle.”

  She casts me a dubious look as I move closer to the door. “You sure?”

  “Let me in,” Connor growls like the big bad wolf. I know that commanding tone and which version is in charge.

  Rochelle makes a disgusted noise. “Get your fat foot out of the door so I can take the chain off. And I swear, you try to take her from here before she’s ready and I will tell the tabloids everything.”

  He barely spares her a glance, his blue-eyed gaze trained on me. My heart pounds frantically, adrenaline surging in my system as she unchains the door and allows him entrance.

  Rochelle looks from Connor to me and back again. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “No,” he barks. I see his chest rising and falling rapidly, see him struggle for control.

  “We’ll be fine,” I assure her. I wish there was some actual conviction in my words.

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to bed then. Lock up behind him, Baily. One way or another.”

  His gaze scalds me where I stand. Crossing my arms over my chest, I wait until I hear the scrape of her bedroom door. “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t easy. I called every single person in your phone book and when they all swore they hadn’t seen you I decided to try here.”

  “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

  “But not that you left me.” He makes it sound like the most reviled crime.

  Lifting my chin, I meet his gaze. “No Connor, I can’t be sorry for that.”

  A muscle jumps in his jaw and he rasps, “Why?”

  “Because you lied to me. Him, I could forgive for that, because I know how uncertain he is, how careful not to upset the apple cart. It makes sense that he wouldn’t say anything about Pops. We were always treading carefully, figuring things out as we went along. He would have been afraid of how I would react.

  But you knew exactly how I would react. How much it would hurt me to find out, not just what my grandfather did, but that you hid it from me. I had a right to know, Connor. Why you bought the Rosemont. Why you wanted me. Our relationship was built on trust. Or at least I thought it was.”

  “I want you in spite of what your grandfather did. That should count for something.”

  “Why? Why should I accept the past when you so clearly haven’t? Enjoy it for what it was, Connor, because we can’t go back.”

  His hands clench and unclench at his side. “Stop saying was. We’ll get past this.”

  I shake my head, wanting him to be right but knowing better. “I don’t think we can. The bubble popped and all we have left is a mess.”

  He grips my arms, almost as though he wants to shake me. “No. You love me, damn it, I know you do. You have to give me another chance.” His body is fraught with tension.

  “I do love you, that won’t ever change. But what’s love without trust?” I whisper the question I’ve been asking myself all day. “You aren’t free to love me back, Connor.”

  His lips part and he blinks. “Of course I am.”

  My heart sinks. He didn’t say he loves me. The
other Connor got there, but this one, the one who lived through the consequences of my grandfather’s crime, is incapable of love.

  Conviction stiffens my spine. “Go home, Connor. All we do is cause each other pain.”

  “I can fix this,” he insists, dragging me to his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath my hand. “Give me a chance to make it right. Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it. Be angry, be furious, and take all the time you need. Just don’t shut me out. I need to know you’re safe, that you’ll come back to me.”

  He’s so proud, like a knight searching for a quest to help unite him with his lady love. But that’s my idiotic heart spinning fantasy again. Reality is a broken little boy who has all the money in the world but can never give me more.

  I push away from him for the first time. Our gazes lock and I see the wild panic before I step around him to hold open the door. “It’s not only about what you need, Connor.”

  He’s still for a minute, absorbing the hit. I refuse to let myself drink him in, to yearn for what can never be.

  The creak of leather surrounds him and a hand rises to my cheek, hovering less than an inch from my flesh. I flinch and he draws away.

  “I won’t give up,” he insists. “You’re mine and I will find a way back into your heart.”

  He strides out to the stairs and I shut and lock the door behind him, sliding down it, dissolving into tears. He’s wrong; he doesn’t need to get back into my heart, because he owns the useless thing.

  “Baily?” Rochelle peeks around the corner.

  “He’s gone,” I sob.

  She hurries to my side and wraps an arm around me. “It’s okay. It’s fine. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  If only that were true, Snarkarella says.

  32

  The onslaught begins at dawn. Rochelle and I are both exhausted from our virtually sleepless night and reluctant to do more than lounge on the couch when the first buzz, from the flower delivery guy, sounds in the apartment. Followed by a Fed-Ex delivery containing my cell phone and tablet. Then fresh bagels and lox from the bakery on the corner.

  “That man really knows how to grovel.” Rochelle grins over her coffee cup. “Good thing, because we forgot to put the leftovers in the fridge and my cupboards are bare. I’m the old woman in the shoebox apartment.”

  Another buzz from the street below.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Only one way to find out.” Rochelle depresses the button next to the door. “Is it a pony?”

  “No, Ma’am. Just an envelope.”

  “Rats. I was really looking forward to a pony.” She buzzes him up anyway.

  I sign for the envelope but hesitate before I tear open the seal. “Maybe I should stop accepting the gifts. Since I have no intention of taking him back, it seems wrong.”

  She gives me an are you out of your ever-loving mind look. “Okay, well, think about it logically. Are you really going to just toss the flowers? I don’t have a garbage disposal to grind them up in, so you’d have to go all the way downstairs. The phone and tablet are yours anyway, so he was just returning them to you. And breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Technically it’s compensation for all the putting out you already did.”

  I shake my head at her. “You can rationalize anything, can’t you.” It isn’t a question.

  She waves me on. “Go ahead and open it. If it offends your delicate sensibilities I’ll let you return it. Promise.”

  I rip it open. There’s a folded piece of paper along with a laminated gift card. I hold it up but don’t recognize the name. “What is this?”

  Rochelle snatches it from me. “Oh, holy Mary, Mother of God. It’s only nirvana. That’s a gift card to the premier spa in Manhattan. The waiting list is like four months long, yet he booked you an appointment for this afternoon. And it’s for two.” She makes a grab for the card.

  “Down, girl.” I snatch it away. “I really can’t accept this.”

  “I told you—”

  “Rochelle, I don’t want to lead him on or give him false hope. I need to make it on my own. It’s tough enough to turn away from his generosity now. Breakfast is one thing, but letting him pamper me as though we still have a future is another.”

  Her face falls but I refuse to relent. Heaving a dramatic sigh, she rises and heads down the hall. “Spoilsport. I see your point, even if I don’t agree with it.”

  After she goes into her bedroom, I fish out the other piece of paper, my hands shaking. After last night, what is really left for him to say?

  The note is simple and unsigned.

  Baily, check your email.

  “Bossy,” I mutter, then reach for my tablet. “Okay Simon, what do you say?”

  Pulling up my email account, I see my inbox is full of messages from Connor. A lump forms in my throat as I read the oldest one, from yesterday morning, titled Where the hell are you?

  I read each message. The tones range from panicked to irate. I can tell when the personality shift happened and Dom Connor took over, because the notes become terse. It happened shortly after I called, when he discovered I left voluntarily.

  The newest one guts me. He sent it about half an hour after he left the previous night. It’s one line and reading it steals the breath from my lungs.

  Do what you have to, but so will I.

  He won’t give up on me. Deep down I knew that, but seeing it on my screen is like a formal declaration of war, and I know I’m on the losing side. Doubts surface, but I shove them aside ruthlessly. Struggling with decisions is new territory for me. Usually, my course is clear, even if it’s not what I want. And I’ve prided myself on always doing the right thing. But now, I don’t even know if there is a right thing.

  I can’t cave in to him though, no matter how tempted I am.

  My tablet pings and another message appears in my inbox. There’s a video attachment and I hold my breath while it downloads. My hand is shaking but I tap play.

  Connor sits behind a massive desk, his fingers steepled in front of him. Behind him the New York skyline is visible. I know that view, it’s from his apartment. So he stayed in the city after all. His eyes are hard, but it’s the dark circles beneath them that tug on my heartstrings.

  “Baily,” he begins and his voice is even rougher than usual. “I’m sorry I hurt you. Believe me when I say that is the last thing I ever wanted. I thought I was protecting you from the truth. The reality of my memory is ugly, so harsh I hid it from myself. I’d take the hurt from you if I could.”

  His expression softens and I see pain etched in every line of his handsome face.

  “I want you to know I don’t blame your grandfather for his part in what happened to me any longer. I did for the longest time. He was the inside man and I trusted him. Back then I trusted everyone. He was the one who took me through the tunnel, then to his truck, and delivered me into the hands of my abusers.”

  I can’t help but picture it. A little boy with dark blue eyes, believing he was in for some sort of treat, and my strong, handsome grandfather leading him through that secret passageway to his doom. Bile rises in my throat. Oh, Connor.

  Oblivious of my deteriorating mental state, he continues. “I can’t hold on to my anger though, not now that I’m on the verge of losing the one thing that gives my life any meaning. Knowing you has changed me. All of me. No crime is too awful to contemplate if it means keeping you by my side. I’m not sure if that makes me the hero or the villain of our particular story. It’s just the truth.”

  The damn tears are flowing freely again and I suck in a shuddering breath. He’s the hero, I have no doubt. God, forgiving Pops? I’m not sure I could do that, not when I see how much Connor has suffered. How he’s still suffering.

  “Nothing else matters. I got word that my company acquired the defense contract this morning and I don’t even care.” A humorless laugh. “I’ve unimaginable wealth at my fingertips and nowhere to direct it. Because if I can’t dote on you, can’t
come home to you and lose myself in your sweetness and your light, then what good is any of it?”

  “You’re killing me,” I whisper, stroking the screen with my fingertips. My shaky resolve wavers even more.

  “Let’s start again. Make a list, anything you need or want, and send it to me. Allow me to spoil you and court you the way I should have from the beginning. Whatever you want me to do, you simply have to tell me. I will do anything for you. All I ask for is a chance to prove it.”

  The screen blinks off.

  My head thunks back against the door, expanding the headache. So now Connor wants to know what I want, to play Santa Claus and make all my dreams come true. The question remains, should I let him?

  Taking a few minutes to compose myself, I make a decision. What Pops did was horrific and wrong. Nothing I do will ever change that reality. But seeing Connor as he was in that video, hurting not because of my grandfather but because of me, is just as wrong.

  So my choices are, sit around this apartment all day and stew, or take him up on his generous offer. When I put it that way it doesn’t seem like much of a decision.

  “Rochelle?” I call out.

  She pokes her head around the corner. “What’s up?”

  “You still want to go to the spa?”

  * * *

  “So what do you need from him?” Rochelle asks from the next mud bath over.

  I take a sip of cucumber water. “Not stuff. As luxurious as this all is, I don’t enjoy spending his money.”

  She gives me a droll look. “You can’t expect one of the wealthiest men in the world not to buy things for you. He said he wants to pamper and spoil you, right?”

  “Yeah, but that won’t change anything. It feels dirty.”

  “Says the woman up to her collar bone in mud.”

  “You know what I mean. It’s like he’s trying to buy my affections, fill my life with things to distract me from the truth.”