by Marie James
“It happens,” she continues, fueled by the attention she’s garnering from everyone in the room. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. They have medicine—”
“Bless your heart,” Pam whispers.
I see red. I pick her up and toss her over my shoulder just like I did that night by the pool, only this time she fights me all the way down the hall to my office and is still struggling to get away when I attempt to set her back on her feet.
I swat her ass, but it only ramps up her anger. “Put me down!”
“I’m trying. If you don’t stop kicking, you’re going to end up kicking me in the nuts.”
“Might as well get it out of the way! It’s at the top of my list of things to do while in St. Louis.”
Despite her words, she calms enough for me to put her down and take a step back.
She backs further away when I reach for her, words clogging my throat.
Her eyelids flutter, blinking rapidly, and I give her a little time to compose herself. I can tell she’s angry that her first reaction is to cry instead of raining hellfire down on me.
“Did you really not enjoy the sex?”
Her eyes narrow, the motion coming together to form indignation instead of a mixture of things. It gives her something to focus on.
“Get over yourself.”
“I don’t have erectile disfunction. I don’t need fucking medicine for my cock to get hard.” If I didn’t have a little decorum, I’d grip the steel pipe in my slacks to emphasize my point.
Fighting and arguing with her always heats me up like this, and she has to know it by now. Half the times she gave me trouble, I think she did it to rile me up. There were days she was so bratty, I worried about blood flow issues because I lived in a constant state of arousal.
“Why are you in St. Louis?” Please open your pretty mouth and tell me it’s because you couldn’t spend another second without me. “Where is Reginald?”
Her pretty green eyes narrow. “Checking up on me?”
I don’t have to answer because isn’t it obvious?
“The newspaper,” I say instead, running my hand over the top of my head. “I’m sorry it ended like that.”
I never set out to hurt her more. I knew walking away was going to be painful. Hell, it gutted me, but I had to remember her sleeping, her face angelic and relaxed, not crying and upset. If I had woken her to tell her what was going on, I would’ve been fucked. If she begged, I would’ve stayed. If she didn’t care, I don’t think I would’ve survived it. I wanted our one perfect night to stay untarnished, but the paparazzi ruined it by being the douchebags everyone knows they are.
“I left,” she says, her voice growing stronger. “I’m done with them, done with that life.”
“What?”
I know she wants to be strong, but she doesn’t have any experience out on her own. This world will eat her up and spit her out without thinking twice.
“Where will you live? Work?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Why are you so worried now? You weren’t when you left that hotel room. I didn’t come here to make you feel guilty. I know it was a goal, some sort of game. I just wanted you to see my face, wanted you to know you didn’t break me.”
Her voice hitches at the end of her declaration, but I don’t call her on it. Stubborn should be her middle name. I learned that a long time ago.
“Where are you going?” I’m borderline hysterical when she steps around me.
“I’m no longer any of your concern, Flynn Coleman. I’d say it was nice meeting you, but I’ve given up lying as well.”
She storms out of my office, leaving the scent of her floral perfume floating in the air.
By the time I snap out of it and chase her down, she’s already gone.
“Where is he?” I hiss when I find Wren’s office empty. Even the bird is gone.
“He’s heading to Nana’s to see if she’ll watch the bird. Can you believe Puffy attacked Whitney’s cat Simon?” Jude shakes his head. “Poor cat has a nasty infection at the base of his tail.”
“Who knows how to look shit up on that thing in there?” I point over my shoulder to indicate Wren’s computer. They all blink at me like I’m speaking a foreign language which makes me look at Ignacio. “Do you?”
“I’m pretty sure he has the thing set to self-destruct if anyone touches it,” he answers.
“What do you need help with?” Brooks tries for serious, but the smile in his eyes betrays him.
Now is not the fucking time.
“Looking for someone?”
“Flynn,” Deacon warns when my fists ball up and I cross the room toward Finnegan.
“Laugh it up, motherfucker,” I hiss before letting my eyes roam over every one of them. “Did anyone ask where she was going?”
“She ran out of here like her ass was on fire,” Deacon says. “I’d say she doesn’t want to be chased this time.”
She’s going to get it whether she likes it or not. I fire off a text to Wren and his ass must still be bitter about my refusal to watch that damn bird because all I get back is new phone, who dis?
I’ll strangle him later.
“Is there a certain reason you need to continue the conversation she barged out on?” Ignacio asks with a smile.
“You,” I snap, my finger pointed in his direction, ready to blame him for everything.
“Me, nothing. That train was derailing before we even stepped foot in the city.”
“She could be pregnant.”
Silence fills the room, all humor and smiles disappearing.
“You didn’t wrap it?” Brooks hisses, the first one to break the quiet. “Rookie fucking mistake, dude.”
“Protection, always,” Finnegan tsks, but he doesn’t do it with humor.
Deacon has a glint in his eye that I can’t fully read.
“I need to find her.”
“Because you love her?” my boss asks.
“Because—” I run my hands over my face, stunned into silence with the question.
“Ack, feelings. Gross. I’m out,” Brooks says as he stands from the couch on the far wall.
Gaige, Ignacio, and Finnegan all follow him out of the room.
Chapter 28
Remington
My hands are trembling when I hit the sidewalk outside of the building housing Blackbridge Security. If I were the same person I was a week ago, the one insistent on lying to myself, I’d say they’re shaking because I’m livid, angry right to my core at Flynn.
But I’m no longer a liar.
I keep my feet moving in the opposite direction, having no clue where I’m going or what I’m going to do. He asked those questions, and I didn’t answer him because I was mad. My mouth clamped shut because I didn’t know. I left New York. I know I don’t want to go back, but I haven’t gotten very far in my planning.
Confronting him was all that was on my mind the entire plane ride over here—riding coach if anyone is wondering because I’m a changed woman.
My hands tremble as I make a conscious effort to move my feet. I’m fighting the urge to turn back around, run into his arms, and beg him to love me. I want what we shared to mean something to him. I want my presence to calm him, for him to be happy when he sees me.
He was turned on at the sight of me earlier, and that’s a given because our night together—despite what I said in front of his friends—was positively incredible, and that opinion isn’t just mine. He may be a good actor, a good liar, but there was no faking the way his body responded to mine that night. The emotions that clouded his eyes as he looked down at me may not have been real, but the physical stuff was undeniable.
Feeling like a complete fool, I wander around town aimlessly. I have a list of things to do, and although I’m tempted to pull the hand-written note from my pocket and study it, I’ve already memorized it.
Get a job and live my own life. Two things that look simple on paper but will be the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Not the job part, I’m actually looking forward to working, doing something for a chunk of the day to keep my mind and body busy.
Living my own life?
That’s where things get complicated, especially as I walk further away from Flynn. The crushing need to go back to him, to use him as a crutch is overwhelming, and I nearly turn around a half a dozen times.
I fill the day with completing and turning in applications at various places, cheeks heating more than once when the managers laughed me out of their front door when I told them I had no work experience. Two places seem promising, a restaurant and a business in need of a receptionist. The latter probably one I wouldn’t take even if I did get a call back because of the way the guy talking to me seemed to think my eyes were a few inches below my chin.
Walking away from my parents held true. I’m nearly flat broke, and as much as I want to worry about tomorrow, well tomorrow, I know I can’t do that. My account won’t be replenished until I make that happen myself. The limited money I have—mostly squirreled away a long time ago to buy drugs—won’t last very long, and the one credit card I have that I don’t think my parents know I have will need to be used strategically and for emergencies only. I can’t risk using it to get a hotel room despite knowing I’m going to end up somewhere tonight that’s going to be less than desirable.
With heavy feet, I climb out of the cab that carried me from downtown to a small motel near the highway, trying not to feel guilty for only tipping a few extra bucks. Gone are the days of tossing people more than double the bill without care.
“Have a good evening, honey. Stay safe.” The cabbie’s eyes sparkle, the corners a web of lines that speak of the happiness in his life that put them there.
“Thank you,” I whisper before shutting the door behind me, his kindness threatening to make the tears burning the backs of my eyes fall.
The bored desk clerk at the motel barely looks up at me when I walk inside the lobby, and a sense of anonymity I’ve never really had the pleasure of experiencing is startling and nice all rolled into one. The room is cheap, not even a hundred dollars a night so I book it for the rest of the week.
Staying in St. Louis isn’t a long-term plan. Being close to Flynn and not going to him will be a challenge no matter where I am, but an easier one to satisfy if I put some miles between us. My bank account, however, is screaming to be fed. I can resist the temptation of him—the memories of his constant rejections making it possible—for a while before moving on to a less expensive city or rural area where I’m just Remington, a girl making it on her own rather than Carla and Charles Blair’s daughter, the train wreck who can’t keep her hands off the men hired to work for her family.
“Do you have a room service menu?” I ask the desk clerk as he hands me the key to my room, a smile on my face that doesn’t come close to reaching my eyes.
I feel like a jerk for not even being able to fake gratitude right now, but I’m exhausted, the day started by arguing with Reginald about leaving New York and the promise that he has to notify my parents. I didn’t tell him where I was going, and funnily enough, he didn’t ask. He’s a smart man, and I have no doubt he already knew the direction I was heading.
“Sure. We keep them just down the hall, right next to the elevator for guest’s convenience. Room three-seventeen Ms. Blair. I hope you enjoy your stay at Riverview Motel. Please call down if there’s anything you need.”
I nod, pleased with the service before grabbing the handle of the single backpack I loaded with care before walking away from home.
My mood changes, drifting back, questioning everything in my life when I turn the corner down the dingy hallway. I didn’t expect luxury at seventy-eight dollars a night, but I also didn’t expect the stench of cigarette smoke and worn carpet either.
My jaw is hurting from clenching my teeth when I make it further down realizing that this place not only doesn’t have an elevator, but the room service menu is actually a fucking vending machine—a half empty one at that.
I was the butt of that guy’s joke and I didn’t even know it. I’m sure he’ll have a grand old time telling his friends just how ridiculous I am for asking in the first place.
Shaking my head and taking a deep breath, I remind myself that others’ opinions no longer matter. I’m not here to please anyone. My new life is about finding myself, discovering the person I don’t mind being when I wake up in the morning, someone I can stand to see in the mirror before bed.
I don’t find that woman when I lock myself in the room, clicking the door lock and flipping the secondary latch after checking behind the shower curtain and under the beds. The fear I feel here all alone is another thing I can blame on Flynn. Several of his stupid horror movies started with single women staying at creepy places like this. But even though I stand in the shallow tub to get undressed with the curtain pulled, fearful that there’s a camera behind the small bathroom mirror or somewhere in the wall, I do it with my head held high, blaming the cheap shampoo for getting in my eyes as the tears fall down my cheeks.
Tomorrow will be a good day. Tomorrow will bring new beginnings and a true fresh start, one that doesn’t include Flynn Coleman.
I allow myself one final cry, the sobbing making the lumpy bed shake as I vow to move on from him.
Things get easier with time, that’s what I’ve always heard, anyway.
Chapter 29
Flynn
“Are you going to answer that?”
“Nope,” I tell Deacon after looking at the screen. I send the call straight to voicemail. If there was something important Wren needs, he’ll call Deacon. When my boss’s phone doesn’t ring, I know it’s probably just some bullshit that can wait until we’re back at the office. “Do you think this guy is leaving us waiting to assert power?”
“Who knows,” Deacon says, seemingly undisturbed that we’ve been sitting in the lobby of an office building waiting to be called back to meet a new client.
“What exactly is the job?”
“He needs added detail for an upcoming trip. The file said some people are upset with some business decisions he’s made, and he’s feeling unsafe traveling with only the two men on his payroll.”
“Translation, he’s a complete douche and doesn’t want to deal with the fallout of his actions?”
Deacon looks over at me, the easy smile he’s had all day falling from his mouth.
“Is this about Remington?”
When is it not about Remington? I look away from him. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, exasperation clear in his tone. “Maybe because you’ve been a growling asshole for weeks now.”
“I’m fine.”
He huffs a humorless laugh. “Been there, done that, man. You can’t fool me.”
“Not trying to, but I wish everyone would stay out of my personal life.”
“You got in my personal life months ago,” he reminds me.
“I was held captive,” I say, recalling the time I was stuck in his truck while he all but stalked his now wife, Anna.
His relationship and the way it came about gave me hope after Remington ripped me open and walked away. They came together in the end, and now they’re having a baby and are so in love it’s almost sickening to watch them when they’re within a hundred yards of each other.
But there’s been no news, no contact, nothing. Wren refuses to help me find her, and I’m pretty sure this tough love, asshole act is his way of punishing me for walking away from her in the first place. He won’t even tell me if she left St. Louis. All I got out of him was that her phone—the one with the number I forced myself to block before I got on the plane that day in New York—had been disconnected by her parents, so texting and calling her wasn’t an option.
“It’s going to work out,” he says as he looks down at his watch. “I’m giving this asshole three more minutes, and then we’re gone.”
I’ve been working behind the scenes for a while
, uninterested in facing anyone besides the guys at the office. Deacon didn’t have a problem with it, probably because I spend two-thirds of the day at work, getting shit done. I can’t sleep, and I have to stay busy. The company has been benefiting from my misery, that’s for sure.
Today, however was different. He insisted I come along with him, and I know it has everything to do with Anna taking a weekend trip with her mother, and nothing to do with his desire to try to force me out from under the black cloud that settled over my entire life the minute Remington walked away from me.
My ego, that hint of narcissism every man has, whispered in my ear those first couple of days, assuring me that she’d come back. Remington Blair looked at me, stars in her eyes, completely in awe when my hands were on her, when I’d smile at her.
My ego lied. I haven’t seen a whisper of her, and as time drags by, the seconds literally tripling in length, things get harder.
It’s no longer about my heart or what my body feels for her—those things may never dissipate. It’s fear for her safety that sours my gut and keeps me from closing my eyes at night. She’s impulsive. She does things to get attention, things that put her in danger like going to a bar and letting her drink get drugged without her even noticing.
Those fears are making me insane, crazier than she made me when she was within arm’s reach.
The ulcer I’m sure I have now is in thanks to that worry, to thinking the worst and scouring nationwide databases for Jane Does washing up on shore or being discovered on running trails. I have multiple subscriptions, both online and in print, for those shitty magazines that were hellbent on ruining her life, never giving her a moment to breathe or make a mistake without it being front-page gossip. I spend hours toiling away on the internet for her name to pop, even have alerts sent to my phone so I won’t miss it the second a new article comes out that mentions her.
There’s been nothing for weeks, literal silence on all fronts, and considering some of the morbid places I check, that’s not exactly a bad thing.