Wherever You Are (Bad Reputation Duet Book 2)

by Krista Ritchie

  Fuuuck. My hand tightens on the back of her head. “Willow,” I groan, and her free hand descends between her spread knees. Touching herself.

  I light up. On fire.

  Her teeth suddenly scratch my flesh. I try to stifle a wince, but she sees and pulls back. “Sorry, did I—”

  “It’s okay.” If I wasn’t so pent-up and if I didn’t want to please her so badly, I’d probably coach her to try again.

  But I descend to my knees. “Will you stand up?” I ask.

  Her face falls. “It was that bad?”

  Shit. “It wasn’t close to bad. I just want you too much.”

  Her breath comes short and aching, and she kisses my cheek before standing. I drape her leg over my shoulder, our gazes diving deep, and I skim my lips against the inside of her thigh before I suck her clit. Kissing her heat.

  “Ahh, I…oh my God.” She clenches my wet hair. Body rattling and twitching in arousal.

  She tastes like bliss. An ecstasy I want to drown into, and she taps my shoulder, alerting me that she wants to come with me inside of her.

  We’ve fucked enough that I know that tap, and I drop her foot gently and then lift her at the thighs.

  Breath jettisons from her mouth. “Garrison,” she cries in want.

  Our lips are parted and skim, as though to kiss, but we can’t catch our breathes. Tension pulled, and I bring her back to the tiled wall.

  She buries her head in my shoulder. “Please.”

  I push into my girl. Slow, carefully, and she gasps into a shudder. Her body trembling against me. My eyes almost roll back. God, the sensation, the warmth, her wetness—it’s overwhelming.

  Holding her, I rock, thrusting my hips, and the friction ignites between us. Steam making it hard to breathe, and the raps on the door and drunken complaints to “hurry up” are distant.

  It’s just me and her.

  It’s been us for a while, and I’m not letting her go. Against better judgment. Against all odds. I’m not leaving this girl.

  She hangs onto me, and I fill her up, in and out. Muscles burning for more and longer, but we reach that peak together.

  Once I feel her contract around me, it’s over. I come, groaning out her name, and she cries into my neck. Pleasured cries.

  Slowly, we come down, and we end up sinking to the bottom of the tub. Water raining on us, Willow is more tucked into herself, forearms covering her chest. Head bowed down. Sometimes after sex, she gets like this. More cerebral and closed-off.

  But she’s across my lap, sort of between my legs, and I have my arms wrapped around her frame, holding her in the position she feels most comfortable.

  She nestles her head closer to my chest.

  “You replaying it?” I ask against her ear.

  She nods.

  “Well, just so you know, Willow Hale,” I breathe, “I loved it and I love you.”

  Willow smiles, then looks up at me. “I loved it too.”

  I nod, already knowing. But it feels good hearing that she’s not second-guessing anything. After a few minutes, letting our heart rates descend together, we rise, and I wash her hair. She scrubs shampoo through mine. We laugh and joke, and everything feels about normal.

  Except we’re not in Philly.

  London.

  I’m here just for now. By the time we exit and dry off, we realize the music isn’t on and the chatter is gone.

  “The party must be over,” Willow says, knotting a towel around her body. Black-rimmed glasses back on.

  I could wear clean clothes from my duffel, but I think she’d feel more comfortable if we both went out in towels. So I tie a towel at my waist.

  “I’ll check.” I open the door, and I see a graveyard of college debauchery. Spilt alcohol, bottles, cans, and cups—so many fucking cups. “Yep, it’s over.” I don’t see Tess or Sheetal, but I’m guessing they’re in their room or maybe they went out to a bar.

  I grab my duffel, and when we exit into the common area, I roll my eyes at the sight of Salvatore.

  Willow pales, holding breath.

  At least the douche is cleaning his mess, plucking bottles off the kitchen counter and shoving them in a trash bag.

  We exchange a glare but no words.

  He makes a show of looking from her towel to mine. He zeroes in on my tattoos. Then to my girlfriend, he says, “If you need anything, Willow, just call me.”

  Don’t be a dick.

  Don’t be a dick.

  I bite down on my teeth.

  “I’ll be fine,” Willow says softly and turns more to me. “That’s my room.” She motions to a door past the kitchen. Her phone suddenly rings, and I can’t see who calls but concern cinches her brows. “I have to take this—” She leaves quickly for her room.

  Not even glancing at me.

  Something is wrong.

  I’m about to follow when Salvatore says, “She’s been acting strange ever since December.”

  My jaw tics, hating how he’s acting like they’re BFFs and I’m no one. “Yeah?”

  Bottles clink as more fill the bag. “Her whole mood changes when she gets these phone calls.” His eyes hit mine. “I thought it was you that was calling.”

  Not me.

  I’m officially freaking the fuck out.

  11 PRESENT DAY – August

  London, England

  WILLOW HALE

  Age 21

  I stare at my bedroom wall and listen, hand to my towel on my chest and phone to my ear. “All I’m saying is that the further you get into school, the more important internships are, Willow,” my dad tells me.

  Normally, I wouldn’t have picked up his call after epic sex (definitely one of the best) and while Garrison just got here. But I missed the last two times my dad has called.

  And I made a promise not to miss the third. I thought I could swiftly tell him that I’d call back later, but I’ve been standing here for a solid two minutes and have yet to find a space to speak up.

  Garrison is leaning on the shut door in only a towel, arms crossed. He knows who called since I mouthed, my dad.

  My boyfriend looks supremely sexy, and as I turn towards him, I have trouble not staring at his whole being. Not just his abs and lean muscles, the towel riding low, but the ink that represents him too well and the wet strands of hair that brush his ears. The corner of his lip that wants to lift in a slight smile.

  His aquamarine eyes that hold our youth and early days spent together. The friendship that became an emotional lifeline and physical bond.

  My heart swells.

  I look away as my dad continues, “And you don’t want to be in shitty fucking low-level jobs or with the Wall Street assholes who’d see you as pus—” He stops himself before saying something crude. Something I think he’d say in front of Ryke and Lo. But not me. He clears his throat. “I’m just saying, there are plenty of CEOs or even low levels who don’t appreciate women.”

  I think about my mom.

  She was sixteen when she slept with Jonathan. He was much older.

  Was he one of those people?

  If I asked Ryke, he’d tell me unequivocally yes. Lo would probably hesitate before also agreeing. But maybe our dad has changed.

  He obviously sees the horrible side of some people in corporate power positions. My hand sweats on my cell. I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off again.

  “So there’s Harold Johnson and Patrick Nubell, both friends of the family. I’m going to give them a call. They’ll have internships waiting for you next summer—”

  “Dad,” I say, finally interrupting him. “I’m fine. I don’t need an internship.” At least, I don’t want him setting one up for me.

  “What kind of goddamn business school are you going to? They should be teaching you that you need an internship. It’s a fucking requirement.” He mumbles something that I can’t hear before saying, “This isn’t negotiable, Willow. You have to have one, and you should be intelligent enough to take advantage of family conn
ections.”

  I push up my glasses. “I’ll be okay finding one myself.”

  “I can find you better ones,” he says with a tight laugh. “You’re so stubborn. Just like your brothers. Rejecting me on principle rather than being smart about this.”

  “I just want to do it on my own,” I mutter. This is one of the first times I’ve felt his disappointment. It’s a tsunami, crashing into me, especially after all that he’s given me.

  This is why you didn’t want to take his money, Willow. I know. I know.

  But now I’m stuck.

  I can feel the heat of Garrison’s confusion behind me. But I don’t confront it yet.

  “I used to be a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, Willow. You don’t discard the connections I have out of a need to show that you’re a big girl. But I can compromise. I won’t call them myself. I’ll email you their contacts. Your name will get you through the door.”

  I can’t even say much else; someone must call him because he abruptly tells me he has to go and to have a good night.

  We hang up.

  Goosebumps dot my skin, and I shiver. Garrison comes closer, his softened eyes asking if he can touch me.

  I nod, and he rubs my cold arm. I’ve decided that my dad isn’t a great person when he’s meddling in my life.

  Garrison’s voice is a whisper as he says, “What the hell is going on Willow?”

  My mouth dries.

  “Your dad is trying to get you an internship?” He shakes his head, brows furrowed.

  “He’s paying for my second year,” I remind Garrison, and I step out of his embrace to approach the dresser. I tug out a drawer. Empty.

  I forgot most of my clothes are still in boxes.

  And technically, my dad is paying for every semester here on out. College is expensive, and my years working at Superheroes & Scones don’t even make a dent in tuition. Garrison offered to cover it, but I can’t take money from my boyfriend.

  “You always knew he would pay for it,” Garrison says, taking a seat on the stripped bed. Not questioning the wadded-up comforter since I told him about Mattie and Dina. “But that didn’t stop you from telling your dad to keep out of your career. You said those words a year ago, Willow. You said: I’m making the decisions. I was there when both of your brothers backed you up and shut that shit down.”

  That was a long time ago.

  That was before December.

  “Things have changed.” I don’t dig into a cardboard box for panties or a shirt. I want to face Garrison, so I stay standing.

  “Something happened.” He frowns deeply again. “Willow…” He rises off the mattress and comes forward.

  I stiffen. My joints freezing up.

  Hurt flashes in his eyes. I’m the one with secrets now. And they eat at me, slowly gnawing from the inside-out.

  Concern infiltrates his face. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what happened. I can stand here all night.”

  “It may take longer than all night,” I say softly.

  His face breaks. “All week. All month. Willow—”

  “I’m fine. It’s fine,” I say quickly. I need to tell him something. Maybe the vague truth will work without causing damage. “Recently, I took more of his money.”

  Garrison shakes his head like that doesn’t make sense. “If you needed money, you could have come to me…” He stops short and then rubs his lips. “Shit.” He’s putting as many pieces together as he can. “There’s a reason you didn’t. Probably the same reason you’re not telling me anything now.”

  He’s smart and he’s right.

  I take another breath. “My brothers also don’t know I took his money,” I say. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

  He rests a hand on his head. “I live with Lo.”

  I force down emotion, my eyes burning. Telling him might hurt him. I shouldn’t be asking him to do this for me—to keep a secret from Lo. Everything is going horribly wrong.

  “Willow, if you’re in trouble—”

  “I’m not,” I say, confident about this. “My dad just wants to get me an internship. It’s harmless.”

  “For now,” Garrison says. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

  “I think I do.” And then, I think about my mom again. What does it say about me that I’m talking to Jonathan instead of her? In her mind, did I choose the monster?

  I shudder.

  Garrison walks closer, and this time, I let him put his hands on my bare shoulders. “Willow,” he says. “You can tell me anything. Don’t be afraid of hurting me with the truth. I can take it. I’m way better than last year.”

  My body grows cold. “Last year,” I whisper, remembering.

  “Last year, I punched your friend,” Garrison says, “I started smoking again—fuck, I’m still smoking. I barely slept. I couldn’t figure out how to go home without being…” He takes a tight breath. “You know it got bad for a while there, but I’m better now. I’m home by dinnertime because there’s this kid that gets super upset if I’m not at the table.”

  Maximoff.

  My heart ascends, and I blink back the welling tears.

  He continues, “Waking up every morning, knowing you wouldn’t be next to me, used to be gut-wrenching. Now it’s bearable.” It’s not supposed to hurt. I know that he’s not telling me he’s moving on from me. Just that it’s no longer this soul-sucking pain. It’s what I’ve wanted for him. To be happy, somehow.

  He keeps his hands on my shoulders, distancing ourselves so that we can stare head-on, but I keep breaking the gaze to look at the floor.

  “I’m saying this now,” Garrison breathes, “because I want you to know that I’m doing better. And you don’t need to tell me anything right now, but I’m going to be someone you can confide in again. I promise you that.”

  I wipe at my eyes, water leaking. “You’ll be mad at me,” I say softly.

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  When we were seventeen, I felt like all we did was confide in each other, and I want that now. I have to be honest and open. So I say, “There was footage of your fight last December. I paid the students to delete it.”

  He’s frozen. Like a statue.

  I broke him.

  Tears spill down my cheeks, uncontrollable. “Garrison…” I choke on his name and touch his chest.

  “You took money from Jonathan,” he says, his voice tight. “Because of me.” He shakes his head. “And now you feel indebted to the bastard?”

  I don’t feel it.

  “I am indebted to him. It was a lot of money.” I cringe after I say the words. Way to drive that knife in further.

  “Hey, no.” Garrison touches my cheek. “It’s good. Your honesty—it’s good, Willow. I’m glad you told me.”

  My chest rises and falls like I’ve run a marathon. “I just have to play along with whatever he wants until school ends,” I tell Garrison. “Then I can reinstate my boundaries and things will go back to how they were.” I have to believe that.

  He grinds down on his teeth, jaw clenched, but his words are firm. “I’m here for you. Whatever you want.”

  “Ryke and Lo,” I say again.

  “Shouldn’t know,” he agrees. “They’ll blow this up into an unimaginable degree, and I think you want a relationship with your dad after this.”

  I do.

  Something less complicated. But I want one. I’ve already lost one father. I’ve lost a lot of family like Garrison, and I’m not ready to put another name on that list.

  “Thank you,” I tell Garrison.

  “You’re my girl,” he says. “I’ve got your back. Always.” He kisses my forehead, cementing this fact, and when we part to get dressed, I scan the dresser and go cold again.

  “I…I swear I had photos here.” I sweep my hand over the dresser, only the Funko Pop! collectibles remain.

  Garrison comes closer. “You sure?”

  “I’m positive.” Anxious heat cakes my body, and I gape at
the door. “The party…” Strangers were here.

  “Shit,” he curses, blinking long and hard. Our eyes meet in sad realization.

  They’re gone.

  My family photos are gone. Stolen. I don’t even need to confirm. “People probably came into my room when we were in the shower.”

  “I’m sorry.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I should’ve thought about how you can’t lock your bedroom on the outside.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay. I’ll print more.” I frown though. “I guess we need to be more mindful of our fame.” I look up at him. “I had photos of us too, and they’re gone.” Whoever stole the pictures—they were also interested in me and Garrison. Not just the famous Calloway sisters and their men.

  His chest rises in a big breath. “Yeah. I forget sometimes that we’ve made it onto fan sites.”

  “Me too.” Our fame has been a slow crawl, from small notoriety to something bigger, and I’m only afraid of it mushrooming out of control. Where there’s no breathing room or escape.

  12 BACK THEN – November

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  WILLOW MOORE

  Age 17

  “So this is my room.” Garrison swings open his door. His house is abnormally large. Mansion-sized. A dream home. I’d get lost finding a bathroom if there weren’t seven of them.

  “Whoa.” My eyes widen behind my spare glasses, vision impeccably clear. His bedroom quadruples my tiny dorm room.

  With a curious gaze, I quickly sweep the area: king-sized bed, plain black comforter, a huge entertainment system against one wall (stereo speakers, multiple game consoles, flat-screen television), plush carpet, framed vintage Nintendo posters, and shelves and shelves of horror movies.

  One thing is excruciatingly apparent: he is neat. And clean.

  So clean, in fact, that I wonder if I should take off my shoes. Instead of asking, I notice that he keeps on his Converses, so I decide to leave on my sneakers.

  Walking further inside, my head swerves left and right. Laptop propped on his sleek metal desk, the screen is black. No turtle, but I remember he said that Abracadabra first belonged to his brother Mitchell. Maybe the turtle’s tank stays in Mitchell’s room.