The Bad Boy's Woman (Hidden Masks Book 2)

by Nia Arthurs

  Then it stopped.

  Caught.

  Froze.

  James stood in front of his father, toe-to-toe. His black hair flounced over his forehead. His brown eyes burned with quiet rage. “Touch her and it will be the last thing you ever do.”

  No one breathed.

  Finally, Mr. Sawyer backed off. Without another word, he turned and stormed away. I heard the door slam and an engine sputter to life outside. Soon, the squeal of tires and the roar of an engine filled the air.

  Natasha collapsed into her son.

  James caught her and then looked up at Alex. “You should leave. Now.”

  Alex scrambled for the door.

  In the quiet that followed, I saw James gently take his mother’s cheeks and turn her to look at him. My heart broke at his tenderness. After the chaos, his only focus was keeping his mother from falling apart.

  “I’m fine,” Natasha said. She sounded shaken and tired. Anything but fine.

  “Mom… wait…”

  She pulled out of his arms and headed for the kitchen.

  James followed.

  Feeling like a spy, but too curious to stop now, I inched down a couple more steps and watched them enter the kitchen. Mrs. Sawyer grabbed a bottle filled with an amber liquid and popped the cap.

  James grabbed it from her and set it on the counter. “You can’t drown what your feeling with alcohol.”

  “Give it,” she growled. It was an otherworldly snarl that didn’t sound quite human.

  He held firm. “Mom, you did good tonight. You stood up to him.”

  “Move!” She shoved James aside and lunged for the bottle. Her hands trembled as she hurled it to her mouth. Amber liquid drained down her cheek and stained her pretty blue dress.

  The helpless look on James’s face made my heart lurch. I wanted to run to him, but my legs were frozen on the stairs. It was like watching a train run off the tracks.

  Natasha set the bottle back on the counter.

  James grabbed it.

  Natasha fought him.

  “Mom, don’t.”

  “Go to your room.”

  “Stop drinking.”

  She grabbed the decanter and whirled it against the kitchen wall. It shattered. The crash forced my head down even though I was far from the danger zone. Glass shards exploded. Clattered to the floor. Amber liquid seeped into the tiles and ran like a bloody orange river.

  James stood still, his fingers clenched, his head tilted down.

  I squeezed the railings tight.

  “I’m going to bed,” Mrs. Sawyer said. She turned away and stumbled toward the stairs, holding the wall for balance.

  Realizing she would see me if I didn’t run, I shot up and dashed into James’s room. I slipped inside and waited with my back to the wall.

  Every clop of Natasha Sawyer’s heels echoed as she made her way up the stairs. Past James’s room. The thud of her bedroom door closing said she was gone.

  I let out a breath and ran out, stopping at the doorway to the kitchen. James was on his hands and knees. Back to me. At his feet, a sea of shattered glass like thick raindrops sparkled in the light.

  James reached for a shard with his bare hands. Pinched it between his fingers. Cupped it in his palm. I winced, imagining the ways he could cut himself doing that. Yet, he continued. Unfazed. Picking up the pieces of the mess his parents had made.

  7

  WHAT THE STORM LEFT BEHIND

  James

  MY HEAD THROBBED. Emotions swirled in my chest. Anger. Pain. Betrayal. Sorrow. They were one, messy concoction that threatened to explode. Destroy my world. Tear my heart apart.

  At least Mom wouldn’t be drinking herself to death tonight. I’d make sure of that, even if I had to go down to the wine cellar and trash every bottle on the shelves.

  She could just go out to buy more.

  I ignored the thought.

  Mom was stronger than she seemed. She’d snapped at Dad. Taken him to task. Cursed him to hell.

  I’d been delighted. Overjoyed. Hopeful.

  I’d never seen her scold him. Not for beating her. Not even for his extra-marital affairs. Instead, she’d lost it at an old relationship he’d had before they met. Her mind worked in mysterious ways, but at least it was a step in the right direction.

  If only she would deal with her pain rather than hide it beneath a substance that offered temporary relief. Mom had become so accustomed to hangovers and headaches that they no longer deterred her from drinking.

  I’d begged her to stop countless times.

  She didn’t.

  In that sense, she loved alcohol more than she loved me.

  I wouldn’t mind her escape if it wasn’t making her sick. The alcohol was wearing her out. I saw it in her face, in her skin. She had to stop.

  Please, Mom…

  She wouldn’t do it alone. I’d read up about addictions and substance abuse. I could help her, but all the books and Internet articles I’d skimmed said she had to admit she wanted help first.

  It was the most important step, they said. A step I couldn’t fulfill.

  Only Mom could do that.

  And there lay the problem.

  It bothered me that I was stuck waiting for someone else to make a change. I had to do something to help her. To convince Mom that…

  A pair of slender arms encompassed my waist. The scent of flowers and coconut milk swirled around me. Monique.

  My hands were filled with broken shards so I couldn’t hug her back, but I savored her presence like a man soaking in the first drop of rain after a drought.

  She was so soft, smelled so sweet.

  My heart craned toward her, a moth huddling close to the fire for warmth not knowing it would soon give up everything to the flame. I squeezed my eyes shut.

  How much had she heard? How much did she know?

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  She pressed her mouth against my back. I felt her lips through my shirt. “For everything.”

  I shuddered.

  So much pain, so much darkness filled my life. I wasn’t used to this light, not here. Not in the depths of my broken soul. Her warmth was blinding. It burned me and gave me strength at the same time.

  “I… don’t know what to do.” My voice broke. I refused to cry but the tears pushing against the back of my eyes weren’t giving me a choice. “I want to fix it but it’s too much.”

  “It’s okay,” Monique whispered. She rubbed my back. Tightened her grip on my waist. Pressed herself closer.

  It felt like we’d become one person.

  For a moment, she’d slipped into my world and touched my brokenness. Whatever walls I had crumbled in her presence. I was completely at her mercy and the strange thing was it didn’t bother me. At all.

  Monique was here. Everything would turn out alright.

  Then she released me. Slipped her arms away. The illusion shattered into as many pieces as the glass at my feet.

  Reality rushed back in and slapped the sense into me. Everything would not be alright. Never. Happiness and hope weren’t in the cards I’d been dealt.

  Monique walked around me and stooped. She had a bowl in her hands. “Put the shards in here.”

  I did.

  My palms burned where the tiny fragments had scraped the skin.

  I hissed.

  Monique froze, her brown eyes fixed on me, her eyebrows strung tightly together. “Did you get hurt?”

  I glanced down and saw a prick of blood oozing from my palm.

  Monique gasped and leaned forward to help. I stopped her with a look. She pursed her lips, clearly annoyed with my wordless direction.

  “James, you’re bleeding.”

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “Still…”

  “Stand up.”

  Her eyes filled with confusion. “What?”

  “Stand.”

  She started to rise and lost her balance on the slippery tiles. I
saw her hands wind-milling in the air and then naturally hurtling toward the ground as she searched for something to regain her equilibrium. I grabbed her hands and tugged her to her feet, smoothly rising and sweeping her into my arms.

  She let out a surprised little gasp.

  Her breath hit my cheek.

  I bounced her up, adjusting her in my arms so I had a better grip. “It’s dangerous and the glass is sharp.” My shoes crunched against the fallen stars on the ground. “You should be careful.”

  “What are you doing?”

  I set her on the island counter and pointed. “Stay there.”

  “I want to help.” She began to scramble off.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  She froze and then carefully wiggled back onto the surface.

  I strode to the closet that served as a laundry room off the kitchen and grabbed a broom and dustpan. Monique’s brown eyes followed me as I walked away and then when I returned. I could feel her gaze piercing into me.

  “Alex is my brother,” I said, uncomfortable with her penetrating stare. “My dad hooked up with his mom twenty-five years ago.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “My mom did this… afterwards. She was angry and in pain.”

  “I know.”

  I glanced at her. “How?”

  “I might have been spying from the stairs.” She ducked her head sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip. Her eyes landed on me. Skittered away. Then it flew back to me. Moved to the floor. To me and then the ceiling.

  At last, I nodded to her. “What are you thinking?”

  “Me?” she asked, her voice a high pitch. “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “You’re giving me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The one where you want to say something but you’re not sure you should.”

  “I don’t have a look like that, and even if I did,” she narrowed her eyes, “you shouldn’t be so good at reading me yet.”

  I smiled in spite of myself and set the broom against the wall. I’d swept up most of the shards, although the housekeeper would probably have to vacuum around the smaller corners just in case.

  Moving toward her, I leaned against the cupboard and studied her face. “Tell me.”

  “It’s probably not my place to ask but… has your dad hit your mom before?”

  I shrugged.

  Monique nodded as if this was the expected answer. “I see.”

  “It’s been that way since I was eleven.”

  “Does it happen when he’s drunk?”

  “It happens because he’s scum.” My jaw clenched and I breathed deeply in an effort to calm down.

  “Have you tried to stop him?”

  “I did. Once. The day after, Mom ‘tripped down the stairs’ and bruised a rib. I knew better than to play that game with him.”

  “Why doesn’t she leave?” Monique asked.

  “She has a lot of excuses. Her main one is that she loves him and somewhere in her head, she’s convinced that he loves her.”

  “This isn’t love.” Monique shook her head. “My dad has his flaws, but he doesn’t hit my mom or cheat on her. He might gamble all our money and put death threats over our heads, but I mean, I can live with that.”

  I chuckled.

  Monique smiled. “There he is.”

  I drank her in. The smooth, dark skin. The curls that were ballooning with frizz. The sexy black dress. She was as stunning on the inside as she was on the outside.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You realize you stare at me like half the time we’re together.”

  “Because I can’t believe how beautiful you are.”

  She ducked her head. As expected.

  I drew closer to her, nudging her legs apart with my knee so I could slip in between them. For a second, she looked shocked. Slightly flustered. Then she got used to my invasion of her personal space and naturally wrapped her legs around my waist while I held hers with my arms.

  Desire roared to life, but I beat it down with sheer will. Another round of making out with Monique would only leave me frustrated and wanting more. I didn’t want to go down that road tonight.

  Monique rested her forehead against mine. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.” She draped her arms around my neck. Her thumb lightly caressed the skin from the base of my head to just below my collar. “The way you protected your mother is really, really hot.”

  I chuckled softly, staring her in the eyes. “So it wasn’t my expensive car or my good looks that got to you?”

  She traced my face with her gaze. “Good looks? Where? I don’t see it.”

  “Take that back.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Then I’ll make you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I kissed her softly, savoring her bottom lip and then her top lip. Going as excruciatingly slow as I could. Teasing her. Drawing her out.

  She groaned. “You’re mean.”

  “Will you apologize for calling me ugly?”

  Monique cracked one eye open. “I didn’t call you ugly.”

  “The insult was implied.”

  She snorted.

  I chuckled at the sound. Honestly, this girl was too cute for words.

  Monique squirmed. “I should call my dad to pick me up. It’s getting late and he’s probably blowing up my cell phone.”

  “Your dad doesn’t trust you with me?”

  “He said, and I quote: ‘you might think he hangs the moon, but boys are after only one thing’.”

  I tilted my head. “He’s not wrong.”

  “You’re awful.” Monique laughed.

  She was playing it off, but her father had a right to be concerned. I’d battled thoughts of deflowering his daughter since she stepped into my line of sight. It took concentrated effort to focus on other things, but the desire—and the chemistry—was there.

  I backed away from Monique. “Don’t call your dad. I’ll take you home.”

  “What about your mom? What if she sneaks down here when you’re gone?”

  “She’ll find a way to drink whether I’m in the house or not.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “It’s okay.” I held my hand out to her. “Your parents allowed me to bring you here and they expect me to take you back home. I don’t want your dad to have any more reason not to trust me.”

  “Okay.” She closed her fingers around mine.

  I helped her off the counter and escorted her into the night. The air was chilly and I dropped my jacket over her shoulders to keep her warm.

  Monique was quiet when I drove her home. I realized she’d fallen asleep. Smiling, I shook her shoulder and softly called her name.

  She peeked through narrowed eyes and stretched like a cat. “Are we here already?”

  “Yeah. You should go in.”

  “Good night.” She reached over and gave me a peck on the cheek. I watched her climb out and stumble into the apartment. After waiting a few minutes to make sure she was alright, I returned home.

  The lights were still on.

  I gazed at the kitchen, my eyes falling on the sparkling mound where I’d swept up the shards. I still had to mop up the scotch that was spilled.

  With a sigh, I went for the mop but froze when I saw an orange footprint. It was short and thin. Exactly Mom’s size.

  I followed the line of footprints to the counter where she kept her liquor and noticed that one of the bottles was missing. Anger flared. I considered going to confiscate it, but in the end, I went to sleep in a haze of disappointment.

  After everything that happened tonight, I’d let Mom have her way.

  8

  STUPID LITTLE HATS

  Monique

  THE NEXT DAY, I met Angie at Pizza Joe’s. She wore a cute black cap over her braids. The cartoon pizza s
lice on the bill made me laugh. Angie’s smile widened when she offered a matching hat to me.

  “Wow. You shouldn’t have.” I took it with the tip of my fingers. “Really.”

  “Isn’t it cute?”

  “It’s… something.”

  “Girl, I feel the same way, but our beloved manager says it’s a part of the uniform so…” Angie slid her hands together and arched both eyebrows.

  I sighed and slipped the cap on, glad I had chosen to wear a low bun when I did my hair this morning. Angie offered her compact mirror to me. I caught a glimpse of my reflection and pressed a hand to my cheek.

  This is so embarrassing.

  I handed the mirror back. “Why do we put up with this again?”

  “Because you’re a responsible daughter who wants to help her parents out.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “I like having my own money. And… I don’t want to go home.”

  My curiosity burned. “Are things that bad?”

  “Enough that I’m hoping I can crash at your place tonight.”

  “Again?”

  “Why? I’m not welcome?”

  “You’re always welcome.”

  “Then why do you look so bummed?” Angie frowned. “Fine, I have my pride too. I’ll go somewhere else.”

  “Don’t be like that.” I snatched her hand.

  The belligerent look faded, replaced with a mischievous smile. “Great!”

  I sighed. She totally played me.

  “Your dad owes me a game. I know he did something fishy the last time we played dominoes and I demand a rematch.”

  I laughed. “Be careful or he just might make you his next domino buddy.”

  “It would be my pleasure. Your dad is awesome.”

  “Yeah.” I thought of how hard my father was working to turn over a new leaf. “Yeah, he really is.”

  “Can’t you convince your parents to adopt me?”

  “If they ever go that route, I’m sure you’ll be the only candidate they consider.”

  Angie grinned.

  As I watched her brilliant smile, my mind tripped back to the first time she stayed over.

  “What do you mean you’re not going home?”

  Angie clipped her cigarette between her fingers and blew smoke toward the building next to the pizza parlor. “It’s not a hard concept to grasp, Monique.”