Come On (Coming Together Book 2)

by Poppy Dunne

  “I don’t have time for jokes right now. Please get back to your desk,” he says coolly. Annoyance disperses, and a creeping fear replaces it. I haven’t had that much experience with men, but I have vivid memories and feelings about the first guy I ever slept with. When we started dating, I couldn’t have been happier. He’d been warm, and safe, and considerate. Then we had sex, and after that he lost all interest. Apparently the chase was what thrilled him, not the kill. Probably shouldn’t use hunting metaphors for sex, but there you go. Sophomore year of college was a bad time for me. Too much ice cream and way too many random crying jags.

  If I’ve spent five years of my life pining for a man who couldn’t maintain interest after my first orgasm, I am going to question everything about myself. That’s something I don’t want to do right now.

  No. That’s my own insecurity talking, my past coming back to whisper in my ear and sucker punch me in the kidney. Rafe’s proven he’s not that kind of man. Which means…

  Of course.

  “What did Scott say, specifically?” I ask. Rafe’s got an impressive poker face, but the corners of his mouth tighten. “Was it about me?”

  “Go back to your desk, Tessa.” He’s brusque, and still won’t look at me. Dread swirls in my gut.

  “It was, wasn’t it?” My breath hitches. “Does he know about us? What did you tell him?”

  Finally, I have Rafe’s attention. His charcoal-black eyes pin me where I stand. He shoves the chair back and leans over his desk, hands braced on either side of him. “There is no us, do you understand?” he hisses. “What I’m doing is dangerous enough. Scott’s little asshole play just now reminded me of everything I’ve got to lose. I can’t put the future of this company into the hands of some assistant.” His glare is molten, unyielding. Clenching his jaw, he says, “And I sure as hell can’t put anything else into her hands right now. Accept my apology for stepping over the line this morning, and leave it at that. Now.” He sits, and gestures to the door with a jerk of his chin. “I think there’s something for you to do. Something that actually falls within the purview of your job description.”

  My God, this man should have been an actor. Even as my brain tells me that this is all a performance, all a way to shield me from whatever happened in Scott’s office, my body wants me to leap across the desk and slap him. I imagine leaving a red outline of a handprint on his cheek.

  I breathe. I remember that he is probably trying to protect me. I still want to scream.

  “Just tell me if Scott knows about us.”

  “Have I been speaking in tongues, or do you not recognize English?” He leans back in his chair, his gaze raking over me from head to toe. It feels scrutinizing now, clinical and detached. I’m a parcel of goods that isn’t up to his standards; that’s what it feels like.

  No wonder he’s been fooling all of us for half a decade. He’s so good at concealing the truth, it makes me wonder if our time together hasn’t been an act on some level. I have to shake that thought loose, because I can’t imagine a world in which someone like Rafe is truly a worthless piece of shit. That knowledge would crush me.

  “Fine. I’ll pick up your dry cleaning, Mr. McCarthy.” I leave without a backward glance, a lump forming in my throat. I’m so stunned and furious that I get to the elevator block before I realize I don’t have my purse. With the dry-cleaning ticket in hand, I wedge into the corner of the elevator and glower as I trek down to the fourth floor. That’s one nice thing about this building: dry-cleaning service is inside. No need to head out into the winter cold. Though right now I’m so damn flushed I could use the chill.

  I know Rafe’s behaving this way to protect me, even if he’s being a jackass about it. Honestly, I could laugh at the whole situation. Rafe, the bastard pretend son of the most powerful man in town, schemes to usurp his terrible not-father and rule the formerly evil company with peace and wisdom. Put some golden crowns on people’s heads, replace the executive boardroom with a banner-festooned banquet hall, maybe throw a dragon or two in there to spice things up, and you have yourself a prime setup for a fantasy novel. It’s the standard “overthrow the evil king” plot. It’s almost cliché, really.

  And the part of the besotted servant girl who knows she’s way out of the prince’s league? She’s played by yours truly.

  On the fourth floor, I turn down the hall to the dry cleaners. The sliding doors open before me as I hold out the ticket and walk up to the counter. “Picking up, please,” I say.

  The old woman behind the counter gives me a pleasant smile. “Hello, dear,” she says. She’s tiny and sweet-looking, with a cloud of curling white hair and large, plastic-framed glasses. I freeze, because yes: it’s M. Cat food lady cyber anarchist M.

  When Rafe said she had a handle on everyone’s dirty laundry, I had no idea he meant it so literally.

  I gape as M slides a glass bowl filled with wrapped strawberry candy my way. It’s the kind of strawberry candy you only ever find in doctors’ offices and your grandmother’s living room. Maybe once a woman passes seventy, she’s assigned a bag of this stuff. “Have a sweet? You look tired.”

  She goes to get my order while I try to process this new, wild development. Stunned disbelief transforms to annoyance; after all, she’s the person who sent both Rafe and me on a wild digital goose chase, which has ended up with a whole lot of nothing and me having the best orgasm of my life. Which should be a net positive, except now I’m heartbroken and maybe I should have a piece of candy.

  Eat your feelings, Tessa.

  When M returns with three shirts and two pairs of pants, I grab them and whisper, “That information you gave us was no good.”

  M cannily looks side to side, like the detergent and the cute kitten calendar on the wall are going to spy on this. (Seriously, they are exceptionally cute kittens. They’re piled in a basket, wearing little Santa hats. It’s the sweetest.) “Everything you need is on the drive, dear. Emmett was very thorough.”

  I swear, all I need right now is for Scott McCarthy to walk right in behind me and ask for his tux or something. The situation is too intense, but I can’t stop. My frustration has hit the boiling point.

  “Then he must have put it in code, because I can’t find anything actually illegal. Dickish? Yes, but not illegal.”

  “Language,” she tuts. I shoulder the dry cleaning while she frowns. “What were you looking at, anyway?”

  “The emails. Obviously.”

  “But what in the emails?” She adjusts her glasses, looking like a very sweet owl.

  “Scott was cackling with all his executive friends about how they’re going to raise the price on Benzaline. They’re allowed to do that.”

  She tuts and shakes her head. “It’s not the executives you should be concerned with. It’s the doctors.”

  “Huh?” But that’s all I get as the doors whoosh open behind me and another poor, frazzled-looking assistant clomps over to deliver a dress that seems to be covered in wine. Merlot, from the smell of it. Probably a very good year.

  “Don’t even ask. Just work miracles,” she moans, shoving the bundle of silk over the counter. M grins at me, then winks.

  “Well, good luck, dear. Take one for the road.” She pushes that candy dish one more time, and I’ll be damned if I don’t take one. As I let the sugar work its dark magic, I glide up in the elevator and think hard. There were definitely some doctors in those emails, but what would they have to do with anything?

  I almost want to tell Rafe about it, but considering he’s still playing the game of “never look at Tessa” I’m going to wait on that. The hours slog by until I can go home. When I’m finally back in my apartment, I put on my comfiest sweatpants, my fuzziest socks, and heat up a bowl of soup. I’m about to be the coziest spy in history. Properly warmed, I boot up my laptop and get to work.

  I scroll through the emails one more time, reading each and every line like it’s in code and I’m translating. I slurp my fifty cent bowl of instant ramen an
d groan with frustration. There’s nothing here! Nothing except—

  One word pops out at me; I swear I’ve seen it before. Fentanyl. I think Rafe and I missed it because it’s been buried under lists of chemicals, and we weren’t looking at the drug contents: we were looking for signs of blackmail, and other obvious over-the-top villain moves. I do a quick google search to remind myself, and…

  Oh. Oh. No wonder this sounded familiar. Fentanyl is a synthetic opioid, unbelievably addictive…and deadly. It’s like heroin, only for people who want a real high. But what is something like Fentanyl doing in a Parkinson’s medication? It kills pain, sure, but it also, like, kills.

  Wait. I scan a line I’ve passed before, something that jagged at my subconscious. Blinking, I read it over: We should see an uptick in return business.

  Return business.

  It all becomes incredibly clear.

  Scott McCarthy is adding an indescribably addictive substance to his new, way overpriced medication. I’m no chemist, but I can guess that they’re not going to be stupid about it. They’ll add just enough to turn people into addicts. Sure, some might die along the way, but it’s Parkinson’s. They’re probably hopeful no one will dig into their deaths too deeply. This means Benzaline is going to see more return business…more expensive return business.

  And right underneath it, I see two different “prices” for the doctors based on using the Fentanyl or not. The difference in price? Why, color me shooketh, because that looks like money paid for the doctors to agree to all of this in the first place.

  That looks like a bribe.

  My scalp tingles, and I dribble hot soup on myself. That is not the most attractive I’ve ever been, but who cares? Rafe was right. Scott Motherfucking McCarthy has finally been caught doing something ball-blazingly illegal.

  If Rafe’s been looking for a golden ticket, well, then I’m about to become the horniest Willy Wonka of all time.

  I don’t like the way that sounded, either.

  Eleven

  Rafe

  She’s your weakness.

  I don’t recommend having Scott McCarthy’s voice in your head. At the best of times, he sounds like Ron Swanson if he was not charming at all, or into woodworking. But when I think of Scott with that smirk, and picture him leveling his python gaze at Tessa… When I think of him touching her or going near her…

  I take another deep swallow of bourbon, the only thing that’s keeping me from getting into my car and driving down to that bastard’s apartment for a healthy round of verbal and possibly physical violence. It’s pitch black outside, and I’ve only got one lone lamp turned on as a beacon against the darkness. My brooding, disheveled reflection continues to glare at me in the window. I’m doing my Batman routine of hiding in luxury while drinking and plotting.

  I didn’t tell Tessa the truth about Scott because I didn’t want to make an already painful situation more agonizing. She must have guessed—I could see it on her face when she left—but it doesn’t ease the sting. This morning, I was on the verge of having sex with the woman of my dreams. Now, I’m left with alcohol and the buzzing memory of her skin and her mouth. I can close my eyes and see her naked underneath me, her face flushing as she came. I can still hear how she cried for me, feel how she dug her fingernails into my back. My cock stirs at the memories, but I can’t let it lead me around anymore. Tessa doesn’t deserve Scott McCarthy’s wrath, and I’m the only one who can protect her from it. That means cutting myself off from my drug of choice—ironic, considering I work in pharma. It means saying goodbye to Tessa.

  The buzzer sounds. Apparently I have a visitor. Hopefully, it’s another case of alcohol that grew legs and was feeling social. I pick up my phone and take a deep swallow of bourbon. “Yeah?”

  “You’ve got a guest, sir. Says she’s your assistant?”

  Apparently Tessa and I have different ideas of what “goodbye” means. For Tessa Snowe, this must be opposite day.

  “Should I let her come up?” the man asks.

  Say no, Rafe. Say goodbye. Say sayonara. Say anything, you absolute bastard, just so long as it’s not—

  “Yeah, send her up.”

  You fucker. Well, I can’t blame myself.

  Soon, there’s a knock on the door. I open it to find Tessa standing there, fist still raised in that “ready to knock” position. Guess I opened up pretty fast. It’s not like I’ve been hovering here in the near dark, crazed with the thought of seeing her again.

  Maybe it’s the alcoholic haze, but I swear the light from the hallway haloes her blonde hair. My literal guardian angel has shown up, complete with a devilishly sinful body. And because of that, she needs to get out of here.

  “I thought I was clear back at the office,” I tell her, the frustration coiling off of me. Baby, you are about to get the surly, drunk version of me, and I hope you don’t like it. I hope it makes you leave, cursing my name all the way back to Queens. “You can’t come here to—”

  She plucks the zip drive out of her pocket. “I’ve got him,” she says.

  Fuck. I let her in fast, checking over her shoulder. Nope, no looming men in black suits, or leering Brads and Scotts peeking around the corner, wearing dollar store mustaches for a disguise. We’re safe. She sets up her computer while I pace behind her, my eyes trailing her body from top to toe and back again. I want to memorize every swell and curve with my hands, my mouth, my cock, but I can’t have what I want. It’s too dangerous.

  “Look.” She edges aside so I can join her and witness this incredible find. I’m prepared for it to be nothing. I’m prepared to thank her for her time, snatch the drive, then show her the door. But as Tessa explains, my body goes numb with relief.

  Bribes. Tampering with medication.

  Addiction.

  Scott, you bastard, I’ve got you. Finally. I close my eyes and savor this moment like a fine wine. For thirty years, I’ve been under this man’s thumb. Now, I’m about to break free of him for good, and all because of Tessa. Because she didn’t listen to me. Because she wouldn’t let it go.

  “What do you think?” she whispers. I look down at her earnest, hopeful face. My gaze tracks to her parted lips, practically begging to be kissed. If I lean down a fraction—

  Fuck you, Rafe. Get her out of here.

  “Thank you,” I say as I unplug the drive. “Now you have to go.” Brusque? Yes. Dickish? Absolutely. But it’s necessary. I retreat from her, prepared to go stand by the window, stare out at the city, and practice drinking myself into a stupor. Practice makes perfect. But Tessa Snowe does not fade away when you tell her to. Instead, she circles in front of me, halting me in my tracks.

  “That’s all you have to say?” Hurt shimmers in her eyes, even as she straightens her spine. I want to put my hands on her. I want to make her feel so goddamn happy she came here tonight. But what I want most of all is for her to be safe, and that has to come ahead of my own selfish desires. Still, I can’t keep myself from taking her by the arms and pulling her against my body. She gasps, and my cock stirs at the sound, but I won’t kiss her. I won’t let myself be weak right now, not when she needs me strong.

  “How’s this? Thank you for giving me what I’ve wanted more than anything in the goddamn world.” Well. One of the things I want more than anything, but I can’t tell her that. The taste of her lips and the feel of her body are still too fresh in my memory. “I want you more than I have ever wanted any other woman.” I have to force the next words out. “Which means you need to leave now.”

  “Scott knows about us.” It’s not a question.

  “He knows you’re my weakness.” Let her go, Rafe. Reluctantly, I release her and step back, fighting the urge to pick her up in my arms and carry her into the bedroom. “If he knew what you were doing here tonight, he’d make your life hell.”

  “You should have told me this afternoon.” Fuck, she’s actually smiling; she seems relieved. I hate how happy it makes me to see that smile.

  “Tessa, I
can’t have you in my life. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “I’ve spent a lifetime looking after myself. I’m very well protected that way. I just don’t want to be alone anymore.” She draws nearer to me, and my jaw clenches at how easy it’d be to reach out for her. She puts her hands on my chest, but I know she feels only steel and hardened resolve. I won’t look at her; I won’t let myself want her. “I know too much about you now. It’s too late to go back.” She stands on her toes, her lips brushing my jaw as she whispers, “Please. Just let me in.”

  My body is tensed to the breaking point. She pulls away to look me in the eyes, her expression begging and strong all at once. If I do this, there’s no turning back. I’ll never be able to take my hands off her again.

  “I have to keep you from getting hurt,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Nothing could hurt worse than how you talked to me this afternoon.” Her voice breaks lightly. “I felt like I was nothing.”

  That’s what finally takes my resolve and shatters it, stomping on the broken pieces for emphasis before sweeping them under the couch to hide the damage. Tessa Snowe is the opposite of nothing, and she deserves to know it.

  I pull her against me, hard. She gasps as my hand trusses in her hair, as I bring my mouth over hers. She moans as I kiss her, my lips almost cruel against hers. She wraps herself around me. I hook my hand under her leg and bring it up around my hip, letting her grind against my erection. She whimpers as I break the kiss, as I lift her into my arms. She watches me with open-mouthed shock as I carry her through the darkened living room and kick open my bedroom door.

  It’s the culmination of all my fantasies for the past five goddamn years.

  “Is this what you want?” I throw her onto the bed, the springs sighing beneath her. Tessa lies there, sprawled and in shock. Then, slowly, she sits up and reaches to grab me by my belt. Her hands are shaking badly, either with nerves or desire. Probably both. She pulls me nearer, and slides her hands up my legs. Her pupils are wide and dark, her lips parted.