by Lindsey Hart
Showing up to her condo is no less intimidating. First, I’m given some kind of inquisition by the guy at the front desk. He looks like a member of some government service that I don’t want to mess with. Dark, close-cropped hair, blocky features, blocky face. He’s a big bastard who probably eats puppies for breakfast and deals out death before lunch—on a Sunday.
I hand my license over, and while he inspects it and punches away at the laptop on the desk in front of him, I eye the entranceway to the tall glass building. It’s impressive; I’ll give it that. Sparkly. New. Modern. Marble floors. Marble wall. Marble everywhere. Huge windows. Expensive looking blocky red couches for people to sit on while Mr. Terrifying checks out their credentials and determines if they deserve to pass through his gates.
“Looks like you’re expected,” Mr. Terrifying says with a shrug of his shoulders. He’s not wearing a suit. He’s wearing all black. Black turtleneck, black cargo pants, and black shit-kicking boots. I’m pretty sure he’s also packing a gun behind that desk, but I’m not going to stick around to find out.
I take back my license, accept the visitor pass—that I have to scan in front of some strange barcode reader thing—and loop it around my neck like I’m going into some top-secret science lab to receive a briefing on the reason for human existence.
Mr. Terrifying gives me a terrifying smile. At least, I think it’s supposed to be a smile. It looks more like a painful grimace. I think I know what the guy had for breakfast. Twelve eggs. Which he ate raw followed by the shells, crunching ‘em down and licking his stocky fingers after.
I head up to the top floor, which, on the elevator, is labeled penthouse. It doesn’t have a number. The button is square and actually says the word. I stab at it with a low curse under my breath. Nothing. Nothing. Happens. The door to the elevator remains open. I try again. Nothing. Again, still nothing.
I nearly jump out of my skin when Mr. Terrifying appears at the open door. He’s so big and so square that he takes up the entire thing. “You have a pass for a reason,” he says in the even more terrifying rumble that is his voice. “Use it.”
I stare dumbly down at the badge hanging from my neck by a red lanyard.
“Swipe it in front of the reader on the elevator. Then hit the button. It won’t take you up otherwise. People don’t get access to that floor without a pass.” Mr. Terrifying’s dark brows pull together, nearly touching the tip of his nose. That’s right. The tip, not the bridge. And said nose has probably been broken approximately fifteen times. I’m just taking a wild guess, but I bet I am close to the actual number.
“Thanks,” I mutter, feeling like a full-fledged idiot. I can’t manage to eat more than two eggs in one sitting, let alone a carton, and I certainly don’t eat the shells.
“Hmpf.” Mr. Terrifying answers me. He steps back, arms that could crush a man crossed over his beefy, square chest.
I swipe the pass in front of the blacked-out screen, and what do you know. The penthouse button lights up. I’m able to hit it after, and the doors close. In a few seconds, I’m at the top.
There is only one unit at the top. The elevator opens up to a short hall, and there’s a door. Wood. Solid. It has no number on it. No keypad. No lock that I can see. How the hell does Aria even get in there? By teleportation? I wouldn’t put it past her, given that most days, she seems like a full-on witch.
Maybe Aria really is a witch because before I even knock, she opens the door. My jaw nearly unhinges. I imagine the rusty, scraping, horrible cracking sound it would make followed by the loud BLAM as it slams onto the marble floors.
Aria isn’t wearing pink.
I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her in anything but pink. She’s stunning. Even though it’s morning—hardly past breakfast and the time most sane people start their day—she’s wearing a black dress. A very tight, very shapely, expensive-looking, form-fitting black dress. It’s not cut low. It has a square neckline that covers everything. There’s not even an ounce of her breasts exposed. The dress has no sleeves. Her arms are bare. It nips in tightly at the waist, flares out with her hips, and continues to her knees. She’s paired it with black heels. All in all, she’s stunning. She looks like she’s ready to conquer the world.
“I—er—uh—do we have a meeting? Or am I early? Am I here on the wrong day? Wrong time? Are you…going somewhere?”
Aria blinks. “No. I’m not going anywhere. Yes, we have a meeting. Right time. Right day.”
I continue to stare at her. All of her. I’ve never seen a woman look more like a ten than she does right now. Except, with her long blonde hair falling all over the place, her makeup as tasteful as ever, eyes flashing, and lips pursed, she’s not a ten. She’s more like a forty, fifty, sixty…and she knows it.
“Are you going to come in, or do you want me to stand out there, and we can go over the list in the hallway?”
“N–no. I’ll come in.”
My legs move, somehow. I enter her domain. Somehow.
From what I can see, which is pretty much everything because the condo has an open floor concept, it’s exactly what I thought it would be. Pretentious. Expensive. Luxurious. Four banks of windows extend from the floor to the ceiling. The floors are dark hardwood. There’s a black and white marble island in the middle, with a metal range hood extending to the ceiling and an actual grill and stovetop set right into the island. A bank of shiny white cupboards stands behind it. The furniture is modern, square, and all white. There’s a second-floor visible, just the edge of it, and it is also white. Everything is white, black, or metal. It’s all very shiny and smells so new that I almost get a nosebleed walking into it.
For the record, it’s not really my flavor, but I guess it’s alright. I like my real estate a little more rustic.
“Can I get you a drink?” Aria clicks her way over to the kitchen. Her heels practically scrape across the hardwood but somehow don’t leave a mark.
“That would depend.”
“On?”
My fingers tighten around the folder in my hand. I want to whip that ridiculous badge off, but for some reason, I don’t. I leave it dangling around my neck. “On what’s on offer.”
Aria’s eyes darken inexplicably. “Well, I have water, orange juice, beer, wine, vodka, cranberry juice. Uhhh—I think I have a can of pineapple juice somewhere and some frozen fruit. I could make a smoothie.”
This, I have to see. I don’t think Aria could make anything to save her life. I’m tempted to ask for wine—at nine in the morning—just to see what she’d do. She’d probably pour me a glass, knowing her, and then I’d be forced to drink it.
“I’ll take the smoothie. If you promise not to throw anything weird into it.”
“Define weird.”
That’s such an Aria sort of question that I almost snort a laugh. But I don’t. I remain composed. “Uh—like…spinach. Or avocado or something that doesn’t belong with fruit.”
“Avocado makes it creamy. It’s good.” She runs her tongue over her full bottom lip like she can taste it already.
I haven’t dressed to impress—on purpose—again. I wore jeans, an old set that has oil stains from the last time I gave my truck some love in the form of an oil change, and a black t-shirt. Simple. Underwhelming. No wonder Mr. Terrifying looked at me like he wanted to take a dump on me and break me in two when I walked in.
The point is, my jeans are worn in. Really worn in. I’ve had them for years.
The point also is that watching Aria move around in that dress, watching her curves sway and her body move, her shapely, curvy ass, her long legs, the push of her breasts against the fabric…watching her run her tongue along her pink lips…my cock just happens to really enjoy what I’m seeing. A lot. Suddenly, it’s pushing against the denim, and I know the denim is too broke in to offer much resistance. I nearly drop the folder down to my waist, half in shock and half because I need to hide the evidence of what just happened. Namely, the tent that just spontaneously sprung up.<
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So, I do. Move the folder. Subtly, slowly, all the while hoping that Aria doesn’t look down.
Why the hell do I have a hard-on for Aria Watson? Even if she’s pretty, it’s wasted on her. She’s gorgeous. I know that. My brain knows it. Apparently, my dick knows it too. The whole frigid bitch thing she has going on would usually deter said reactions. This morning not included.
This morning, my dick apparently wants a smoothie too.
“Uh—whatever. Just don’t put onions or hair or grass or something else gross in it…I’ll leave it up to you.”
“Alright, I won’t put any gas station sushi in. I promise.”
I make a break for the living room, Aria’s light, taunting laughter following me. The condo is massive. My hard-on is also massive. Or at least, a massive impediment. I’m walking strangely. I have to keep the folder in front of me, angled to the side. I don’t breathe until I slam down onto one hell of an uncomfortable white couch with chrome legs. It’s square and seems to be carved from stone.
At least I’m currently hidden from Aria’s view.
I slam the folder over my lap, just in case.
Think about terrible thoughts. Gross things. Cassie. Think about Cassie. About Cassie talking about Julia’s nipples haunting her for life. She told me to think about it.
I have to admit, Julia did have pretty scary nipples. Not that my twenty-two-year-old self with the raging hormones or the hard-on to match actually gave a shit. I didn’t. I can see how it nearly killed Cassie, though.
Unfortunately, thoughts of Julia’s nipples are followed up by thoughts of Aria’s nipples. No, I haven’t seen them. No, I don’t want to. Yes, I’m a liar. Because suddenly, I’m wondering if they’re pink, light, or a darker hue. What they’d look like, small and pert. Wet from my saliva and my tongue.
Fuck me with a rusty pickaxe and a kazoo. That is not helping.
There’s the noise of a blender whirring to life—probably one of those eight hundred dollar bastards, and then the click of Aria’s heels. In mere minutes, she passes me a tall glass with some dubious green goo in it.
“Why is it green?! I said not to put any grass or anything strange in it.”
“Taste it. For your information, it’s kiwi. And I did use avocado because it’s good. You won’t know until you try it. Taste it. I guarantee it won’t give you food poisoning.”
I take a tentative sip. The folder is still on my lap.
Aria sits down in the matching square white chair across from me. There’s a glass coffee table with chrome legs between us. She takes a sip out of her glass and licks her lips in slow motion. Fuck. My dick salutes the smoothie before I even take a sip. Which I do. Slowly. So she watches my mouth and not what’s happening in my pants.
I take a sip. It’s not half bad. Actually, it’s pretty good. Fruity, creamy, cold, and delicious.
“See! I told you,” Aria smirks at me. That smirk is not doing anything to help what’s going on down south. “What kind of pie did you get yesterday? Wait, no. Let me guess. Coconut cream?”
My fingers curl around the glass. “How the hell did you know that?”
For some reason, when Aria said pie, coconut, and cream, my balls swelled up a little more. Apparently, those are magic words for my dick because the bastard is now a full-on raging club. If I swing it, I think it could actually break something. Like that glass coffee table.
“Just a lucky guess. I saw you eyeing it up when we walked in.” Aria takes another long sip of her smoothie. She stares at me with those wild blue eyes like she sees a lot of things, notices a lot of things. Like the action going on underneath the folder. Like she knows.
In a desperate bid to throw her off track, I say something stupid. Something I haven’t even mentioned to another living, breathing soul. And now I’m telling her. Aria Watson. Someone who, a few days ago, I didn’t even give enough credit to produce a thought, rational or otherwise.
“You asked me what I was going to use the money for. Well, I want to travel. I want to start a company that invests in start-up businesses overseas. Small things, artisans, fair trade. I want to make a difference for those people. Some of them aren’t just living in developing nations. Some of them create things that are going to be a lost art if people don’t support them. I want to see that in action. I want to be a part of that. I want…I want to just—yeah. That’s what I want to do.”
“Oh.” Aria sips her smoothie. Licks her lips again. I nearly groan in pain. “That’s cool.”
“It’s what my mom wanted to do.” Well, there it goes. That effectively shrivels up my dick. Funny how feeling like you just got punched in the stomach will do that to you. I have never, ever, told another person that either.
“Really?” Aria’s eyes are suddenly laser-focused. She has this intense look on her face, more terrifying than Mr. Terrifying.
“Yeah.” My throat is so thick and dry that not even this surprisingly delicious, shockingly green smoothie is going to help.
“Cassie never said anything about your mom. What happened? Where is she?”
“Er—well—she’s… I don’t know where she is, actually.”
“She left? I’m sorry. That’s…shitty.”
“Not exactly. I mean…kind of.” I close my eyes because I’m botching this big time. I can’t look at Aria. I can just leave it at that, but for some reason, I feel the need not to. I want to tell her. I don’t know why, why her, a woman I don’t even like. A woman I can’t even stand. I don’t know why I want to unburden myself with her when I haven’t with anyone else. Normal people. People I actually liked. People who were friends. People who meant well.
“Are you okay?” Concern creeps into her voice and reaches me like it’s coming from far away. Everything feels dark and muffled in my head.
“I don’t know where my mom is because I don’t know what happens when you die. I don’t know where you go. She—I never met her. Or rather, I did, but I don’t remember. She died when I was two days old. She was still in the hospital. My dad had gone back to their house for a few hours. I was sleeping in the hospital bassinet thing. My mom went into labor a week early, and they didn’t have their bag packed. We were going to be discharged later that day, so dad went back to get her a fresh change of clothes and a few other things they hadn’t had time to pack. And to take a shower. He’d been at the hospital for two days. When he was gone—my mom—she got a blood clot. In her leg. When he got back—it—it had already happened. There were nurses waiting for him. He said he felt like it was an ambush. He knew right away that something was wrong. He couldn’t have imagined how wrong. He was left with an infant to raise. A newborn. He knew nothing about kids. He had a job. He wasn’t going to take time off. He—he was completely unprepared for it.”
“What!” Aria nearly screams the word, and my eyes pop open. She leaps up out of her chair—like she’s just sat down on an eight-inch spike—and pretty much flies. She freaking defies gravity. She leaps over the coffee table like a freaking star athlete, in heels, and sits down hard on the even harder couch. Right. Beside. Me.
She takes my glass from my frozen hand and sets it on the coffee table. The rest of me is pretty frozen too because she takes my cold, limp hand and sets it between hers. She guides them down, down to the folder, and keeps them there. Between hers. I don’t pull it away.
“Jesus, Lucas, I’m sorry. I had no idea. Cassie never said anything. I–I’m sorry. I—wasn’t nice to you yesterday. I flipped you off. I—demanded that you come here. I—er—fuck.”
“There’s a reason Cassie never told you.” I can hear my voice, but it’s like I’m yelling from the end of a long tunnel, and only this whisper-thin version of my words is coming out on the other end. “She doesn’t know. My dad told her mom, of course, but Cassie—as far as she knows, she probably thinks my parents got a divorce, or my mom walked out on us. She’s never asked.”
“Fuck…”
“That’s why she doesn’t know. It’s
why we don’t tell anyone. Aside from it being a really shitty story, this happens. And now, you’re sitting there pitying me. Now I’m not Lucas, the asshole. I’m poor Lucas. The kid who never met his mom. I’m that person.”
“No, you’re not.” Aria’s fingers tighten around mine.
Aww freak. Now the bridge of my nose is burning. My sinuses are tingling. My eyes are stinging. I look away and blink hard. Harder. But it’s not helping. Damn it. The hedgehogs from a few days ago are living in my face now.
I can’t do this. I can’t freaking cry in front of Impossibella Watson. In front of anyone, it would be bad, but in front of her? Like this?
“The bathroom is just past the kitchen, down the hall, first door to the right. It’s so dusty in here. I’ve been complaining about it, but they haven’t done anything about the air quality. Now you’ve managed to get something under your eye contacts. I’ll put in another complaint. For the amount I paid for this place, you’d think they’d take health matters a little more seriously…”
I can’t believe it. Aria Watson. Aria Watson is giving me a way out. She’s….actually being nice. I don’t think twice. I scramble up, hand her the folder, and make a break for it.
I blindly stumble around until I find said door and burst into the bathroom. It’s bigger than my entire house and probably costs more. I don’t pay attention to the massive freestanding tub or the crazy shower with the double showerheads. I pick the first of three sinks, crank the tap, and splash water on my face. My already wet face.
Those damn hedgehogs didn’t just take up residence behind my eyes. They’re thrashing around, sword fighting each other.
CHAPTER 8
Aria
I’ve been through some awkward things in my life. I’ve been through some sad things too. Let’s just say I’ve been through a lot. I’ve had some pretty wide, varied experiences. My parents were no better than wolves. Being packed off to boarding school at the age of twelve was the best thing that happened to me. I’m twenty-nine now, so I’ve seen some shit go down in the intervening years. Here and there. Not always. I’ve seen some good things, too, along the way.