by Sasha Gold
It’s Charlotte. Two security officers accompany her, one on each side. She just got back from Mexico, landing three hours ago, and I’ve already gotten about a dozen messages. Half are her complaining about all the wedding stuff that “got dumped on her lap” and the other messages are her checking up on me, making jokes about renting a helicopter to come rescue me. This morning she offered to bake a cake with a file hidden inside.
She would too. I think she’s the only person who might really try.
“Oh look, there she is,” Charlotte says just a little too loudly. She waves at me. “Yoohoo, Miss Mathews, I have that information you needed.”
“You know this lady?” one of the men asks.
“Yes, I do. She’s okay.”
“Leah,” Riley says quietly. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Dane’s fiancé. It’s fine.”
Charlotte pulls me into a hug. “I’m almost as mad as Miranda.”
Her eyes flash with amusement as she eyes me up and down. “You look so cute. I love those boots. I’ve been in the jungle for the last week and I need to go shopping to get my fix. I can’t tell you how crappy it is that you’re a size smaller than me.” She winks at me and lowers her voice. “So. Have you done the deed?”
Heat spreads across my face. “No. I’m not even sure it’s going to happen.”
Riley comes to my side and stares at Charlotte intently like he’s trying to size her up and determine if she’s a threat.
Charlotte smiles at Riley, a huge megawatt smile, her white teeth contrasting with her tropical tan. She offers her hand. “That was some stunt you pulled, Tarzan.”
He takes her hand and shakes it. I can tell he’s not sure if he wants to agree with her or not.
“Charlotte Davenport and Miranda Mathews hate each other,” I offer, trying to clarify.
His shoulders drop a fraction of an inch as he relaxes and he looks at Charlotte with a whole new appreciation. Anyone who doesn’t get along with Miranda has to be all right.
“Charlotte Davenport?” Riley says. “Your father is the doctor, right, Michael Davenport?”
“Yes,” she beams. “You know him?”
“I do. I have nothing but respect for him. His group is one of the primary charities I support.”
“Oh my God!”
I’m stunned by this revelation, but Charlotte is nearly hysterical.
“I can’t wait to tell Daddy. He will be so…”
In all the time I’ve known Charlotte I’ve never known her to be at a loss for words. But I know what just happened. She realizes her father might not even know who Riley is, and she knows Riley’s career is so counter to her father’s mission in life that her brain gears don’t know which way to turn.
“Excited!” she finally says.
The Italian director is grousing that his actor has left the set. He’s gesturing wildly and his minions are running to and fro to do his bidding.
“I have to do a few shots on my own and then they’re going to take some with you and me together,” Riley tells me.
“Are we still doing that,” I ask. “I don’t like being in front of the camera.”
“I want to show everyone my pretty girl,” he says.
“That is the sweetest and romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” Charlotte says with a sigh. “You’re not half-bad, despite your caveman ways.”
He arches a brow. “And you’re not half-bad despite your taste in men.”
Charlotte waves her hand. “Dane is a work in progress.”
“I’m not a model, Riley.”
Charlotte smacks my shoulder. “Oh come on! You are not going to turn this down! If your boyfriend wants to take a picture with you, you’re going to do it. You’ll be awesome. Such a pretty couple.”
Boyfriend…I stare at Charlotte and realize I haven’t really told her the truth. That I’m already married. She just landed a few hours ago and must not have heard about us marrying in his home. She can be bitchy and bossy but I’m sure it would hurt her feelings if she knew. Charlotte and I have spent so much time together over the last month. We’ve grown close but I can’t tell her. Not yet. I’m not sure who she would hurt more, me or Riley.
Riley smiles and motions to a hallway. “Go to the second room on the right. Ask for Vera. I talked to her and she’s got some stuff she brought for you.”
My mouth goes dry. I’m used to handling promotional stuff, sending out breezy public service announcements, organizing events and publicity. Stuff like that I can get into, but I’ve never been the focus of any of that. I don’t like having the camera trained on me.
Charlotte gives me a shove. “Go on. Don’t be such a chicken. This will be awesome.”
She grabs my arm and practically drags me away. I look back over my shoulder and Riley’s smiling at me. He holds out his hand and pretends to sign something. It’s a reminder that I agreed, in writing, to help him with the pre-fight promo. When I signed the agreement, I never envisioned any of this.
The dressing room is cramped, filled with racks and mirrors and bright lights.
Vera, a short, middle-aged woman, sits me down and the next thing I know no less than three stylists are working me over. My hair gets set in hot rollers. My nails receive a coat of polish and my face gets about an inch of makeup spackled on.
Charlotte is a kid in a candy shop. She mostly stands back and gives soft murmurs of approval or thumbs up, but when they zip me into a red dress that’s two sizes too small, she whoops.
“Holy shitballs, sister! That dress was meant for you!”
I look in the mirror and hardly recognize myself. The dress molds to my body and my boobs practically spill over the top.
Vera frowns. “The underwear.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
The matching bra and panty set are the same color as the dress and I have to say they’re pretty damn sexy. When I slipped into the dressing room to change, I took half a moment to admire the way they looked, so different from the beige color I usually prefer.
“The panties need to go,” Vera says.
“Totally agree,” Charlotte says. “No VPL. Good call, Vera.”
There’s a knock at the door. “How much longer, Vera?” someone asks.
“Half a moment.”
I huff out a sigh and step back into the dressing room. I tug the underwear off and set them aside. “I really liked those.”
Vera chuckles. “You can take whatever you want home.”
“Can she have the dress too?” Charlotte asks. “I’m her agent by the way.”
Vera doesn’t even blink. “Of course. Anything she wants.”
Charlotte gives me a self-satisfied smile and I’m struck by the reversal of roles. Usually, it’s me running after her taking care of details. She rubs her hands together and starts looking around the dressing room as if she wants to snag a few other things for me. Her pilfering is cut short by the director’s angry words coming down the hallway.
“Good grief,” Charlotte mutters. “Who does that guy think he is? Spielberg?”
Vera ushers us out the door. “This is actually one of his better shoots. He tries to behave when he’s working with Mr. Tarrant.”
I return to the set, starkly aware of people staring.
Riley gives nothing away with his expression. I can’t tell if he thinks it’s too much or if he likes what he sees. And why I care what he thinks is beyond me. He has the usual unreadable and unreachable look. Saying nothing, he holds out his hand, offering it to me. I take it and shudder with pleasure at the first time he’s touched me in what feels like ages. The first time since we left the restaurant.
We cross the set and he sits down and pats his knee. Some of the male members of the crew laugh.
“I don’t want to sit on your lap, Riley.” I speak softly so only he can hear and I do my best to give him an imploring look.
He smirks. “You have to do whatever I say.”
“I don’t have pantie
s on. This skirt is short and I don’t want to flash a bunch of photographers. Don’t make me do this.”
His eyes glint and I wonder if it’s because he likes having me at his mercy. If he wanted to humiliate me this would be the perfect opportunity.
“All right, Leah.”
He stands up and motions for someone to take the chair away. The lights are bright and I can’t see the director or many of crew members. I can feel Charlotte’s attention on us. I know her. She’s riveted and loving every minute of the drama.
The director rattles something off in Italian. His assistant translates. “Mr. Tarrant, could you please put your arms around her.”
“My pleasure,” Riley says.
Ha. Liar. He sets his hands on my waist and I focus very intently on a point on his suit jacket. I’m praying this isn’t one of those shoots that lasts hours. On the other hand, I’m grateful they’re photographing the back of my head. I picture the image in my mind, but then wonder if they’ll take a full body shot. In that case, my backside is going to be pretty prominent because this dress is saran-wrapped over my ass.
“Oh come on, Riley. You look like you’re hugging your granny,” Charlotte shouts.
“That’s Charlotte,” I whisper. “It’s fine. Just ignore her, she just-” My words are cut off when he pulls me hard against his chest.” A huff of air is knocked out of me. He’s holding me tightly against him, his leg wedged intimately between mine.
“Attaway.” Charlotte cheers.
I can hear a flurry of Italian from the director and his assistants. They’re debating something or another but the cameramen aren’t waiting for orders. The two of them prowl around snapping pictures.
“Can we get a little ass-grab?” yells Charlotte.
A ripple of laughter moves across the crew.
“Porca miseria,” mutters the director.
Riley glides his hand down my waist, slowly and deliberately. I draw a sharp breath. Under any other circumstances, if a guy was making a move like this, I’d smack him or at least try to escape his attention, but I’m bound by my agreement and I feel the weight of expectation. I have to play the part. His hand moves lower to my ass and he cups me with his hand. I’m stunned into silence, but when he shifts me, positioning me more in front of him, his erection presses against me and my heart seizes.
“Come closer,” he murmurs. “We can’t just stay in the same spot the whole time.”
If my mind wasn’t slipping its gears on the feel of his hard cock I might reply with something witty. Said the spider to the fly, or something like that. I close my eyes and to my utter mortification, a soft moan escapes my lips. My body responds. My breasts tighten almost painfully and my core heats with wet arousal.
I can hear the director’s voice and for the first time, he sounds happy, chattering to the photographers, urging them on.
My legs tremble and in spite of his hold, I feel precarious. I clasp a handful of his shirt, clinging to him for support. “I don’t like this, Riley.”
He takes his hand from my ass and turns me so I’m facing forward. “Liar,” he whispers. “You want it as much as I do.”
His arms encircle me and he brushes his lips against my temple. Behind me, his body presses against me. His warm breath fans against my skin.
“But it won’t mean anything to you,” I say so only he can hear.
“It would mean everything to me.”
“I’m just part of some big scheme.”
He laughs softly. “Does it feel like I’m thinking about revenge right now?”
Clearly that’s not what he’s thinking about right now. Once upon a time I would have been flattered, no, ecstatic, to think that he wanted me, but it’s not so simple anymore. My eyes sting and prickle with the threat of tears. Again. I’m off-balance, unsure and vulnerable. I’m not much of a crier, so when I do cry it’s like a flood. A big, wracking ugly cry like the one I had when I visited Dad’s grave.
He turns me another half-circle so I’m facing him again. My heels give me a few inches of height, but I still have to tilt my head to look him in the eyes. His gaze sears me and I hate that I can’t tell what it means.
“Riley…” My voice cracks. I shake my head and he holds my gaze while one of the photographers rears up beside us, snapping pictures a foot away.
“Finish up,” Riley snaps. “My wife’s getting tired.”
Someone translates this to the director and he vents in Italian and I hear Charlotte’s voice.
“Wait… what? Did he just say Leah is his wife?”
Someone says something about us being married and Charlotte gasps. “I thought that was just a rumor!”
The next few minutes are a blur. The photographers take a few more shots and Riley appeases them by cradling my face with his hand. The pictures will give everyone the impression he’s madly in love with me and while I’m pressed close enough to feel his arousal, there’s nothing in his gaze but ice.
And then it’s over. He releases me from his embrace, but takes my hand, waving the photographers off with the other. We walk off the set.
Charlotte hands me a bag with my clothing and I can see the unhappiness in her eyes. “You got married. And I didn’t even get to help you like you helped me.”
“We’ll have a proper wedding when the fight is over, Charlotte,” Riley says.
And the next moment he whisks me out the door. A handful of photographers line the sidewalk along with some fans. A teenaged girl holds up a sign. I Heart Rileah.
Riley follows me into the car, shielding me from the cameras as I get in. I look out the window and see Charlotte, holding her hand up to her ear gesturing for me to call her. Her lips are parted, her face a picture of disbelief. As the car pulls away she lifts her hand to wave. I wave back and watch her until she disappears from view.
Chapter Eight
Riley
The rain drums on the roof of the car as we drive home, and neither of us speak. The photo session just changed the playing field. I love photoshoots, normally. Not for the attention, but for the money. It allows me to do things I never imagined. Things for people I care about. That’s turned out to be the most important thing out of all of this.
My earliest memories of my life are of being a ward of the state, moving from home to home until I ended up on George and Emily’s doorstep.
George and Emily never intended to be foster parents, but Emily happened to be in court to contest a speeding ticket. That wasn’t the last speeding ticket she’d get, but it was the most important one, for me anyway. She saw me getting chewed out by a social worker right there in the courtroom. For some reason she’s never explained, she decided to take me in, even though she and George never had kids and knew nothing about parenting.
I was eleven, a surly little shit, full of bad intentions. George worked my ass into the ground, putting me into every sport he could from martial arts to baseball to football, and making me do chores on the ranch on the weekend. Emily was even worse, making me take piano lessons and ballroom dancing on top of all the crap I had to do for George. Every night I collapsed into bed, too tired to even remember my name, much less cause trouble.
I don’t know where I would have ended up if Emily hadn’t been in court that day. I went from a “fuck you” and “up yours” juvenile delinquent, to a “yes ma’am” and “no sir” almost-regular kid. All these years later, I’m equally comfortable in either role. I can use my hands to play Claire de Lune or to render a heavy weight fighter unconscious in seconds.
Leah stares out the window, avoiding me because of what I did to her. I cupped her ass with my hand today, in front of a bunch of strangers. I’ve bided my time for years, building something to offer her and being on my very best behavior anytime I texted her. Today I manhandled her, pressed her innocent body against my hard-on, showing her what she does to me. It was coarse and dirty, but when I touched her, the world shifted, tilted and narrowed until there was only one thing. The way Leah felt aga
inst me.
I want to reach out to her, but I don’t dare touch her. There’s no one to keep me from her. If she touches me right now, I won’t be able to hold back. It’s raw and animalistic. I know that. I’m aware of the monster inside of me but Leah isn’t and if I have any hope of holding on to her after the fight, I need to shield her from that side of me.
“Do you want to stop for dinner, Leah?”
“Do you?”
“Only if you want to.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I can wait. There will be something for us to eat at home.”
“Whatever you like.”
I snort. “We’re like those fucking chipmunks. After you. No really. After you.”
She keeps her gaze focused out the window. “I’m not wearing underwear, Riley. I don’t really want to go sit in a restaurant, half-dressed when some photographer might jump out from behind the door. So take me home. I’m not hungry and I don’t feel like any more drama today.”
“Atta girl. Say what you want. Not what I want to hear.”
She flips me the bird and I swear to God, my state of semi-arousal goes to full-throttle.
But when we get home her courage vanishes, and she retreats to her bedroom, shutting the door with a bang. I wander around aimlessly, first in the house and then I go out to the garden. I watch the sun sink behind the horizon and wonder what she’s doing upstairs. I want to hold her again, show her some tenderness and I want to kiss her too.
The sun’s rays fade. I love this spot. I can see for miles and when the sun goes down the hills turn a deep purple just before the first stars appear overhead. I think about getting her. The house is quiet. It’s just the two of us and I want her back in my arms. The evening gives way to night and I return to the house. It’s utterly silent.
There’s a tray of sandwiches in the kitchen fridge, and I take one along with a beer. I have tomorrow off from working out, and I can have a beer or so without having to confess to Ivan. After I eat and polish off the beer, I grab another and head to my bedroom and undress.
I set the bottle down on the marble counter. George used to act like bottled beer was for rich people, and he took a little pride in only drinking the canned stuff. He didn’t drink a lot. One or two a few times a week. After I started fighting, I made sure he had whatever he wanted, but he stuck with the same canned shit. I try to spoil them but it’s hard. At least they let me buy them a house on the beach. George can fish. Emily gardens and cooks. I show up once a month or maybe twice and everyone’s happy.