Love Me Like You Do: Books That Keep You In Bed

by Fields, MJ

  Our night together at the club was so much fun though. He was interested then, wasn’t he? And, at Vincent and Eve’s wedding, too, it was clear he liked me.

  Self-preservation tells me not to waste time thinking. I’ve got to get out of here before he wakes. I’ve looked pathetic enough. I couldn’t even take my own clothes off or wash myself. And it all felt so intimate. He must have only done it out of pity. I need to leave Las Vegas as soon as possible. Whatever his reasons for leaving the bed and sleeping on the floor, they can’t be good.

  I lift my dress off the ground—if I can call a scrap of red-and-white material a dress. Well, flight attendant it is. I won’t waste time in going back to my hotel—clothes, shoes, whatever I left be damned. I need to get out of this city. After putting my costume back on, I slide the shirt I slept in over it. It smells like a mixture of Slade and myself. I tear up. The night was insane, but I thought we had something between the two of us. I guess I thought wrong. It’s not the first time. The outfit looks ridiculous, but at least I’m covered.

  After rinsing my mouth out with mouthwash and scrubbing my face with soap, I use hand cream and a tissue to remove the mascara and eyeliner that’s fallen beneath my eyes. I look like shit and feel even worse. My hair is a rat’s nest on top of my head, and I don’t even have a comb. It feels as though there is a timer on me. I need to leave.

  Rummaging through my purse, I find a lone piece of gum, still wrapped. I pop it into my mouth before checking my phone. A slew of missed calls from my parents cover my home screen. I’ve got a full voice-mail box and more texts than I can read right now. I’ll just go home and figure it all out. I’m sure, when he wakes to see me gone, he’ll be relieved.

  Sneaking out, I take one last look at the Adonis on the floor and flinch, the truth hitting me between the eyes and sparking the headache from hell. After almost being killed, I had one of the most tender and intimate moments of my life. The feelings were one-sided, but still, it felt almost perfect to me.

  I can’t think about it now. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal. Turning out, I move as fast as my legs will take me down the hallway and into the elevator, escaping my hero.

  Four

  Slade

  I crack my knuckles, raising my eyes to the young clerk. “Marlboros.”

  He turns around, searching for my poison among the cartons filled with different brands of death sticks. I used to smoke casually, but these last few months, the habit has gotten heavier. Smoking has a way of calming my nerves.

  The clerk’s hair is brown, shaggy, and long, falling into his eyes like a stringy curtain. I’m not sure how he’ll find it. Still, he locates the white pack and drops it on the counter. I hand him a twenty, collect my change, and head back out.

  Walking out to my bike, I hear giggling. Such an awkward sound when women above the age of eighteen laugh like a little girl would. They’re leaning against the glass show window, staring at me in excitement. I ignore them, removing the film from the pack and pulling out a cigarette. I need a moment of peace. God knows I need one after the shitshow in Vegas.

  Sienna, one of the blackjack dealers at the Milestone, saunters over. Long black hair sways behind her. “Need a light?” She slowly blinks her blue eyes. Girl knows she’s hot.

  Placing the cigarette in the corner of my mouth, I nod a hello. Putting my hand in my pocket to pull out my own light, I find it empty. “Shit. Yeah, I actually do.”

  She giggles, the sound grating on my frayed nerves. Lifting the pink Zippo in front of my cigarette, she lights me up. “So, hard night? I can make it better.” Her eyes dart to the zipper on my pants.

  I consider taking her home. She’s super hot; that’s for sure. And willing, too. She wouldn’t care if I dropped her off when we were done either.

  Still, I’m nothing if not a man who follows my own rules. I don’t fuck girls from the Mile—not ever again.

  I thought Colleen, one of the cocktail waitresses, was cool, hot, and easy. She knew my background in the Navy and swore up and down that she just wanted to have some fun. I dropped her off at her apartment late at night after hooking up at my place. Hell, I even kissed her good-bye, thinking all was well.

  The next week, I heard from Mike that she was crying by the employees-only restroom with Mary, the craps dealer, bitching about how I’d fucked her and never called her again. I can imagine Mary’s red hair and scrawny finger lifted in front of her face.

  “Forget that Slade,” she’d say. “These Navy men are all the same. You need a good Christian boy. My Sam’s just graduated from the top of his class at Cornell …”

  A week after that, Rob overheard Sienna complaining about me at The Blue to Della, one of the waitresses.

  “Slade is such an asshole!” she cried. “He thinks he’s too good for me? Screw him!”

  My phone buzzes. I look down, glad for the interruption.

  Vincent: Yo.

  Slade: What up?

  Vincent: Problem at the Mile. It’s waiting downstairs. He got caught cheating in poker three times over the last two weeks. Keeps comin’ in though. Man needs a lesson.

  Slade: On way.

  With a nod of thanks, I put my helmet on, shutting the clasp beneath my chin. Turning on my bike, I let out a long breath, letting her know in no uncertain terms that there’s no chance. Pulling out of the lot, dust kicks up behind me. When I ride, all of my senses are magnified. My emotions feel as though they double. I am alive.

  Considering the places I’ve been and dangerous things I’ve done, I should be dead by now. Instead—and God only knows for what reason—I’m still here on Earth. For whatever reason, Lauren then enters my mind.

  I hope she’s okay. Left without a goddamn word this morning. Probably woke up, found my ass on the floor, and thought I didn’t want to be near her. Girls always think everything’s about them. Then again, what else could I expect her to think? That I’m too fucked up in the head to sleep next to a woman? That I can’t be near her and sleep? Otherwise, she might wake up choked out or, even worse, dead. I shudder but do my best to keep myself in check. And that arm of hers. Damn, it looked rough. I’m sure she’ll be carrying some bruises on it for at least a week.

  Her body was killer. Long, shapely legs that I already knew were soft and strong. Her tits in that tub … Christ! My self-control has clearly reached a new height. Watching that kind of beautiful throw herself at me and denying it? I mean, shit. They should saint me for keeping my dick in my pants. But she was so shattered after the shooting that only an asshole would have hit her up in that kind of mental state. I like all kinds of women, but they’ve gotta be of sound mind.

  Lauren is a good girl. She’s happy and funny, and she isn’t the type who uses sex as a tool to forget. I like that about her. She’d be better off discussing her issues with friends or taking a vacation, sipping strawberry margaritas on a beach. Not have sex with a damaged guy like me. It’s not pity for myself; it’s just reality.

  This was a horrible event for her, a one-off. Sure, it’s shocking to any human with a pulse. But still, it was something that was not prolonged over days or even hours. I have no doubt, she’s strong enough to move forward.

  As I ride on, I see a black SUV slow down. Maybe the driver’s looking at a cell phone to check directions or reading a text message. That’s when the white truck behind it plows straight forward, slamming the car from behind. The crashing sound ricochets through my head, and somewhere in the back of my skull, a spark is born.

  I pull over to the side of the road, needing a moment to breathe and refocus. My hands wring together as the memories steamroll over my psyche.

  The stairs are cracked gray concrete. We walk up, the four of us welcomed with open arms. As I enter this home, rich with the smells of fresh bread and spices, relief fills my lungs. Ahmad is a friend. Girlish laughter is everywhere in sound but hidden from sight. He has four daughters, all gentle.

  We sit on the floor, cross-legged, as his daughte
rs come to serve us. Hair covered in black cloth and pink lips silent. Asal leans to serve me, holding back a smile as she dips the serving spoon into the large plate. Her green eyes connect with mine, asking if I want some. I nod without words, watching as warmth fills her oval face. The men joke, hungry but calm, as she makes her way around, head downcast. Rex grumbles, staring at my plate ’cause I’ve got more meat than he does.

  A child starts to scream from outside, and we all pause. Something’s wrong. I blink, setting down my plate and moving toward the corner of the window.

  Shots fly through. Our reflexes razor sharp, we’re all crouched in position with our weapons drawn.

  But she didn’t know. How could she?

  I watch the widening of fearful green eyes before she drops. Blink.

  The ambulance sirens blaze, and I’m shaken back to life. Christ. I forgot about that day. That firefight had gone on for hours. I was called to leave soon after that. Never even made it to her burial.

  I want to remember what happened at the club, but I can’t. Last thing I’m sure of was the rapper claiming to own the streets. After that, it’s static. But then Lauren threw up in the alley, looking at me, all frightened. And it was as though I snapped awake.

  I get off the bike and pace back and forth on the grass bordering the highway. Pulling on the ends of my hair, I want to kick my own teeth out. Lauren was afraid of me. What did I do in that club?

  Whatever it was, it’s done now. My memories are all fucked up, things sliding in and out of my consciousness.

  Did I carry her in my arms or on my back? Did I just pull her forward? Did I hurt her? Fuck.

  I lift my head to see the car crash still needs assistance. Shit. I’m so wrapped up in my own shit. Pulling out my cell, I dial 911 and give them the coordinates of the crash. While I’m talking, an ambulance arrives. I gather myself and pull back onto the highway.

  The ride up to the Milestone is smooth and fast. I do my best to think of nothing other than this drive. A floodlight blares down, illuminating the center of the employee lot. I make sure to park where it’s good and bright, so no one will accidentally hit the bike. Walking through the employee entrance, I focus on what I’m going to find down here. I’m going to focus and get my job done. Be a man.

  My phone vibrates.

  Vincent: Fucker is downstairs. I’m on the floor now, dealing with some other shit.

  The basement is dark, but there’s light shining from the small holding cell that no one other than Vincent and I know about. I follow it, steps sure.

  After growing up in the Mafia, Vincent knows how to handle pieces of shit who cause trouble. But, since he left the family and began the Mile, he does his best to keep his hands clean. As the head of security here, I’m often called on to handle the dirty parts of the business. I don’t mind.

  The door creaks as it opens, and an excited shiver runs down my spine.

  “So”—I rub my hands together, left before right, as I stare at the shitbag sitting before me, a shock of bright red hair on his head—“you cheated at cards. Not once or twice, but three fucking times. Here are your choices.”

  His blue eyes widen as they take in my form. Seated on a plastic chair, he bounces a fat leg up and down, his white button-down shirt sticking to his chest from what looks like sweat. “Are you going to hurt me? P-please. D-don’t hurt me. I won’t come back again. I swear it.” He pants.

  I chuckle, ignoring him. I’ve got my own agenda. Kick the shit out of him, go home, pop my meds, and sleep. “I can bring you into the authorities. As the Milestone is on tribal land, that would be the Tribal Council. They can deal with you as they see fit. Or”—I pause, cracking my knuckles as I watch my words sink into his head—“I can kick the shit out of you. Either way, you’re never coming back here.”

  I’ve used this ultimatum many times. But, tonight, I’ve got a load of tension I need to expend, and my bet is, he’ll take the beating. I’ll rough him up some, scare him good, and then he’ll disappear from our lives.

  “Just get it over with,” he says, his voice cracking.

  “Feel free to fight back,” I add. “It’ll be more fun that way.” I laugh, knowing he’s got nothing on me. “Get up.”

  He stands as I pull off my shirt; blood is hell to remove. His eyes widen at the sight of me, although the truth is, they shouldn’t. Muscles aren’t always equal to strength. Unfortunately for him though, I’m as tough as I look. The bone frog tattooed on my chest? Evidence.

  My fist connects with his face, but I don’t give it my all. Not yet.

  He shuffles backward with his pale hands raised, as though he’s trying to escape. I stalk toward him. He made a choice, and now, he’s going to pay the price. A real man doesn’t make a choice and then run away from it in fear.

  He tries to duck a few times, but it’s too easy. Anger begins to pulse. Why won’t he defend himself?

  I suck in a hard breath, my hands wringing together. Rituals.

  “Get one in, asshole!” I scream, my voice echoing around the concrete walls. I barely sound like myself.

  The mosques begin prayers; song echoes all around. But this alley is good and dark. No god is watching.

  He punches my face, fist weak. It doesn’t make a dent. I throw my gun off to the side. I want to feel contact. I want to know my fists killed him. I hit him in the side of the head again. He drops to the ground. My feet scuff against the concrete littered with sand. I kick him hard in the ribs.

  “You ready to die?” I growl. “Motherfucker!” I yell. “Get up! Get the fuck up! Fight like a man.”

  I drop to my knees, punching his ribs. He’s frozen in fear. Crying for his mom—Arabic words I’ve learned by heart. My body is on auto, fury trained on this body lying on the ground. I want to kill him. He’s going to pay. No one takes my brother’s life without punishment. My muscles vibrate as I go in for punch after punch. Retribution isn’t sour. He thinks he’ll get away with ambushing us? He thinks he can shoot my brother and walk off into the fucking sunset?

  A big pair of arms moves behind me, pulling me back. “What in the fu—calm down, Slade. Holy shit, man.” Vincent’s voice is behind me yet feels far away. His words ricochet between past and present.

  I’m grabbed beneath my arms and thrown off to the side. It’s Vincent. He’s shaking me. My head clears, and I see what’s before me. I’m in the Mile’s holding cell. A red-haired man is spread on the floor and beaten to a bloody pulp.

  I turn to Vincent. His chiseled face is drawn with worry. I open and close my mouth as he steps away from me and moves beside the guy, feeling for a pulse.

  “He’s still alive.” His voice is full of relief.

  My eyes go dry. I lean my head against the cold cement wall, tightly shutting my eyes. I can hear Vincent calling a doctor.

  “What’s going on with you?” He drops the phone into his back pocket and sits to his haunches next to me. “The last few months, I’ve noticed changes. You aren’t as focused. You’re zoning out. Have you been sleeping?”

  I look up to see his dark eyes, shining, concerned. I don’t respond because what the fuck am I going to say? The truth is that I’m losing my grip, and it’s getting worse. I’m living in this horrible in-between, where my past keeps invading my present. They’re twisting together, turning my life into a fucking nightmare.

  He exhales. “Normally, you kick the shit out of them. Fine. But not like this. You’re spiraling down. No one else might see it, but I do.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m not spiraling anywhere.” My voice is rough, the lie tasting like shit on my tongue. I clench and then open my fists, feeling the rawness in my knuckles. The hands hold a lot of tension, and mine feel tight.

  “It’s time to take a few days, yeah? Get off the rez. Eve and I want to visit Utah on Wednesday. Chill on Lake Powell. Why not come with us?”

  “Third wheel? Nah.” My throat is sore. I turn my face away from him.

  “Don’t worry; we won’
t share a room.”

  He laughs, but I don’t make a sound.

  It dawns on him that I’m not playing.

  “Truth is, there is only one goddamn answer to this question. You’re coming. After the stunt you just pulled? You need to clear that head of yours. A change of scenery is good.”

  “I’m in control,” I reply, straightening the muscles in my face.

  If he only knew I was at the shooting in Vegas, he’d be dragging me to the VA hospital to get my ass committed. No way that’s happening, not to me. Luckily, Rob and Mike agreed with me that Vincent didn’t need to know the details of our night.

  I’m trained to stay straight in the face of mayhem. I refuse to allow a few difficult months to break me down. I’ve spent years building my barriers, and with a little time, I’ll have them reconstructed. This is a dark phase. I’ll get through it on my own.

  “No”—he slowly shakes his head—“you’re not. I know what control is. And that”—he points to the man crumpled on the floor—“isn’t control. That shit is bad for business.”

  “I’ve beaten up plenty of guys down here before.” I sound defensive.

  “Yeah, but not close to death. Christ. You’re supposed to rough ’em up and scare ’em. Not actually commit murder.”

  With a hard scar running down from his eye to his jaw, jet-black hair, and eyes so dark that they’re practically black, you’d think people would see Vincent and run. Not the case. He is the only motherfucker I know who, even damaged and dangerous-looking, still gets more come-ons by women than any man I’ve ever met.