by L.J. Shen
I might have deserved that.
I lifted three fingers in the air and sloped my chin up. “Scout’s honor.”
Hesitantly, she cracked the door open, but not all the way. “We can order in, but that’s it.” She stepped aside, giving me permission to enter her little universe.
I bulldozed into her apartment, into her life. The walls and kitchen were minimalist white, the floor a light-colored wood, the design open with very little furniture, white as well. It looked like an insane asylum. There was an easel at the corner of the living room, next to the window overlooking the city, with a big stretched canvas of an in-progress painting. A cherry blossom tree overlooking a lake. It was vivid and sharp, like nature was within reach. Which was a beautiful lie, of course. We were in a concrete kingdom, imprisoned by skyscrapers. Industrial smoke and mirrors.
Interesting. So Help was an artist. It didn’t surprise me. She was actually talented. Her shit wasn’t tacky or good in a generic, mainstream kind of way. Her art was thought provoking. But not enough to be borderline crazy. It represented her quite perfectly, actually.
Her back was to me. We both stared at the painting.
“Why cherry blossoms?” I asked, ten years later than I should have. She’d always had a thing for the tree. She painted other shit too, everything she owned had been doodled on: textbooks, backpacks, clothes, arms. But she always came back to the cherry blossoms. Even her hair was the same shade as her favorite tree.
“Because it’s beautiful and…I don’t know, the blooms are gone so fast.” I heard the smile on her lips. “When I was a kid, my grandmama used to take me to DC every spring to the Cherry Blossom Festival. Just me. I used to wait for it all year long. We never had much money, so to spend a day there, to go to a barbeque restaurant afterward…it was a big thing for me. Huge.
“Then she got sick when I was seven. Cancer. It took a while. I didn’t really understand the concept of her dying, going away and never coming back, so she told me about the Japanese Sakura. People in Japan travel from all over to see the trees at their prime. Cherry blossom season is short but breathtaking, and after the blossoms fade, the flowers fall to the ground, scattered by the wind and rain. Grandmama said that the cherry blossom was life. Sweet and beautiful, but so darn short. Too short not to do what you wanna do. Too short to not spend it with the people…you love.” Her eyes closed slowly as she took a deep breath.
She stopped talking, and I stopped fucking breathing. Because I knew what made her stop. Me.
Everything I did.
I prevented her from spending time with some of these people—her parents, her sister—for my own selfish reasons when she was only eighteen.
“Holy cow, I’m a buzzkill.” She let out a breathless chuckle. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I swallowed, taking a wide step so we stood flush next to each other, still observing the painting. “Shit happens. My mom died when I was nine.”
“I know.” Her tone was somber, but not anxious. Normally, people didn’t like it when you brought up your dead mother. Grief was an uncomfortable emotion to deal with. “That must’ve been hard.”
“Well, you said you were a buzzkill. My competitive side inspired me to bring my A game.” I shrugged, my voice even.
“Vicious.” She laughed again, this time turning to me, giving me that look teachers give their students when they’re disappointed with them.
I grinned. “Dead mother beats dead grandmother every day, and you fucking know it.”
She swatted my shoulder but couldn’t hide her smile. “You’re horrible.”
“Horribly sexy. Yes.”
We ordered Vietnamese, and I told her how my mom got injured in a car crash, then died when I was nine. The usual details, except for the really sordid stuff about who made it happen. She was covered in paint, so we sat on the drop cloth under the easel. It wasn’t my thing, but I didn’t mind. The reason I told her about my mom was simple. I didn’t want her to bail on my ass if push came to shove. If I was going to corrupt her morally, I needed more ammo.
She cried when I told her about how I found out my mother was dead. My dad was away on an urgent business trip, so our housekeeper told me, between my hiccups and sniffs.
There were a lot of reasons why I didn’t tell her the whole truth. The one I’d kept to myself all those years. The reasons now weren’t that different than what they’d been back then.
I was still ashamed I hadn’t realized what Dad and Jo were talking about doing when I was nine. I’d felt guilty all these years, wondering if I could’ve saved my mom, warned her, told someone.
Which was probably stupid because who would’ve believed a nine-year-old.
And afterward, if someone did believe me, what then? My mom would still be dead and it could’ve been even worse for me. The shame, the pity, the gossip if there was a trial. When your dad sends his mistress’s brother to pull the plug on your mother? Yeah, there was no coming back from that sob story. I would’ve been forever labeled as “that poor kid.”
I wasn’t anyone’s “poor kid.” I was a rich man. Powerful in people’s eyes, and I intended to keep it that way.
I trusted Emilia. I knew I could confide in her. She’d kept our secret under wraps from everyone in high school. I trusted her to keep the one about my scars too.
The way she looked at me when we sat on her drop cloth—I was pretty fucking sure my nine-hundred-dollar slacks were stained with paint—made me want to tell her the rest. But I didn’t want her to think about me what I used to think about myself. That I’d made a mistake in keeping quiet. That none of it would’ve happened if I’d told someone. That I could’ve stopped it all before it started. That I was stupid. Weak.
“I wish you’d have given me more of a chance to be there for you when I lived there,” she murmured, looking down at her thighs and fighting more tears.
I wanted to touch her, but I didn’t want a hug. I needed to fuck her until every inch of her flesh was raw.
I smiled politely. “See? We all have our cherry-blossom story.” I looked around, suddenly anxious to stop talking. “Where the fuck is Rosie, anyway?”
I was starting to feel the way I did before, when she lived so close I could see into her bedroom window. I couldn’t pin that feeling down. Not then and not now. I just knew that it was unacceptable. I had enough fucking fires to put out in my personal life without creating another shit-storm.
She muttered something about calling her sister and checking up on her and got up exactly as the doorbell chimed. She twisted her head to me and quirked an eyebrow, as if to say what are the odds? and sashayed to the door to get our food.
It was the delivery guy. The smell of our hot, spicy food carried all the way to where I sat while she made small talk with the guy. Typical Emilia, nice to everyone and their mothers.
Emilia arranged some plates on our makeshift picnic blanket and opened a bottle of wine that she’d probably bought from the Dollar Tree, but dinner was nicer than the nicest ones I’d had in the last couple of years. We ate in silence, and that was okay, because Emilia wasn’t the type of girl who hurried to fill the air with meaningless chatter. She liked silence.
Like me.
Like my mom.
Then again, it’d been a while since I’d sat down for dinner with someone who wasn’t one of the Four HotHoles or my stepmother.
“Tell me something bad about you,” I said, out of nowhere.
“Something bad?” She took a swig straight from the bottle and placed it on the floor next to her thigh, wiggling her pursed lips from side to side. She was thinking.
“Yeah. Something that’s less noble than Little Miss Perfect helping her sick sister by working two jobs.”
She rolled her eyes at me but smiled, struggling to come up with something. When she did, she seemed half-elated. “I paint with oil paint!”
“Holy fuck, that’s badass.” I bit my lower lip and shook my head.
She laughed a
nd swatted my shoulder—again—and yes, Emilia LeBlanc wanted to fuck me as much as I wanted to fuck her. It was written all over her body language.
“Let me finish! I’m cautious. I take my time. Oils take a century to dry. You need to open the windows and let them air dry, but I like how the colors are vibrant and the painting looks so real. Oil paint is actually pretty toxic. It’s terrible for Rosie’s lungs, but I still use it because I hate acrylic.” She sighed, blushing a little.
Hot damn. Help was admitting to doing something selfish. She was definitely cracking.
I placed my hands over my temples and shook my head, feigning shock. “Mind-blowing shit, LeBlanc. Next thing you’ll tell me you pay your taxes after April fifteenth.”
“I like to live on the edge.” She shrugged and sucked a noodle between her lips, using chopsticks.
I almost shoved away the paper takeout containers and pinned her to the drop cloth. Almost.
But it was becoming clearer to me that I wouldn’t be able to hold myself back for long. I wanted that pussy, and I deserved it. It was mine.
“I’m not all good,” she said, slurping more food. I loved how she ate like she didn’t give a fuck that I was watching her.
“Nobody’s all good, just like nobody’s all bad.” I licked my lower lip, and she did the same. She dropped her chopsticks and chanced another glance at me. I continued eating, pretending I didn’t give a damn.
“Sometimes I think you’re all bad,” she said, but I knew she didn’t really mean it. I knew Emilia LeBlanc well enough to know she saw the goodness in everyone. Even assholes like me.
“Care to test that theory?” I slurped a noodle between my lips and winked. “I can make you feel pretty fucking good. Just say the word.” She laughed, and it felt good in my chest. Warm, even.
“Is that your official pick-up line? If so, I’m half-suspecting you’re still a virgin.” She wrinkled her nose.
Yes, it was on, so fucking on. She was charmed. I recognized it when women were affected. Smelled it from miles, like a shark out for blood.
I tossed my empty takeout box aside and moved closer to her. She didn’t retreat. She wanted it. Wanted my mouth on hers. Wanted my hands buried in her cherry-blossom hair and my body grinding against hers. It was happening. Finally.
I leaned in. She stopped breathing and looked down, waiting…expecting… wanting. It took every ounce of fucking self-control in me to lift my hand and brush her delicate neck instead of pinning her wildly to the floor and ripping her stupid leggings from her thighs.
She released a breath, lolling her head to the side. “I’m going to regret this.” Her voice was tiny, like her.
“Probably,” I agreed. “But it’ll be worth it.”
My lips made the journey from her neck to their final destination—to where they fucking belonged from day one. Her warm breath tickled my flesh, and I wanted her to suffocate me with her kiss. I resisted the urge to ball my fists, unexpectedly worried about how this would go down. I was starving for her. My next move wasn’t going to be a calculated one, and that was the first time I’d felt that way about anything in a long time.
I was so close that I was able to feel her skin meeting mine, the little lines of her red lips brushing mine, when the door unlocked and fucking Rosie walked in.
Emilia withdrew herself from me immediately before I had a chance to finish the job, and started collecting the takeout containers littered around us.
“Rosie!” Her voice pitched high. “What took you so long? I got you some noodle soup. It will warm you right up.”
She quickly disappeared into the kitchen behind a long white wall. I leaned back on my forearms on the drop cloth, staring at grown-up Rosie like she’d pissed in my food. She returned a feisty look in my direction. Oddly, it made me feel like a teenager all over again.
“If you hurt her, I will kill you.” She pointed her finger at me for emphasis.
I was perfectly still, giving zero fucks about this five-foot-four gnome firing threats at me like she was Rambo.
“Cock-blocking me first and threatening me? Should I remind you that the only reason you’re not living in a sewer with that rat who trains the Ninja Turtles is because of my generosity?” I slanted my head sideways, flashing her my arrogant smirk. It was the exact one that drove men insane with anger and women mad with lust.
Rosie, of course, was immune to my charm. Using her to get her sister’s attention ten years ago had killed every good thought she’d had about me. Not that she’d had many even before we kissed. In fact, I was pretty sure our lips had only locked because she was irritated by my lack of attention. I was the only teenager with a dick at All Saints who hadn’t been consumed with impressing her. Of course, I was fully occupied with obsessing over her older sister.
“Generosity, my ass.” She walked deeper into the room. Honestly, for a chick who suffered from a congenital lung disease, she looked pretty perky to me. “I don’t know what you’ve got planned for her, but if it’s vicious like you, I’m not going to let you get away with it.”
I needed to stop this exchange before Emilia came back to the living room and Rosie shit all over my progress with her. Both sisters were feisty, but while Emilia was sassy in a I’m-a-good-person-but-can-engage-in-fun-banter kind of way, Rosie was more from the I’ll-stab-you-in-your-sleep-if-you-piss-me-off school. It was certainly not the only reason why I preferred Emilia to her sister, but it was a part of it. They looked the same, but they didn’t feel the same. Not by a fucking long shot.
“My intentions are pure,” I lied.
“I don’t believe you,” Rosie snapped.
“Too fucking bad because I’m not going anywhere, so you better get used to me.” I got up. I was a little woozy from the cheap wine and lack of sleep, but high as fuck on everything else that had happened that evening.
My high school obsession strode back into the living room with a bowl of soup and an apologetic smile.
“Vic was just leaving. Our company signed a huge deal today. He needed to brief me about tomorrow morning,” she explained.
I hated that she felt like she owed her sister some sort of an explanation.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at the office.” I smoothed my shirt with my palm.
Emilia nodded, but looked a million miles away from where we were just moments ago. That fucking sparkle in her eyes had died. Her sister’s face must’ve reminded her how much of a douchebag I was.
“Again…” Emilia cleared her throat, her tone professional. “Congrats on the merger.”
I left with my throbbing dick trying to worm its way out of my pants to the nearest high-class hooker in this zip code. I didn’t know New York well enough to have a steady fuck here, but it didn’t matter anyway. The storm that brewed in me was going to calm only when my cock was deep inside Emilia LeBlanc, and not a moment sooner.
As I punched the elevator button and ran my hand through my hair, something strange dawned on me, and for the first time in years, I had a clear idea of what I wanted from life that had nothing to do with my career, money, or ruining Jo and Dad.
I wanted Emilia.
I wanted to kiss her whenever I felt like it.
I wanted to mark her in a million different ways.
I’d told Rosie the truth. I wasn’t going anywhere. I was staying in New York until my dad died, until Josephine became penniless, and until I banged Emilia like I’d wanted to when I was eighteen.
In the elevator up to the penthouse, my phone pinged with a message from Dean.
Just a friendly reminder—I’ll be coming back to New York soon. If I were you, I’d run now before I get to you.
I didn’t even grace his bullshit with a reply. Just walked into his apartment, with its tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, and started packing his shit for him, throwing his expensive suits into his designer garment bags.
We weren’t switching back anytime soon. Not until I got what I wanted.
He was staying in
LA.
Whether he liked it or not.
ROSIE SHOOK HER HEAD, HER eyes following my every movement. She didn’t need to do anything—I knew what she had to say.
“Shut up about it,” I warned, cleaning the area around the easel and giving her my back while she sat at the dining table and watched me in my painting corner.
She kept staring at me, not touching her soup.
I didn’t regret almost kissing Vicious. For once in my life, I hadn’t played it safe. I wasn’t cautious. I didn’t paint my life in oil colors. I’d reached for acrylic, quick to dry, and settled on it—whatever it was I wanted with him.
“Fine,” Rosie bit out. “But for the record, I warned you.”
She slid a manila envelope across the white dining table. I opened it and stared at the money, ignoring her while counting it. Instead of feeling happy about selling a painting, I was filled with unease.
Was I about to make a huge mistake by messing around with Vicious? Probably. But I couldn’t deny myself what I wanted, and we weren’t kids anymore.
This was happening.
He was going to use me, and I was going to use him back.
It was a mistake of epic proportions, I knew that.
And just like any huge mistake, payback was going to be painful.
Sadly, it was a price I was willing to pay.
The next morning, I arrived early at the office. I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted everything to be in perfect order.
For the first time, Vicious’s coffee and breakfast were waiting for him on his desk.
I closeted myself inside my office—two doors down from his—and booked Rosie a plane ticket to San Diego. I wanted her to spend Christmas with our parents. Truly, there was nothing I wanted more than to tag along with her and make it an epic family week, but one last-minute ticket was expensive enough, and I needed to be financially cautious. In any case, I was certain Vicious wouldn’t give me the time off.
Sending Rosie to the other side of the country had nothing to do with her warning last night. Right.
After I sent her a text with the surprise ticket, I sorted through Vicious’s email. I responded to requests from charity organizers, cleaned up the junk and flagged messages from investors that he needed to answer himself. His inbox was so career-focused it was almost sad. There was nothing personal except some banter with Jaime and Trent and a clipped question about the merger from Dean. I wasn’t snooping. It was part of my job description to keep his inbox in order.