by Kyle Autumn
The pulsing music and flashing lights hide my pounding heartbeat and the flush taking my skin over. When I step outside, the darkness and the neon light of the sign above us take care of the latter. The chatter of the people waiting to get into the club covers up the former, but once we get far enough away from the building, I fear he can hear it.
When we’re a block away, Jared steps in front of me to stop me. I nearly run into him, but I stop just short. Now that my heels aren’t clicking against the sidewalk, the silence is deafening. But my heart takes care of that and pumps faster, harder, almost right out of my chest. And, when I think about my chest, my arms automatically fold over it to cover myself. My work uniform—if a skimpy bikini that barely covers anything can be called that—leaves little to the imagination, and in front of Jared while dressed like this, I want to crawl into a hole.
He wasn’t supposed to know. But one of my secrets is out, and my shame sours my stomach.
Instead of ripping me a new one or putting me through a round of Twenty Questions right away, he unbuttons his shirt. He takes it off, which leaves him dressed in his nice pants and an undershirt. Then he swings it around my back and drapes it over my shoulders. It’s long enough that it covers my butt, so I step away from him and wrap it around my body despite the fact that it’s still over ninety degrees with the sun down. I’ve never been more thankful for more coverage in my life.
“Thank you,” I utter, kicking a rock with the toe of my high heel.
Jared looks like I’ve knocked the wind out of him with those two words. And maybe I have. The surprise of finding me in a place like that strip club likely isn’t easy to deal with. But I can’t change it now, so we have to figure it out. Or maybe we don’t. Maybe I should kick my heels off and run.
Except he’d catch up to me in about five seconds. I never could run that far from him. Which is why I’m in Vegas and not back home in Ohio.
He asks the obvious question as if he can’t help it. “What are you doing, Caroline? Why are you here?”
So I throw one back at him, if only to push off having to answer his, keeping my gaze on the ground. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for a bachelor party,” he says without hesitation, an edge to his voice. Like he couldn’t believe he’s answering me, doing it against his will. Then he adds, “I didn’t think you cared though.”
Even if that statement is fair, it still stings. A lot. Because, if he knew why I cut communication with him, he’d understand. And he wouldn’t feel like I betrayed him somehow.
It’s enough for me to meet his gaze though. To finally look at him and confirm my suspicions: He’s still so irresistibly handsome. So much so that my heart skips enough beats that I’m afraid I might pass out. And a chill runs down my spine despite the smoldering heat. But, miraculously, I manage to stay on my feet. Then I manage to put one word in front of the other.
“There’s a lot you don’t know, okay?”
He takes a step toward me. “So tell me,” he says, reaching a hand out to touch my arm.
Instinctively, I back up and drop eye contact. This only sparks more fury from the man in front of me, though he doesn’t unleash it at me. Instead, I can feel it sizzling and crackling like lightning between us. That’s how we’ve always been though: able to feel each other’s moods even from messages on the computer. I haven’t needed to be around him to feel his sadness and moping through his social media posts lately.
Maybe I haven’t been able to see him or talk to him, but that hasn’t stopped me from checking up on him when I could. I may have disappeared from my usual accounts—I didn’t, however, cut myself off from seeing how he was doing. And it appears he hasn’t been doing all that well. I’ve wanted to reach out many times, but that would have ruined everything. That would have brought him to my doorstep and revealed my shame.
Except that that happened anyway, without my even trying.
I don’t want to talk about everything with him while we’re on a dirty Las Vegas street a mile off the Strip. So I start to walk past him, but he’s not having it. He sticks a hand out and catches my wrist before I get too far away. It makes me stop and turn around to face him, and he promptly lets my wrist go when I recoil. But he doesn’t let me hide behind the pain. Instead, he curls his large hands around my biceps to hold me close to him.
“What happened to you?” he asks, tucking some of my black hair behind my ear.
Sooner than I can answer, someone calls my name down the block. “Liza?”
Panic forces my hands up to pull the black wig from my head, and my long, wavy hair tumbles down. With Jared in front of me, I don’t think James can see me. But Jared’s shirt and removing the wig will help disguise me enough to leave without being noticed. The shoes are generic enough, and it’s not like James ever noticed which shoes the girls chose. That was the least of his worries—or his cares.
“Liza! Let’s go. You’re up soon.”
I’m a solid block in Jared’s arms, and it doesn’t get past him. Without questioning any of it—the name, the freezing up—he spins me around in front of his large body and nudges me forward.
“Is there anything you need to get back there?” That’s all he asks this time. Not anything about why that man is beckoning me with a different name to come back to the strip club or what I would do when I got back there. Just if I want to grab my stuff before he whisks me away like a knight in shining armor.
And all I can do is shake my head and let him lead me away from the nightmare I’ve been living for the past three months.
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About the Author
Kyle Autumn is the author of sexy contemporary romances that will melt your heart and your panties. She also writes erotic short stories series that will likely melt your panties more than your heart. She loves chocolate and pajamas. Can't be bothered to brush her hair most days. Can always be bothered to write her pants--er, pajama bottoms--off.