Tempted Beyond Relief: An Alpha Hero & Curvy Heroine Standalone: Wylie & Rhea (Far Too Tempting Book 2)

by Christa Wick

  "Can I have my bag back?"

  "No. Come inside. That's not a request."

  I could see the bag on the table, see the outward dent in the fabric from where the lockbox pushed against it. I had my wallet in my back pocket, but there was four thousand dollars in that lockbox and I was finally faced with the need to break my rule about not touching my tips.

  Would he really keep the bag if I started to walk away?

  "I can't," I answered, the cold rage rolling off him too much to bear.

  I turned again, ready to abandon everything and start over with nothing but the seven hundred dollars I had in the bank.

  Arms slid around my stomach and lifted me. A rough pivot swung me inside the house and then my feet gently touched the ground. Releasing me, Wylie shut the door but didn't lock it or draw the chain. Jerking my bag from the table, he thrust it into my arms.

  "Tell me what you think is happening," he barked.

  "Coombs fired me. Or he told me he may have to." My soft voice contrasting with his loud one, I didn't elaborate on what else Coombs had said, how he had called me a whore and accused Wylie of bragging about our relationship and my job and then how the Director more or less physically assaulted me.

  "That doesn't make sense..." His voice trailed off and I knew he was just thinking out loud, not speaking to me at all.

  "What?"

  "In a minute, tell me why he was going to fire you."

  I wrapped my arms tight around the backpack, felt the reassuring but hard poke of the lockbox. I hated that I was going to have to hold some of the money back this week, especially knowing how much it was needed on the other end.

  "He knew about my dancing at Tuttle's...and that you and I were...you know...breaking the rules."

  His face went red, the color streaking as if he had dipped his fingers in war paint and spread it along his strong cheekbones.

  And I hadn't even told him the rest of the story.

  His face and body softening, he stepped close and put a comforting hand on my shoulder.

  "Where's your stuff, baby? Still at the shelter?"

  "I got a room for the—"

  His hand fell away. One quick glance at his face and I could see he was pissed all over again.

  "If you felt like you had to go to a hotel, why are you even here?"

  I shook my head, my nervous system on the verge of a total breakdown. I was tired, betrayed, hadn't had anything to eat or drink since before Coombs called me into his office. And the one person I wanted more than anyone to be on my side was glaring at me.

  Turning toward the entry door, I fought to pull it open as I answered.

  "I didn't know if I could come here! Coombs said you bragged about fucking me and how I was a topless dancer. That's how he knew about Tuttle's."

  The door surrendered suddenly and would have slammed into my face except Wylie's hand shot out and stopped it.

  "And you believed him?"

  This was too much. No way in hell did I deserve an interrogation. I looked over my shoulder, still holding back the tears that burned my eyes.

  "I didn't know what to believe!"

  "You should have known."

  He released his hold on the door, my exit from the house no longer blocked in any way.

  I was too mad to go. I dropped my bag then shoved hard at his chest with both hands.

  "Then how come Paulie fired me, too, said someone with dirt on him was forcing him to? Same damn day, Thomas! How does that happen unless someone knows about the club and Harbor House and the two of us?"

  Scooping my bag back up, I swung it wildly over my shoulder, banged the door all the way open and took my first step away from Thomas Wylie forever.

  He didn't let me take my second. Squeezing through the doorway, he made it to the front step first, turned and blocked me from going any further. I opened my mouth, ready to scream.

  His hand came up and I flinched.

  Fingertips softly brushed at the tears that had finally fought their way out.

  "Shh, baby," he cooed and brushed a fresh stream away. "I haven't told anyone anything—although I can't say I'm sorry about you losing your dancing gig."

  My face scrunched up at the admission, but I didn't try to get around him.

  "I work out my problems face to face, not with subterfuge," he continued. "And Coombs lied to me today about you."

  I started to shake, anger and relief and other emotions I couldn't put a name to rattling through my body. "What did he say?"

  "I'll tell you." He smiled for the first time since opening his front door, the lift at the corners of his mouth tentative but more beautiful and meaningful than any other smile I had seen him wear because I needed it so damn badly right then.

  "Before I do," he said, "you're going to sit that sweet butt down on the couch and rest while I make you some hot tea. You look like you’re about to crumble into a thousand pieces."

  18

  Rhea

  Only after Wylie had tucked a blanket around me, fixed me a sandwich and had my second cup of tea heating in the microwave did he open up about why he had been so stern when he opened the door.

  "Coombs called, said I couldn't volunteer anymore based on complaints you and a few unnamed female residents had made. I tried to call you but kept going to voicemail."

  "What?! What did he say the complaints were about?"

  "Bastard wouldn't elaborate, only said he hoped it wouldn't become a police matter."

  Damn, Coombs had lied at both ends! As bad as his lie to me had been, I felt so much worse about the lie he had told Wylie. That "unnamed female residents" and "police matter" bullshit was veiled blackmail that if Wylie came around again, he could be facing felony sex charges.

  "For him to insinuate such a thing after he put his hands on me!" The words blurted out hot and angry, my emotions getting ahead of me because I hadn't told him that part of my confrontation with Coombs at the shelter.

  "What?"

  His voice went all menacing again, shivers creeping down my spine even though I knew the cold anger wasn't directed at me.

  "I need to know everything, Rhea."

  I nodded. It was time and I wanted his opinion on just how dangerous the situation might be for the girls still at the shelter.

  "When I went to leave, he jammed his foot against the door and grabbed my wrist, pulling me until I faced him..." I sucked air in, reliving the moment. In all the years I'd worked at Tuttle's, I'd never come close to the same experience because I had always been on guard. With Coombs, in a building that was the only real home I'd ever known, I hadn't kept my shields up.

  "Baby, don't leave me hanging."

  The microwave finished, beeped, but Wylie stayed on the couch next to me, his hands finding mine and holding them softly.

  "Whatever happened, that's on him," he promised. "I won't be mad or upset with you."

  "He started talking crazy, told me I had to quit—you and Tuttle's—that he would handle all that, I was not to contact you, ever. Started talking redemption, took both my wrists and pushed his body against me, that's when I felt he was...uh..."

  "Erect?"

  So cold and clinical the way he said it, not at all like the queasy, flushed feeling I got while remembering.

  I nodded. "Yeah and then he said I wouldn't even be allowed to leave the shelter for at least a couple of months."

  Squeezing Wylie's hands, I leaned closer. "I'm worried that he might fixate on one of the girls, maybe Rachelle, maybe he already has and none of them have felt safe enough to talk to me."

  Wylie's mouth stretched into a grim line. Freeing his hands, he fished his phone out of his back pocket and stood up. With a quick bend, he planted a kiss on my forehead. I wanted more, wanted tangible proof that we were far away from being left with nothing more than goodbyes after the truth was worked out, but I settled for that lone kiss and held it close to my heart.

  "Can you finish your tea while I make a few calls?"


  "Yes, but can you tell me if any of those calls will be to someone who can keep the girls safe?"

  "All of them are, baby."

  I sat on the couch, my tea untouched, for half an hour while Wylie paced around his parents' big back yard, the phone to his ear except for when he ended one call and dialed the next number.

  My phone buzzed in my bag and I scrambled to get it, softly cursing my stupidity that I hadn't already meticulously gone through the messages to double check if I'd missed any by Rachelle.

  I pulled it out, saw her name on a text message notification and opened it.

  "Children's services is here, some kind of routine audit?"

  Glancing at the backyard, I watched Wylie as he continued to talk into the phone. I typed a reply to Rachelle and hit send.

  "Could be more, I'll let you know when I know. Just play it cool. Anything scary, call 911 first!"

  I couldn't stay on the couch under the blanket any longer. Arriving at Wylie's front door, I had wanted solace and to know that I hadn't misjudged the man completely. Now I needed to know all the kids at Harbor House, especially the girls, were safe.

  Flipping through my contacts, I wished for the first time ever that I had been the type of person who cultivated powerful friendships. I had spent any number of hours talking to state senators, mayoral staff, and at least one mayor about the shelter, but I had gone about it like a dog with a bone or maybe a bull, head down and charging until they gave me what I wanted just so I would go away and let them get back to their poker or golf game.

  Now if I tried to expose Coombs, he'd have a small army of the morally outraged supporting him against the vile and vicious claims of a topless dancer.

  Wiley slid his phone into his back pocket and started toward the house, his face giving away nothing as late evening crept toward nightfall.

  I bounded over to the door and opened it. "Rachelle texted that there's someone from Children's Services there, but they said it was a routine audit. I've never had them show up at night for something like that."

  "I know," he answered, leading me back to the couch. "But Coombs hasn't done enough work with children's homes to know that. My contact in the governor's office said they'd go in discreetly and feel things out."

  Reaching up, he grabbed my hand from where I was pulling at my lip, my thumbnail scraping at the fragile skin. "I've got someone else running a more thorough check on his background."

  "Okay. Is there anything I can do? Should I warn Mae? She'll watch him—"

  "And give the whole thing away or set him off. Really, baby, I think he was fixated on you and you just didn't realize it—that whole 'thousand yard stare' thing, you tune men out, cold shoulder them and don't always see what's right in front of your face. The girls trust you, they would have told you. Now we just need to get his sick ass out of there before he transfers that fixation onto someone else."

  "Should I file assault charges?"

  "Any marks on you?"

  Holding my arms up so he could see, I shook my head.

  "Any witnesses?"

  Another shake, his point made clear.

  "So just my word against his and I'm a topless dancer fired twice in one day."

  "Sorry, but, yeah. He wouldn't get arrested or he'd be out immediately, right back at the shelter and more riled up than ever."

  I kicked my shoes off, pulled my feet onto the couch and hugged my legs.

  "We almost lost each other today, Rhea. Maybe it wouldn't have been forever because I'm pretty sure I can't stay away from you, but for a little while at least."

  Angling my head, I stared at him a few seconds. "Does that mean you still want me around?"

  He had been pissed earlier finding out I had gotten the hotel room and knowing that part of me, no matter how small it was, hadn't been able to totally reject Coombs' lie about Wylie exposing me.

  "Yeah, I do."

  "Then why aren't you holding me?" I didn't mean the words to come out wet, my chest heaving as I tried to hold back the tears, but all I'd had from him since we finally worked out the truth was one kiss, some hand patting to comfort me and a few brief smiles.

  Not answering right away, he slid around the couch and tugged me into his arms.

  "Because I know you're going to pull away in a few seconds."

  I twisted my head so I could see his face. He drew a long breath and let it out through his mouth, the lips pulled tight so that he was exhaling through a grimace that I was somehow responsible for.

  "Baby, I saw the tips you got on a Tuesday, I can't imagine what Friday and Saturday are like. You're not a druggie, you won't even drink a glass of wine. You don't have any real bills that I can see."

  I knew where this was headed. The direct question had stopped for a few months, but it was the last secret I had to give up and he wanted me to do so now.

  "You want to know where the money goes?"

  "I need to know where it goes," he corrected. "I just called some powerful people, assured them we were in the right and our concern was valid. And I had to tell them what you do so they weren't blindsided by it later because they would have left us in the dirt if they didn't know beforehand."

  He was right, but that didn't make it any easier.

  "Can I see your computer?"

  Wylie jumped up, walked quickly to the library and returned with his laptop, handing it to me. I opened up the Internet browser and typed in a Facebook URL I knew by heart.

  "I live on what Harbor House pays me, which isn't a lot if you don't count the free rent. Still not a lot when you do."

  Passing the computer to him, I returned to my side of the couch. He noticed, gave me one of those ninja side glances like he might rope me back over, but said nothing.

  "The tips, minus taxes, are for Frankie."

  Wylie scrolled down the page, then clicked the photos link. Picture after picture showed a young man in a wheelchair, the images going back ten years to when he was nine and in a hospital bed in a coma.

  "How'd he get like that?"

  "A drunk driver."

  "I don't understand..." Wylie scrolled through the About section then paused to do some rough math. "You were, what, 15 when he got hit?"

  He left the question of whether I had been driving drunk and without a license hanging in the air. I couldn't blame him. We had never talked about how I had become homeless and Frankie's accident was a big part of it.

  "My mother was the driver."

  19

  Rhea

  Taking the computer from him, I flipped over to the state inmate database and pulled up her page, another URL I knew by heart. A quick scan told me she was back in jail, this time for shoplifting. The new picture showed a woman even more used up than the one the state had posted the year before when she was finally released on the DUI/Hit and Run felony.

  Wylie put the computer on the coffee table and slid along the couch until we were side by side.

  "Baby, the laws that made children responsible for the misdeeds of their parents were repealed a long time ago."

  "I don't send the money to Frankie's mom because of my mother's misdeeds."

  Saying this all out loud to someone felt surreal. Mae knew what my mom had done, how she went to prison and I went to live at my uncle's, only to find myself in the same environment. But Mae didn't know about Tuttle's or the money, in part because I couldn't tell her about the dancing, but also because I didn't want to justify or argue about sending money to a child who would never have the use of his legs again.

  Growing restless, I tried to inch away from Wylie but he slid his hand along my back and secured my opposite hip.

  "Then why, Rhea?"

  "Because I was in the car with her! I knew she was drunk and that what she was doing was wrong and dangerous." Squirming, I tried to push forward, but he slid his other arm across my stomach trapping me front, back and on both sides.

  "You don't understand," I protested. "She'd already hurt me before driving like that. I kn
ew it could happen again."

  I exhaled, my breath all hot and my skin breaking out in a sweat that felt cold. Everything was fucked and I still didn't know why. Someone sure as hell had told Coombs about my dancing. He must have guessed about Wylie. Maybe the same person was the one with the dirt on Paulie.

  But that was all secondary. What mattered most about losing my jobs, other than the teens at the shelter, was that I couldn't keep sending Frankie money unless I got another dancing gig. And the next club wouldn't be as accommodating as Paulie had been. I'd have to sell drinks and do lap dances—and I was pretty sure my relationship with Wylie would not survive that.

  Hell, he had straight up admitted he wasn't sorry that I'd lost my job at Tuttle's.

  "I need to go back to the hotel."

  Wylie released me and stood. "Let me grab my keys."

  I couldn't let him take me back to the hotel. I was never going to get out from under this debt. There was no set dollar amount. It lasted as long as Frankie did and he was only nineteen years old. I needed to end things with Wylie before it went beyond amazing sex and a budding friendship with the only person I'd ever been totally open with.

  "Alone," I amended, standing and sliding my shoes back on.

  "Over my dead body, baby." He turned me to him but held me at arm's length. "I've been having a hard time saying it because I never really meant it before. I thought I did a few times, but that was just me being young, dumb and in lust."

  I stared, mute and uncertain what he was rambling over. All I could think about was crawling into the bed at the hotel and crying myself to sleep then going out the next day and looking for a new job.

  Wylie gave me a little shake, not all that hard, but enough to make me stop and listen more closely.

  "I'm trying to tell you that I love you, Rhea Butler. You may think you can't love me back because of this burden you're carrying, but you already do."

  "Awfully sure of yourself," I whispered.

  He shot me a cocky grin before his face sobered and he drew me back down to the couch.