by Wyatt, Dani
What bothers me is Jack is talking with the group of them. Heartache churns inside me and the inevitable acid rises in my throat, stinging my tongue.
I’ve only just met the man. I don’t even know his last name.
Engulfed with the crippling need to become invisible and disintegrate into the floor, I spin towards the exit. My little dream of him searching for me through the crowd pops like a bubble over my head.
Jealousy rages through me, coating my tongue with an unsavory metallic taste, then I realize I’m biting the inside of my lip until it bleeds. I bolt to our table, grab my bag from under my chair. I keep my diary inside in an inner zipped pocket and I know there will be a woeful entry I’ll be writing later tonight.
I head toward the door, sliding through the crowd and gasping for air.
What the hell’s wrong with me? I’m not like this. Why do I care what a stranger does with other women?
I shove the doors open, gulping in a lungful of semi-fresh night air as I fish my phone out of my bag, tapping the screen as I press my back into the brick wall and try to disappear. I know Sasha will be pissed I left but I’ll deal with her wrath on Monday.
I finish messaging for my ride then I wring my hands as I wait, trying to forget what it felt like to touch him. A few quick words, a handshake, and stupid me, something deep down thought he could be the one.
Like he would understand…
Instead, it’s my father’s voice I hear…
Silly girl.
Chapter 3
Jackson
A possessive fury has my jaw clenched. My temples pound with a sort of agony I’ve not felt before.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
I scan the bar as one of the Houston group laughs and nuzzles his pair of prostitutes’ necks. I catch him sliding a hand up one of their skirts, and distaste makes me turn away.
I’m embarrassed to be surrounded by these fucks. All of them wearing wedding rings.
At forty-one, I’ve never married. Never even got close.
I own homes in Manhattan, Thousand Oaks, a private island off the coast of Grand Cayman as well as a monstrosity of a house I built to surprise my parents back in Cleveland where I grew up. They refused to move into it though, they were more than comfortable in the little bungalow they bought together just after they married. So, there it sits, empty, except when I visit.
I spend the majority of my time here in Manhattan running my businesses from several offices in the city.
I know a lot of people in my social circles figure I’m a womanizer. A manwhore as I’ve heard it called. I don’t bother to correct them. I don’t give a shit what people think, I give a shit about winning. About making money. About coming out on top.
I have busted my ass trying to get to where I am. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. It was stainless steel, and fine enough. My parents, adoptive as they are, were great and taught me about hard work.
So that’s what I did.
Worked fucking hard for everything I have.
Who knows what my life would have been like if my birth mother hadn’t dropped me off in a laundry basket at the Catholic charity center? I don’t dwell, but I’m sure if I ever bothered with therapy there would be quite a few sessions on abandonment issues that have led to a lack of an ability to become attached to most humans.
During the day, I sit on the board of several Fortune 500 companies. I'm also the CEO of my venture capital investment firm—my first—that I started from the ground up. But for all my success, I’ve kept a low profile. I’m not one for interviews, buying sport’s franchises, flashy nights out, fast cars or anything that draws attention.
I draw enough attention with my size. Six feet six inches and built like one of those Nordic strongman competitors, with a face that would never grace the cover of GQ. I’m off-putting in my own special way, I suppose and I like it that way.
Work is my drug. That’s been my wife, mistress and purpose, and until the last few years I’d come to accept it would be like that forever.
Then, as success after success came for me, my passion for the work decreased.
So, I’m venturing into a more serious philanthropic arena. I’m starting an organization that manages microloans and mentorships to small business owners. And, to be honest, mostly to women.
It’s brand new, but I’ve got my new office set up in one of the buildings I own, which also houses a PR and marketing company that is under a wing of my venture capital organization, and I feel like once again I’m finding my stride.
We shall see.
“You're looking glum this evening, J.” A voice cuts into my thoughts, setting my teeth on edge with the over-familiar tone and the presumptuous nickname. “You know what you need?”
I raise a brow at Roland Powers, the biggest decision maker of the Houston group. He’s a power-tripping twenty-five-year-old who has never had to lift a finger to make a living in his life. A shipping heir’s son who’s always had whatever he needed fall into his lap. I don’t begrudge him the privilege into which he was born, but I am glad I’m not like him.
“Goddamn it.” My frustration is mounting. I slam my glass down on the bar and Roland gives me an amused smile.
“Something wrong?” He mocks sipping his drink eyeing me.
I look at each of the Houston decision makers and shake my head. “I’m going to call it a night, gentlemen.” I’ve given them more than four minutes by now, and it’s clear no one but me wants to talk business.
“We’re just getting started!” Roland looks at me like I’m the parent ruining the party.
One of the escorts giggles as he slides a hand down the neck of her dress.
I avert my eyes. I'm tempted to punch him in the face.
“You all have a good night,” I finish, my eyes already scanning the crowd.
Francois must notice the angry twitch in my jaw, because he’s quick to step between us. “Jackson has a crazy early-morning meeting with some investors from Japan.”
I don’t give a fuck anymore. The lie will do. “Hope you gentleman can come to terms. Keep me in the loop.”
With that, I spin on my heel and look through the throng, searching….
“Where are you, little one?” I whisper through gritted teeth, my eyes working their way around the room.
Nothing.
I search for the busty blonde that dragged her away, but again, nothing.
I head toward the bar pushing my way through people without apologizing. She seemed friendly with the bartender so I want to hit him up for anything he may know.
At the bar, I grab his attention with a hundred-dollar bill between my fingers.
“What can I get you?” He comes over leaning in.
“That brunette earlier. Club soda, no ice, with lemon? Lavender dress…”
He nods. “Yeah?”
“You know her?”
He gives me a casual shrug. “Not really. Just her drink. She comes in with the same group a couple times a week.”
“You don’t know her name? Anything about her?”
“Not really. I saw her skate out the front door a few minutes ago though. She’s not usually a late-nighter. Not sure where the rest of her crew went.” He raises his head over the crowd. “Their table’s empty.”
“Thanks.” I shove the money across the bar and turn toward the front door.
I’ll find a way to see her again. I have a private investigator who I employ. He'll know where to dig. There are cameras here in the bar. I’ll give him an unlimited budget to pay off whoever is necessary to get film of her. Then do a reverse image search for her in whatever facial recognition software we have or can buy. I’ll spend the rest of my life searching for those green eyes.
I step into the warm night. The New York scent of car exhaust and the sour sewer is familiar, driving away the last of her sweet scent. My driver, Clancy, stands at the curb, holding the door open when he spots me.
I nod at him, my quiet w
ay of saying thank you as I listen to the cracking of my teeth as I bite down in frustration.
I slide across the back seat as he closes the door undoing the button of my suit jacket.
I hear the driver’s door shut as I open the mini-fridge and take out a bottle of water. The limo eases forward, accelerating into traffic while I unscrew the cap ready to drown my sorrows in the next best thing to a cold shower right now.
Before I can get the bottle to my mouth, I’m jolted with a splash of chilled liquid and a crunching metal sound as the limo jerks viciously and screeches to a stop. I lurch in my seat, the water barely missing my pants and hitting the floor instead.
“Fuck!”
“Are you alright, Mister Carter?” Clancy lowers the privacy glass, giving me a concerned look.
I peer out the tinted windows. “I'm unharmed, are you?”
“I'm alright too, sir.”
I open my car door. Outside the limo, I eye the old red Honda that’s crumpled headfirst into the rear passenger side corner of the limo.
I glance at the damage and then at the Honda. The driver staggers out, practically falling to the pavement. When he looks up at me, my fear that he might be injured turns to anger.
His eyes are bloodshot. He attempts to steady himself against his car.
“You’re fucking drunk,” I shake my head, disgust pouring through me. “You could've killed someone.”
He grabs the Honda’s driver’s door handle and holds himself up.
And that’s when I see her.
My throat tightens. The blood rushes away from my extremities to compensate for the erratic beating of my heart. I shove my way by the driver, yanking the back door of the Honda open.
There she is. Clutching her head.
Fuck. She’s hurt.
If she’s injured, I’ll snap that driver’s spine over my knee. He’ll never see the morning. Chastity gazes up at me in wide-eyed confusion as I reach for her free hand, the buzzing, sharp tinge of emotion flooding me again. She’s shaking.
I easer her up and out of the car, and she leans against my arm.
She feels so much smaller right now. I want to bundle her up to my chest. My throat constricts as a heated sensation coils around my heretofore-unfeeling heart. I was afraid it had atrophied from years of misuse and neglect.
Yet here she is. My heart. In my arms.
Her tits crush against my chest. She shifts her body weight into me, trusting me to hold her up, and in that moment, I vow to never break that trust.
I stroke the side of her forehead. “Are you okay, little one?”
My voice seems to center her. She pushes away from me to stand straight, smoothing her dress over her hips, and I can’t believe I called her little one. Those words have never touched my lips before, but now that they have, they belong to her.
Chastity’s drunk driver is leaning against the car, trying not to doze off.
“Clancy,” I snap and he nods my way. “Call 911. Police and medical. She needs to go to the hospital.”
“I do not,” Chastity hisses back, screwing up her face. “I’m fine.”
I look back at Clancy. “Then call Doctor Olivette. Tell him to meet us at Presbyterian Hospital.”
Clancy nods, the phone already to his ear.
I try to control the rage building like a pressure cooker inside of me.
“Your friend is drunk,” I seethe, wanting to kill him for putting her in danger, then wanting to kill him again for being anywhere near her.
She whirls toward the driver, her eyes wide. “He’s not a friend. This is an Uber.”
A moment of relief lets me breathe, knowing she wasn’t leaving with this piece of shit, but it’s short-lived when he opens his mouth.
“I'm not drunk, asshole.” He rubs his face with both hands. “You came out of nowhere with that fucking hearse!” His voice is thick, the words slurred.
I bring my fist back and drive it into the little shit’s face, cracking his nose, blood spraying and running down his lips and over his chin dripping from the three hairs there impersonating a beard.
“Jesus Christ!” He squeals, staggering back. “What the fuck, man?”
Chastity is next to me, putting her hands on my arm. “Stop. They’ll arrest you…then you’ll have to go away.”
Her words squeeze around my heart. She wants me here, and it’s the only thing that keeps me from pounding the shithead into the asphalt.
“Looks like he hit his nose on the steering wheel.” Clancy raises his eyebrows as he steps closer to my left side. “He was bleeding when he got out of the car. Police, fire, EMS are on the way and Doctor Olivette will be waiting for you at the hospital.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Chastity interjects, her voice tight. “I’m fine, first of all. And second, I don’t have insurance so it’s stupid to go when I’m fine.”
“You are going and you don’t need insurance,” I answer, seeing the conflict in her gleaming meadow-green eyes. “You’re going. I’m paying. That’s the end of it.”
“I am able to make decisions for myself, you know.”
“Good to know,” I answer. “But right now, you’re not.”
I watch her perfect pink lips tighten as she ponders a response.
She answers, but instead of using words, she crinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue. My reaction is that the hard-on I’ve been fighting ever since I saw her tents the front of my pants.
I can already tell this sweet, too-fucking-young beauty is going to bring out those parts of me I’ve tried for so long to keep hidden.
I hope she’s ready, because I know I am.
Chapter 4
Jackson
“Clancy is bringing the car around. I’ll take you home.”
I don’t give her any option. My personal physician has given her the all-clear. We’ve been here at the hospital for two hours while he checked her over—under my supervision, of course.
I did some deep fucking breathing exercises while he examined her, because even though the logical part of me knew he had to touch her to take care of her, I still wanted to tear out his windpipe with my teeth. But he did what I needed him to do, including a cat scan and an MRI just to be sure.
Even in the awful hospital gown she’s wearing, Chastity is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She’s gripping the top of the sheet into her tiny fists as she looks down at her feet wiggling under the bedding and replies, “I don’t want to impose.”
“There is nothing about you that could possibly impose.”
Her teeth cut into her bottom lip and my heart slams viciously against my ribcage, threatening to batter its way out. I want to be the one biting those lips. I want to be the one licking every inch of that body until every sting is forgotten. I want to taste her, inhale her scent, and then bury my face between her clenching thighs to drink her sweet nectar straight from the tap.
My cock twitches, hard and trapped down the left leg of my pants.
“Okay. It’s just, I need to get dressed…” She eyes her clothes, which I’ve laid out on the little half-sofa in the private room I insisted upon.
“What’s stopping you?” I play, wanting to see that innocent blush ripen her cheeks.
I’m rewarded with deep crimson as she tips her head to the side, while I lean against the wall, unmoving, pondering if I should turn around, step out of the room, or just see what she does.
“Nothing, I guess,” she finally answers, flipping back the covers and swinging her legs off the side of the bed, standing there with a flicker of defiance in her eyes.
“Good girl,” I answer, her blazing green eyes latched to mine. I’ve never said those words before. I’ve dreamed of it, fantasized about it, but here with Chastity it feels perfect. “Would you like me to turn around?” I ask. As much as I want to see every inch of her, unwrapping this gift is something for which I’m willing to wait.
She nods. “Yes, please.” Her eyes are still on mine and
it’s like tearing a limb off as I break our connection and turn to face the wall. “Thank you.”
Her voice strums a chord deep inside me and my dick refuses to behave as I stare at the wallpaper, counting the tiny dots that make up the abstract light-blue pattern, trying to keep myself under control.
I listen to the sounds of fabric rustling, clenching my jaw as I keep counting.
“Okay.” Her voice finally releases me from my wallpaper prison. “You can turn around.”
When I do, she steps forward, stopping a few inches in front of me, then turns around and the control I’ve mustered nearly snaps. I use up what willpower I have left to prevent the cum shooting out of me like a lightning bolt from my balls.
“Can you zip me up?”
Fuuuuuuck me. I just jazzed in my pants a little bit.
The dress is open down her back, exposing flesh that calls for my mark and confirming what I assumed earlier when I saw her for the first time: she’s not wearing a bra.
I drag the backs of my fingers down the indent of her spine and she stops mid-breath. Goosebumps rise under my touch, and I’ve never thought of a woman’s back as a masterpiece before now. So simple. So perfect.
She tenses as pull the zipper. I feel a sense of loss as the fabric closes, the view of her skin taken from me too soon.
“Thank you.” Her voice is a bit breathless as I finish, turning around with an unsure smile as she steps over and picks up her pink and green striped canvas purse. “I guess I’m ready.”
Her eyes flick to mine, then to the door of the hospital room.
“Me too,” I respond, knowing I’m not just ready for us to leave this room. I’m ready for so much more.
A few minutes later, we’re outside, and Clancy emerges from the driver’s door of the car right on cue, but I wave him off. I’ll be the one opening her door from now on, I don’t even want my driver doing things for her I can do. I want to do it all.
Watching her slide into the back seat, I once again relish what a little girl she is in her own way. Grown up, but not quite. So perfect.