by Shandi Boyes
Snubbing my skyrocketing excitement that Maddox’s comment yesterday about our date being years in the making was accurate, I gabber out, “One, why would Saint do that? And two, staked a claim? What century are we in again?”
Sloane almost sends me flying to the opposite end of the couch with a playful hip bump. She’s a lot stronger than she looks. “The same century your panties moistened at the thought of being claimed by a Walsh.”
I gag at both her comment and her use of the word ‘moistened.’ “I don’t want to be claimed.”
“Then what do you want, Demi?” She asks her question as sincerely as Maddox did when he queried why I was upset when I fled the gym. She isn’t angry or snooping. She’s genuinely interested in my reply.
I mull over her question for a couple of seconds before asking, “Do I need to give you an answer right now?”
Springy curls fly in all directions when Sloane shakes her head. “But I’d love some kind of idea within the next decade.” Any unease melding in my veins evaporates when she adds, “I can’t help you reach your goals if I have no idea what they are.”
After sucking in the scent of my overpriced shampoo, she nudges her head to the door in my room. “Come on. Let’s add some whipped cream to your strawberry scented hair.” When I attempt to tell her whipped cream won’t be on the menu for a few weeks, she pushes her finger to my lips. “You said no to salads. Sugary treats were not mentioned.”
She misses the roll of my eyes. She isn’t just racing away before she can be subjected to my wrath, she’s on a mission to find the sluttiest, raunchiest, most immodest dress in my wardrobe. And for once in my life, I’m not cringing at the idea of being beautified by her.
Maddox’s attention made me hopeful for a future. I just need to determine who gets to be a part of it. A night out dancing won’t help me achieve that but neither will wallowing.
“I’ve got it,” I assure Sloane when the toot of a horn at the front of our building has her dashing out into the cold without her jacket. It’s the least I can do since she spent the last thirty minutes glamming me up like a Barbie doll. If Mattel ever makes a Cleopatra doll, I could be the prototype. That’s how exotic and glamorous I feel.
After slinging Sloane’s winter coat over my arm, I gallop down the front stairs of our building. This is one of the perks of having a ground floor apartment. Sloane can greet our collector with a kiss within seconds of racing out the front door, leaving me plenty of time to take in his flashy ride.
Saint’s car would have you believing the Walsh’s are mafia royalty, not the woman leaving a ground floor apartment in designer heels she bought at a goodwill store for twenty dollars.
When I arrive at Saint and Sloane’s side, it takes almost a crane to winch Sloane off Saint’s lips. Once Saint has her wrangled into submission—barely!—he slings his eyes to me. “Hey, Demi, nice to see you again.” The cockier his smirk becomes, the more my cheeks bloom. “What? No return greeting. I can take off my shirt if it’ll make things more comfortable for you.”
“Leave her alone, Saint.” That deep, thick, gravelly tone didn’t come from Sloane. It came from the back seat of Saint’s pricy ride—from the direction Maddox is seated. I didn’t notice him during my walk because the tint on the retro-curved windows of Saint’s car is very dark, and the sun went down hours ago.
After shimming off the panic warning me I’m walking headfirst into a disaster, I slip through the door Saint is holding open for me. Since his car is a coupé, my tumble through the tight confines almost has me landing in Maddox’s lap.
“Sorry,” I stammer out a mere inch from his crotch. “At least he’s de-mast this time around. I might have lost an eye.”
When nothing but dead quiet comes from Maddox’s side of the cab, I sink in my seat with a sigh. I’m not overly good with banter, but I was anticipating a breathy chuckle. I didn’t even get half a snicker.
Once my belt is fastened, I greet Maddox with a smile. It’s the least I can do after shoving my face into his crotch. He returns my non-verbal greeting with a dip of his chin, however, not a word seeps from his lips. His second rejection in less than twenty-four hours would be harder to swallow if his greeting wasn’t chased by him dragging his eyes down my body. It’s a little chilly, but there’s no taking from his heated gawk. I’m wearing a dress—a very fitted dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. So as much as Maddox wants to act as if I’m not in his realm, not even he can hold back the second look a dress this breathtaking demands.
“It’s vintage couture.” Not that the sale stockiest at a local thrift shop knew that. She had no clue of its value when I bargained her down to ten dollars. “It’s not really nightclub appropriate, but it’s okay to change things up occasionally, right?”
The breathy chuckle I was seeking earlier finally arrives, but it’s more a huff than a laugh.
While Saint helps Sloane into the passenger seat, I scoot closer to Maddox, suddenly fretful I almost mashed my face into the wrong Walsh brother’s crotch. It’s dark, and they do have similar features, so I could be mistaken.
Nope! There’s no mistaking the eyes glaring at me beneath hooded lids. Apart from Justine, Maddox is the only Walsh sibling with greenish-blue eyes, and if the amount of green in them is anything to go by, he’s really mad.
Great. I had more patience for brooding jerks when I was in high school. Now, I don’t have the time nor the patience for them. We all wise up eventually.
After jogging to the hanging-open driver’s side door, Saint slips behind the steering wheel, fastens his belt, then fires up the engine. The vibrations of his powerful motor are felt through the seat. It has nothing on the zap that roars through me when Maddox’s thigh brushes mine, though. He may be angrier than a bull with a cowboy strapped to his back, but he looks scrumptious enough to eat. His black slacks and button-up shirt give him a casual yet sophisticated look. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his elbows, and the top three buttons of the dark, pinstriped material are undone. With his hair wet from a recent shower and combed back, it’s not flopped in his face like it usually is. He has the sexy, casual look down pat, and it’s setting my pulse alight.
“Where to?” Saint asks, encouraging my focus to him. He’s dressed similarly to his brother, but his shirt is a couple of shades lighter. It makes the brightness of his blond locks even more noticeable, and they take the focus off his kiss-swollen lips.
When awkward tension fills the air for the next several seconds, Saint bounces his eyes between the three pairs staring at him. “I was thinking we could grab a bite to eat before hitting the nightclub scene?”
I vomit a little when Sloane purrs, “Did I not satisfy your palette this morning?”
Maddox maintains his quiet front.
The closeness of the Walsh siblings is well documented, so I’m confident every sordid detail would have been shared with Maddox by Saint this afternoon, so why isn’t he responding with a morsel of disgust?
As put off by Maddox’s quiet as me, Sloane tiptoes her fingers up the buttons in Saint’s shirt. “I’m just playing. I’m famished. Food sounds divine.” She twists her torso to face the silent party for two in the back. “You guys?”
“I could eat,” I reply, ignoring the twisted knot in my stomach saying otherwise. “You?” I shift my eyes to Maddox, who is acting nothing like the man I dined with yesterday. When silence is the only reply I get, I whisper, “I can go if you’d like?”
Not giving him the chance to answer, I request for Sloane to drag her seat forward so I can climb out the way I entered. Her knees brace the glove compartment before Maddox’s hand shoots out to grip mine, halting my exit. Although he doesn’t say anything, he must non-verbally announce to Saint he’s happy with his plans because I’m thrust into my seat by Saint planting his foot on the gas pedal.
I would have preferred for Maddox to straight-up say he’s fine with me being a tagalong, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers, and I’v
e been a beggar longer than I’ve been a woman.
8
Demi
“The cucumber was wrapped, so why is it no longer consumable?”
I peg an uneaten portion of a breadstick at Sloane. “It was wrapped in a condom.”
Maddox remains quiet—as he has for the past two hours—but I hear Saint choke on his whiskey when Sloane says, “And? Latex will preserve it better than plastic ever would.”
“Sloane…” Needing backup, I swing my eyes to Maddox. “Will you help a girl out? Please.”
Steam almost billows from my ears when he shrugs instead of speaking. He hasn’t spoken a word to me all night. Not one. He flirted with the waitresses, smiled at the women making gaga eyes with him in the booth across from ours, and even stopped to chat to a random stranger when he escaped my clutch for a thirty-minute bathroom break. He’s being a dick, and I’m about ready to call him out on it.
“What’s with you tonight, Maddox? You’ve barely spoken a word, and not one of them has been directed at me, but when I tried to out-talk you yesterday, you beat me three words to one.”
Frustrated and perhaps a little upset about his second nonchalant shrug, I toss my napkin into his face before sliding out of the booth. I understand his ego was stung when I left him high and dry in the wee hours of this morning, but that doesn’t give him the right to be an ass. Call me a cock tease, tell your friends I’m a bitch, but don’t take me out in public then make me feel worthless. If I wanted to be treated like scum for the world to see, I would have accepted my uncle’s offer of a last-minute invitation to dinner. He doesn’t care if I’m circled by Buddhists on sabbatical or being hungrily eyeballed by the men in his crew, he disrespects me as often as possible.
I have to put up with his crap because he’s my uncle.
I don’t need to take it from Maddox.
“I’ll come with you.”
I stop Sloane’s exit of the booth by pushing down on her shoulder. “I’m fine. I can find my way home. Enjoy the rest of your night.” I shift my eyes to Maddox. Just like every other time I’ve glanced at him tonight, his eyes aren’t on me. That won’t harness my retaliation, though. “I hope she chokes on your smelly gym socks, dick.”
I miss the spray of whiskey spurting out of Saint’s mouth since I sprint for the exit. I refuse to hang around and watch Sloane and Saint convince Maddox he should go after me. I’d rather they let bygones be bygones because if I get any angrier, I may not keep Maddox off my uncle’s radar as I have the past two years.
My uncle’s business needs fighters, and the main part of my job being his ‘personal assistant’ is to locate the best fighters in the area. I make the gig sound as unappealing as possible when I approach the top contenders at local boxing gyms. I tell them the conditions are atrocious, that the boss is an ass, and ramble on about how they could face charges if they accept my uncle’s offer, but the instant they scan a couple of thousand per fight on the contract I’m forced to present to them, they act as if my warnings have no steam.
I don’t know what happens to the men once they’re umbrellaed under my uncle’s wing. I’ve heard rumors some of them have gone pro, but since those claims are mostly issued by my uncle, I don’t give them much credit. I just know that no matter what, being in favor to my uncle always ends poorly. You’ll be lucky to escape with your life.
I increase the length of my strides when my name comes tumbling out of the asshole’s mouth who refused to talk to me all night. I’m tempted to rile him that my storm out forced him to interact with me, but he isn’t the only one immature enough to give someone the silent treatment.
It only takes half a dozen strides for Maddox’s anger to get the better of him. I’m not surprised by his short fuse. All the males in his family are known for being hotheads. “If you’re planning to walk back to Hopeton, you’re walking in the wrong-fucking-direction.”
After folding my arms under my chest, I take a sharp right, then continue on. We walked for hours last night when we had nowhere to go, so I’m sure my legs are up to the task when my stomps have purpose.
“Try again,” Maddox barks out in a dull, angry tone.
I peer up at the sky before cursing my uncle’s name in vain. He blew up my phone so effectively the first hour of my ‘double date,’ my cell phone battery died almost forty minutes ago, so I can’t access Google Maps. Considering I’m shit at paying attention to my surroundings, I have no clue which part of Ravenshoe I’m in.
I could have sent my uncle’s calls to voicemail, saving me some charge, but since that would lead him to believe I was purposely avoiding him, I didn’t. It’ll be easier for all involved if he believes I left my cell phone at home. Less lethal.
“Now keep going straight for another forty miles,” Maddox says when I take another sharp right. “Or better yet, swallow your stubbornness and accept my offer of a ride home.”
When he nudges his head to his motorbike, it takes everything I have not to scream. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact he’s demanding I go anywhere with him or that he prearranged an exit strategy like he knew this is how our night would end. Whatever it is, he isn’t the boss of me.
“Dem—”
I cut off his growly delivery of my name with an evil glare and flaring nostrils.
He finds it more amusing than scary. “It will take hours to walk to Hopeton. You can be rid of me in under thirty minutes if you’ll just get your ass on my bike.”
I keep walking. Unlike the song, my shoes weren’t made for walking, but that’s what they’re going to do.
“For fuck’s sake. You really will be the death of me, won’t you?” With an agility that proves why he’s undefeated in the circuit he’s been fighting in the past couple of months, Maddox sneaks up on me unaware, wraps his arm around my waist, then hoists me back.
Unlike yesterday when I stiffened like a virgin feeling her first cock braced against her ass, I fight him with everything I have, hurt enough to give as good as I’m getting.
When the whacks of my arms and legs do little to slow Maddox down, I use my voice. “Help me!” I shout into the street, confident one of the many people milling on the sidewalk will come to my rescue. This isn’t Hopeton. Surely, the people of Ravenshoe have some type of morality. “I’m being assaulted. Please help me!”
My last three words come out muffled when Maddox clamps his hand over my mouth. That should shut me up in an instant. My uncle values silence, and he puts measures in place to ensure he can have it no matter what. Duct tape. Gags made from used socks. He’s even gone as far as sitting on my chest and clamping his hands over my mouth when my teenage rebellion went one step too far.
Unfortunately for Maddox, the memory he forced into my head also reminds me of the pledge I made when the screams of my lungs were finally granted.
Fight to live or not fight and still die. They’re my only options.
“Jesus Christ, Demi! You drew blood,” Maddox roars when my teeth sink into the fleshy part of his palm.
You’d think his battle wound would have him dropping me like a bag of manure. Regretfully, Maddox is as stubborn as a mule. He continues dragging me away from the people watching me be assaulted but do nothing to come to my aid.
I assume he’s going to straddle his bike with me strapped to his front, so you can imagine my shock when he pays off the doorman of a nightclub half a block up from the restaurant we ate at—it was chosen for a reason—then he walks me through the thrumming space.
When the bass out of the speakers above my head booms through my ears, I immediately stop screaming. I can barely hear Maddox telling me to behave, and his lips are right near my ear, so there’s no use subjecting my lungs to more torture than necessary.
The prickles on Maddox’s jaw create havoc with my skin more than my fight to get away from him. So I won’t mention the controversy I face when our arrival to the middle of the dance floor is followed by him splaying his hand across my stomach, then stepping me ba
ck until our bodies are intimately pressed together.
I begin to wonder if I tripped and hit my head when he commences swinging his hips. He refused to speak to me all night, yet I’m supposed to believe he wants to get down and dirty with me on a dance floor.
I’m a little naïve when it comes to aspects of my family’s ‘businesses,’ but I’ve matured a lot since high school.
Brooding? Yes.
A little rough around the edges? Another yes.
Straight-up asshole? Hell to the fucking no.
I don’t believe in the motto ‘treat them mean to keep them keen.’ If you want me to treat you like a king, you sure as hell need to think of me as your queen.
What’s good for one is good for all.
“Nuh-uh,” Maddox growls in my ear when I attempt to pull away from him.
After readjusting his grip on my waist, he grinds his crotch into my ass, leaving me no choice but to pay attention. He isn’t hard like he was yesterday. He doesn’t need to be for my deviant mind. Even soft, he has more under the trunk than the fool I gave my virginity to.
Confident I’m seconds from eating out of the palm of his hand, Maddox presses his lips to the shell of my ear and says, “Look to your right. Just beyond the bar.”
I’m unsure if his gravelly tone is responsible for the prickling of the hairs on my nape or spotting the narrowed watch of a man I’d guess to be mid-thirties. He’s dressed oddly for a nightclub. Don’t get me wrong, the women surrounding him seem to appreciate his brooding demeanor and all-black outfit. He also has a handsome face. It’s just so constricted with annoyance, it makes him unapproachable.
“Do you see him?” Maddox asks, his tone reserved.
While swinging my hips in beat to the doof doof doof music pumping around us, I inconspicuously nod. It looks like we’re getting caught up in the music. Only Maddox and I know different. The tension is so thick between us, it’s almost at the point it was when Maddox interrupted my homecoming dance kiss with Robert Flint. His unexpected arrival meant we never went past first base. I was fine with that. Robert was not.