Tricked Steel: A Friends To Lovers Standalone Romance

by Fields, MJ

  “You’ll be fine. I’m right here. So are Mom and Dad.”

  I nod.

  When the doorbell rings, I feel like I’m going to get sick.

  I stand up. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “You know where it is, doll,” Xavier says as he walks to the door.

  Patrick follows me and stands outside like some sort of personal bodyguard. He’s been like that for two days, except for the hours we sleep, which isn’t many.

  I look in the mirror to make sure I still look like me, even though I’m not. Patrick tells me a name means nothing, and I do know who I am, but what he doesn’t know is that it’s easier to say than to be.

  I want to stay in here all day, but I am meeting my father.

  The thought frightens me and also has me longing for some part of me to be normal.

  When I walk out, Patrick takes my hand, and I stand here, looking at a tall, dark-haired, dark-skinned man who is apparently my father. He’s standing at the island, in a suit that I know is tailored and probably costs more than every item I own. He’s handsome and smiling at Xavier and Taelyn, talking to them … and then he turns and looks at me.

  I watch his chest heave, and he closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them.

  “Sutton, you have no idea how many years I’ve dreamt of the day I’d finally see you again.” He holds out his arms. “Come to baba.”

  I look up at Patrick and see his face fall slightly and his eyes lose some of their shine. He swallows hard and says, “You remember him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to?”

  I shrug.

  He lets go of my hand and places it on my back. “Go, Sutton, go meet your dad.”

  The hug is warm, and he smells familiar, but I don’t know if that’s because I need it to or if it actually is.

  When I step back and look up at him, his dark chocolate eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

  “We have much to discuss.”

  I nod.

  “I’m sure you have many questions you’d like answers to.”

  Again, I nod.

  “Shall we go or stay?”

  “Stay,” Patrick says firmly.

  “Stay,” I repeat.

  “Let us get this out of the way first.” He looks behind him, and a man I didn’t even see at first hands him a file. He sets the file down in front of me.

  “All pending charges have been dropped. Your name cleared. Your alias gone.” He reaches back and is handed another file that he sets on top of the other then flips it open. “You are Sutton Sawiris, born in your homeland of Saudi Arabia, on the fourteenth day of February. Your mother attended NYU and studied art. I attended there, as well, and majored in International Business. She knew of my faith and knew I was to take four wives, and she would never be one. But we loved each other deeply, so she came to live in a home that I bought for her on the sea in Duba. You were conceived there, born there, loved deeply by two parents there, but when I was to take my first wife, things became difficult for her. She wanted to leave, and I understood, but she was forbidden from taking you, my child, my firstborn. When you were three, we had an elaborate party. You played with your brothers and cousins, and there were many, many family in attendance. No one treated you or Anna any differently, because of legalities. You were always my first family. You were always my favorite, as was Anna.”

  He looks back again and is handed an album, which he places over my birth certificate, in a language I can’t read, from a life I don’t remember.

  “Please, Sutton, look through the photos and see if you remember me.”

  For hours, we talk, and he answers questions, and I try very hard to remember, yet don’t.

  I learn that, before my mother died, she contacted him, and he begged her to let him come get me and offered to pay for medical treatment. He told me he knew she had taken pain medication to end her suffering.

  No one knew that. No one other than Liberty. But deep down, I knew.

  He told her that he loved her still, his first love, and when he said it, I knew he was being sincere.

  He told me that, when I was left at Seashore, it was at his insistence. He had hired men to follow me, to ensure that I was kept safe. I now know he paid my bills and that the money in the account, one in which I never touched, one I thought my mother had set up, he actually did.

  He was surprised I never used it. And the last thing he told me was that he promised my mother that, until I tried to find him, I would be left alone.

  Tomorrow, he will be returning to discuss my future and the options available. Tonight, I lie looking at the ceiling, feeling guilt knot in my stomach because, once again, I am unsure of what to do.

  “Don’t go,” Patrick whispers, as if reading my mind. “I know you’re thinking about it, Savvy—”

  “Sutton,” I correct.

  “Baby, please just finish out high school here, and then you’ll be eighteen, and we can go visit together. I don’t want you to do this alone.”

  I squeeze his hand. “I love you. No matter what, I love you.”

  “I’ll never stop. Don’t you either.”

  * * *

  The night before I leave, I thank Xavier and Taelyn for their hospitality. I thank them for making such a great human, and I ask them to please forgive me.

  Taelyn hugs me but doesn’t say a word, tears filling her eyes. I know she’s worried about him. So am I.

  Xavier’s goodbye is different—a hug and a whispered, “See you on the next trip around the moon.”

  Patrick went to his room when I told my father I would come to Saudi Arabia with him, and he didn’t come out. That was two days ago.

  Whenever I tried to explain, he’d say, “Shut up, Savannah.” Whenever I cried, he held me, but he did so with my back to his chest. When I asked why, he told me he had to get used to seeing me from behind, because I was choosing to walk away from us. I only asked once. And, at night, when he thought I was asleep, he sat in the chair next to the bed, and he watched me.

  Saying goodbye to Patrick was harder than anything I ever did in my entire life.

  Chapter 25

  “Life starts all over again

  when it gets crisp in the fall.”

  ~F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Two Falls Later …

  Patrick

  My senior year at Seashore was fucking miserable.

  The day before it started, she told me it was too hard to move forward when she was constantly reminded of what she left behind. She then told me that she loved me enough to let me go. I told her I loved her too much to allow that to happen. We had a million of those conversations while she was in Saudi Arabia.

  Then, on December 20th, the last day of fall, she told me I would always be her first love … and she said goodbye.

  The next day, I called and was told the phone was no longer in service. I tried to track her location that I never told her about doing, and it was unavailable.

  She ended things the day before winter began.

  Tris and I got really close that year, and although we didn’t bury any bodies, we did write some music and spent a year on tour; me managing and her singing her angry, little heart out. This summer, she got married to a man she met in Spain.

  She’s a seventeen-year-old, platinum-selling artist, and he’s a twenty-five-year-old sculptor.

  The amount of women I have gone through in order to forget Savvy is straight-up unknown, or maybe it’s not yet determined. Each one was supposed to remove the taste of her perfect, sweet little pussy from my mouth.

  None did.

  A couple months ago, we found out Grandma Patrick has breast cancer, and I decided to move to Boston to be closer to her and started school at Boston University.

  Life was too short, and I was definitely not spending enough time with some of the people I loved the most, the people I lost sight of while in the fog that hangs over Heartbreak Highway.

  Yesterday, I was wal
king out of the surgeon’s office with my grandmother when she joked, “I think we picked the perfect pair.”

  “I think Pops will be pleased.” I winked at her.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I swear to God above I saw Savvy walking briskly up the opposite side of the stairs, going into the medical complex. But that would have made absolutely no sense, right? Why would Savvy, the girl with the perfect tits, be going into an office building where it is strictly for breast surgeons who make fake titties?

  I blew it off. Blamed it on all the leaves changing colors and beginning to fall.

  And now, right fucking now, I’m standing a block and a half down from my building, looking across the street at a raven-haired beauty, who is looking up at a ceramic shop that has a “For Sale” sign on the storefront window.

  The universe is fucking with you, man, I tell myself as I watch her walk away.

  * * *

  “I feel like I’ve outgrown this shit,” Kyle, a guy in the majority of my classes, says loud enough for me to hear over the music.

  “Whiskey or hunting pussy?”

  He laughs. “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I’ll never outgrow either.”

  We tap glasses then shoot back the whiskey.

  “Whiskey down, pussy to go.” He laughs.

  I scan the bar, a local hotspot that every college in the area—BU, BC, Harvard, and Northwestern—come to party, especially on nights like tonight. Nights with local live bands.

  I’m waiting for the day I find one here, but until then, I keep looking around until I find something that looks like it might be of my taste.

  But when she turns around, I swear to God, it’s her.

  This is fucking ridiculous, I scold myself.

  When the girl who looks a lot like Savvy’s jaw drops, I know damn well I’m ninety-nine percent right, even though I’m two sheets to the wind.

  And then I see blonde hair mashed between two men.

  Savvy, Chloe, Ziggy, and Roach.

  The gang’s back together, and I wasn’t fucking invited.

  Pissed? Check.

  Drunk? Check.

  Feeling betrayed? Check.

  Check on all the fucking above!

  I push through the crowd and watch as Savvy fucking Sutton starts to panic.

  I’m ready to flip my shit and tell them all what I think of them. I’m steps away and still basically sober enough to do this in epic fashion … when she smiles and basically lunges at me.

  I’m not sure what the fuck possesses me, but I grab two handfuls of her ass and keep walking until I get to the exit.

  Outside, I’m really ready to unleash on her … when she leans back and I see her eyes. They match the season.

  “Ask me how much I’ve missed you.” She smiles big, bright, and more beautifully than I remember.

  “I’m so fucking pissed at you,” I sneer as I continue walking down the road with her wrapped around me.

  “I’ve missed you so much, Patrick. So, so much.” Her eyes mist.

  “Shut up, Savannah.”

  “It’s Sutton now.”

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “You’re mad. I understand. But I sure hope we can be friends.”

  “Fuck you,” I say, looking over her shoulders as I cross the street.

  “I’m drunk, and I’m happy when I’m drunk now, so I won’t fight with you.”

  Three buildings down is mine. I’m not sure why the hell I’m taking her there, but I am.

  “I moved back to the States three months ago.” She smiles, beginning to play with the ends of my hair.

  “Right after Tris got married, I kind of figured you’d be back soon, too. You didn’t look too happy in the wedding photo taken by the paparazzi.”

  “I considered Jersey but remembered how much you said you loved Boston and thought I’d check it out.”

  “Right now, Boston is my worst fucking nightmare,” I say as the doorman opens the door.

  “Good evening, Mr. Steel.”

  “George,” I say as I walk past him.

  “George,” she mimics me then starts laughing.

  The elevator bank opens, and I swipe my card across the sensor then stand in the middle of the elevator as it ascends to the top floor.

  “I learned so much about my father and his culture. Mostly, that it’s not for me. But most importantly, that it’s okay for him to love his way of life. The culture values family, in a different way than you do, but it’s okay that it’s different. I could never see myself living there, because it’s an extremely patriarchal society, and if I wanted to say fuck the man there, I would probably get in a much different kind of trouble than I can get in here. But my half-siblings are interesting, and we stay in touch through social media. I’ve changed, Patrick.”

  When the doors open to my place, I walk in and head right to the couch where I drop her down on it.

  She looks around. “Nice place.”

  I start to pace and do so for enough time that, when I look back at her, ready to rip her a new asshole, she’s passed out.

  * * *

  Standing in the windows looking out over Boston Harbor, music playing to calm me, I take a sip of my coffee.

  “I’m never drinking again,” I tell myself.

  From behind me, I hear, “Why’s that?”

  I don’t even want to look at her. I just want her to go the fuck away.

  “Apparently, I pick up old habits and bring them home.”

  I hear the leather on my couch crinkle and know she’s sitting down.

  “You know what they say, old habits die hard.” She laughs quietly.

  “Yeah, I’m not wishing them death, just to not be seen or heard from after they fuck up your heart.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “Is that so?”

  “This one ex-boyfriend of mine was said to have started dating a girl he professed to be annoyed with.”

  “Wow, what a dick. I wonder why he’d do such a thing.” I know damn well she’s talking about Davina. I didn’t date her. I fucked her. Three times.

  “Maybe because he felt it would hurt me, because he doesn’t understand how much I hurt myself by walking away.”

  “Well, that was stupid on your part.”

  “I’m really sorry you feel that way.”

  “I’m really sorry you made me feel that way.”

  Silence.

  “You have any more coffee?”

  “Downstairs, take a left. There’s a little shop with a barista who has a shitty attitude.”

  “Cool, you go there every time she works?”

  “Fuck no. I make my own coffee now.”

  I hear her get up, and then I hear her feet pad across the floor. “Do you have any pumpkin spice?”

  “No.”

  She starts opening cupboards and drawers. “Wow, sparkling clean, like no one even lives here.” I hear the fridge open. “Or eats, apparently.”

  “I’d like to get you a car. Where would you like to go?”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Fine. I was fucked up, and it was stupid to bring you here. It won’t happen again. I apologize. Now—”

  “Ask me why I was walking into that office the other day. The one you were walking out of with your grandmother.”

  “It’s none of my business,” I answer.

  “The same reason I can’t let you love me anymore.”

  I don’t love you anymore, is stuck in my fucking throat and won’t come out.

  “Patrick, please look at me. This is important. And it’s hard to talk about, so just let me.”

  I look over my shoulder, seeing she’s wearing a pair of my socks, pulled up to her knees, and a BU hoodie that she must have grabbed from my closet. “I’m listening.”

  “My mom died at thirty-five of breast cancer. I carry the gene. I was there because, in a month, I’m having them removed.”

  “Do you have cancer?”

&n
bsp; She shakes her head. “This way, I better my chances of keeping it that way.”

  “Your body, your choice. But if you were mine, I wouldn’t let you do that until you were done having kids or a doctor said you actually had cancer.”

  “I’m not having kids.”

  “I’m sorry you feel like that’s your only choice.” I walk across the floor and set my mug on the counter. “It was nice to see you, Savvy—”

  “Sutton,” she corrects me.

  “Yeah, Sutton.”

  * * *

  Did I do the right thing by walking out of there after she dropped the bomb? Possibly not. And not because it was rude, but because, apparently, Savannah has a key to my place and is on her way up. And, by apparently, I mean, she absolutely took both the spare key and the master key to the entire building.

  When George calls and asks me if I’d like him to call the authorities, she yells in the background, “I may not have known how to swing a frying pan at five, but I do now. Tell Mr. Steel that bit of info.”

  “We don’t need a scene. I’ll deal with it.”

  As soon as the elevator opens, she stomps in. “You bought my shop?”

  I don’t look up from my computer. I don’t want to see what she’s wearing, or if her hair is up or down, or if she’s braless. “I’m really not sure what you’re talking about. I own a couple properties in Boston.”

  “So, you’re saying you didn’t buy the cute, little ceramic shop across the road and a few blocks down?”

  “I’m neither confirming nor denying.”

  She walks over to the coffee pot, grabs a mug from above it, pours herself a cup, and then walks over and sits on my couch. “You have shitty taste in furniture. This thing is uncomfortable.”

  “Then, by all means, don’t sit on it.”

  She finishes her cup in silence, then gets up, walks over to the sink, and sets it in. Then she walks past me, down the hall, and I hear a door open.

  Seconds later, I hear her slamming drawers and decide it’s best to go make sure she doesn’t destroy anything.

  When I step into the office, she looks up. “Where are the keys to my shop?”