by S. Ann Cole
“You look thoroughly screwed,” I say when he slides in beside me.
He throws me an annoyed look. “Do I? ‘Cause my balls are more purple than blue right now. You couldn’t have called just one hour later?”
I narrow my eyes to slits. “Lunch time is my time, Ric. My time. Don’t try to have sex on my time.”
He stares at me, irritation present, before he abruptly kisses my cheek. “You’re lucky I love you.”
Alaric Elias is all kinds of hot and sexual. Short, sandy-brown hair, deep-brown eyes, and the sexiest male lips in New York. Tall, lean, defined, and oozing carnality. The way he walks, talks, looks at you, all screams sex. Even when he doesn’t mean to. It’s innate. A gift and a curse—his words.
Equally attracted to both men and women, although some periods he prefers women more than men and dates them exclusively, and some periods he prefers men more than women and dates them exclusively. Most times, he wants them both…at the same time.
He’s interesting, unconventional and unpredictable. He keeps my life bright.
We’ve been besties since college. He took to me after I refused to let him between my legs like all the other girls and boys on campus. He was popular, and I was fake-loved and privately hated. Having the well-loved Alaric Elias’s stamp of approval in college was beneficial. If Alaric liked you, everyone else followed suit.
“Oh, no,” he says, eyeballing me warily. “You’ve got that look on your face.”
“What look?” My tone is sweet and innocent.
“That I’ve-Got-A-Batshit-Crazy-Idea-And-You’re-Going-To-Be-My-Accomplice look.” He attempts to open the car door. “You know what, suddenly I’m not so hungry. Stop the car, Beau.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”
“Dramatic? I’m not about to land on Aaron’s shitlist. Again.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please. Daddy loves you. You’re one of the few people he trusts with his little girl.”
With a great, exaggerated sigh, he drops his head back on the seat and closes his eyes. “Let’s hear it.”
I shift to face him full-on, my grin like the Joker’s. “I found him.”
One eye peeks open and peers at me. “No, ‘Rena, don’t say it.”
“He’s perfect—in the looks department, of course,” I say anyway. “I want his face to be my baby’s face.”
Both of Alaric’s eyes pop open now. “I thought he hated you.”
“He does,” I agree. “But he also saved my life, so he can’t hate me that much.”
He watches me while nodding slowly, as if assuring himself that I am indeed a nutbag. “Did Aaron say yes?”
I shake my head. “He’s never going to say yes. I realized that this morning.”
I catch Beau’s unreadable eyes in the rear-view mirror. I’m not worried. He won’t talk. He’s my driver who Aaron uses far more than his own driver because he enjoys being all up in my damn business. I hired Beau, so he’s loyal to me. I break a lot of my father’s arbitrary restrictions with Beau in the midst and he never knows.
Alaric takes an e-cigarette from his jacket and lights up. “What’s the plan?”
“Step One: Stalk him.”
E-cig between his index and middle finger, Alaric’s gaze dips to the folder in my lap, edges of glossy, high-resolution images peeking out. “I’m getting the feeling you’ve already executed Step One.”
I bite my lip. Caught.
One of the first meetings I had this morning was with the private investigator I’d hired to stalk Kholton. He’s been on him for a few weeks. I wanted to get an idea of his schedule, his routine. Who he is, the places he went, the people he saw. “Right. So…Step Two: Get him to not hate me.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?”
“Don’t know yet.” From my bag, I fish out a pen and my Tinker Bell notepad. “That’s why you’re here. To brainstorm.”
Alaric groans. “I seriously need a new best friend.”
Six - Serena
“Julie.”
Location:
Williamsburg
I stand outside the brownstone with the bright green door.
The low, wrought-iron gate with peeling black paint hangs ajar, beckoning me.
Beau idles on the curb behind me, waiting.
A silver-headed old lady sits on the steps of the neighboring brownstone with a smoking cigarette between her fingers, a clowder of cats lazing at her feet.
With a courteous nod at her, I smile.
She takes a long pull of her death stick and looks away.
Okay, then.
Taking a deep breath, I push open the gate. It creaks, bitching.
My pointy black pumps click and clack on the cracked pavement, my leather pencil skirt dictating the pace of my ascent up the steps.
I ring the doorbell then press my palm over the peephole.
Do I have a speech planned? Nope. Do I have anything planned? Nope. Alaric has been useless in the brainstorming department, though I suspect that’s on purpose. He’s not at all keen on operation “Stealing the Playboy’s Baby.”
I’m the one who’s obsessed with this man, possibly because I’m the one who was rescued by him from what would have been a painful and humiliating death. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. Haven’t been able to stop staring at his pictures.
I want this.
The door swings open and a rugged, sexy-as-sin man stands on the other side. Honey skin, dark hair, darker eyes, defined brawns, and lips so full and firm I can’t help staring at them. He has a dark, artful edge to him.
One look at me and his dark eyes light up with intrigue. “Huh.”
The single syllable stinks of sarcasm and mockery. Of course, he knows who I am. Just like I know who he is.
The roommate. Brian Cage.
“Is Kholton home?” I ask, even though I already know that he is. It’s Wednesday, his off-day. The only day he never leaves the house. I’ve been stalking him long enough.
“Who’s asking?” the roommate shoots back, though he already knows.
Cute little game we’re playing here.
“Julie.” I raise an eyebrow, daring him to call me out.
“Ah, Julie,” he says. "The one who screamed the paint off the walls last week? Now I remember you. Good set of lungs you’ve got.” His smirk is mischievous. “Yeah, Khol’s in. But he’s…busy. With this week’s Julie.”
This I expected, too. He’s a playboy, after all. “It’s important.”
This time, he grins and steps aside for me to enter. “I bet it is.”
He shuts the door and walks ahead of me, leading the way to the main room.
It’s alright. Basic, with all the necessities. A three-piece brown leather sofa set, a worn chest as a coffee table, exposed brick walls. A mounted flat-screen, a big black rug, lots and lots of natural light flooding through the large windows. The wooden flooring, I hate—it looks cheap and busy. But I’m kind of a decor snob so…
The roommate’s feet drag across the ugly floors to a carpeted flight of stairs. “Khol!” he barks. “You’ve got another Code Pink!”
Confusion clouding, I ask, “What’s Code Pink?”
He folds his arms across his chest but doesn’t turn, attention trained up the stairs. “Stalkers. He gets alotta’ those. I’m sick of it.”
“I’m not a stalker,” I protest with indignation. Except, I am. I am a stalker.
“That’s what they all say,” he grumbles. “Kholton!” He turns to give me his attention, curious eyes scanning me up and down. “What’s a fancy little princess like you doing stalking this pussy popper anyway? Shouldn’t you be in some kind of arranged marriage or something?”
I brush an imaginary piece of lint off my skirt and adjust the purse on my wrist. “Again, I’m not ‘stalking’ him. I’m here on important matters.”
“What kind of ‘important matters’?”
“That’s none of your business. What are you, his fluf
fer?”
He blinks at me, then throws his head back and laughs. “Good luck…with your important matters. Though, if I were you, I’d walk right back out that door. This is no place for tight—I mean uptight—prissy, privileged brats like you.”
He shoots me a wily wink as he leaves.
I take no umbrage. I’m used to being judged by my appearance and status. It’s a side effect I’ve learned to accept.
From upstairs, I can hear footfalls.
A door closes.
Murmurs.
Silence.
Suddenly, he’s there, at the top of the stairs. In nothing but Batman boxer briefs, his hair is an unkempt, just-out-of-bed mess. Lids low and bleary, a yawn pries his mouth open as he scratches his hairless chest. Abs solid and well defined.
I lick my lips. Dammit, but he’s mouth-watering. Mesmeric.
Where there had once been pierced flesh spewing blood, there’s now a small puckered scar. Fully healed. I have images of him when he was wearing a sling, still looking as hot as wrongdoing.
He pauses mid-descent when he sees it’s me. “What the…”
I smile. Wave. “Hi—”
“Where’s Brian?” His voice is hard, displeased. So are his eyes. Not the reaction I was expecting, but I get it. He hates me. What’s new?
I take a step back. “He left.”
“Of course,” he mumbles under his breath. “Asshole.” He scans me up and down with overt belligerence and annoyance.
Again, I take a step back. I get it, I have red hair. Some twat named Penny Walters lifted her skirt for another boy or whatever back in prep school and ruined it for all redheads. But he saved my life. He has to have at least a modicum of “like” for me. He had been nice, and thoughtful, and unbelievably heroic in the end. So why the belligerence? The open enmity?
Maybe because after months of taking a bullet for you, he’s only just seeing you?
Good point.
Resuming his descent, narrowed eyes never leaving me, he comes to stand directly in front of me. “Listen, it’s been almost five months. If I was going to sell your story to the press, I would’ve done so already. I don’t give a shit. So if you’re here to flash your perfect tits to convince me to take the money, the answer is still ‘shove it up your privileged ass’. I’m not hard-pressed for cash and I’ve got no desire to be rich.
“I’ve got a decent job and I’m quite contented with my life as it is. I was just another civilian who saw another dumb, rich, self-centered chick making another stupid ass decision that got her into a bad situation. I helped out, as any other civilian would’ve. Eat your damn compensation and leave me the hell alone, for Christ’s sake.”
I blink at him. Dumbstruck. Because, what the hell? “I…don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand what?”
“I-I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” I shake my head. “Sell my story? Compensation?”
“You’re kidding me, right?” He vibrates with impatience. “Your father came here three different times trying to ‘compensate’ me for helping you, to ensure I kept my mouth shut about what happened. Oh, and to stay away from you. First visit, 300k. Second visit, 500k. Third visit, one mil. Real hard of hearing, that one. Despite what you rich, pompous assholes might think, not everyone can be bought. Some of us are more than happy with not having it all.”
Yet again, I step back. Unable to comprehend what I’m hearing. After all this time, my father’s been trying to pay him off behind my back? I cannot believe this! To think I have been fighting guilt about going behind his back to come see Kholton, when he’s done it not once, but three times!
“You didn’t know.” Kholton’s voice is quiet as he makes this statement.
I shake my head, my laugh humorless. “No. I didn’t.”
He frowns at me, scratching the dark scruff on his jaw. “Then why are you here?”
I knew the moment I saw him at the top of the stairs that I should have waited until I had a solid plan in place. Alaric had warned me that the “thank you for saving me” idea wouldn’t be strong enough. Not with a playboy hero who happens to have a grudge against redheads. But I was impatient, anxious. I wanted so badly to see him.
Now that I’m here, I wish I had waited and planned more. I’ve pantsed my way into his house and now I’m stuck. This must be what authors mean about having writers’ block. Too eager to get this thing going, I didn’t take the time to create a careful plot. Now I have no outline to follow.
I need to stall until I can come up with something. “You’ve healed well.”
He just looks at me.
Okay then. “Nice place you’ve got here.” I step away from him and do a three-sixty of the room, searching surreptitiously for a clue to get me out of this hole I’ve dug myself into. Unfortunately, the house is shared by two straight men, so there’s nothing on the walls or surfaces. All basic and to-the-point.
Still no response.
I run my index finger along the dark-wood mantle above the fireplace. Dust coats my fingertip, leaving a clean line on the mantle. I flick my gaze to Kholton.
He’s watching me, arms crossed.
I scribble through the dust on the mantle: PLAYBOY.
Smiling at this, I return to stand in front of him. “I apologize for my father. I had no idea.”
“Apology accepted,” he replies. “Is that all?”
“I also apologize for taking this long to show up after what happened,” I go on. “Again, that’s my father’s fault. He didn’t want me to…I just want you to know that I appreciate what you did for me. I probably wouldn’t be alive right now if you hadn’t…Just, thank you.”
He scratches his jaw. “Hmnh. Nice of you drop in, but you really didn’t have to. A Thank You card would’ve sufficed. You should really listen to your father. He’s a smart man.” He turns suggestively toward the exit. “You done? Can I go back upstairs now?”
I study his spell-binding features, catapulted back to our conversations that night, sifting, searching for something, anything that I could use right now. He looks impatient and eager for me to leave.
From my purse, my cellphone bellows. Saved by the bell.
Although it’s my work phone, the one I hardly ever answer, I jump to do so now, taking advantage of the few extra minutes it will buy me. “David Groves” flashes on the screen.
At first, I scowl, annoyed.
Then, I smile.
No, grin. My work nemesis just gave me the best idea. Thank you so frickin’ much, Douche Groves. You shall be rewarded, evilly so.
I hit “Ignore” and lift my smile to Kholton, whose body is still positioned toward the exit, a non-verbal request for me to get gone. Returning the cellphone to my handbag, I take a step toward him. “Listen, I came here on business. I know you despise redheads, so I was only trying to thaw the ice first. But alas, you’re just as warm and fuzzy as you were the first night we met.”
Kholton eyes me warily, as he should. He angles his body to me again. “What kind of business?” Before I can answer, he adds, “And it better be legit. Don’t know what you guys are mixed up in, but I’ve had enough of your shit splattered on me.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re not mixed up in anything. We’re good people.”
“Yeah,” he says with the stench of sarcasm. “That’s why you were abducted. Because you’re ‘good people’.”
“Think the worst of me. I’m used to it.” I give him a dismissive wave. “Anyway, I would like to employ your tutoring services.”
As if in relief to be in an area of discussion he’s comfortable with, his hands fall to his sides. “Yeah? For what, specifically?”
“Accounting and Finance.”
He shuffles to sit on the arm of a sofa chair, noticeably more relaxed. “You don’t strike me as the numbers type.”
“I’m not,” I admit. “But our CFO is an asshole. I hate him and I need your help. I don’t exactly want to steal his job, because as y
ou’ve correctly guessed, I’m not about that numbers life. But if I become trained and qualified for that position, I’ll always be a threat to him, dangling over his head like an anvil, waiting to crush him like a bug. He needs to learn to put some respect on my name.”
Kholton gives me a look. And I know for a fact he’s thinking, “Rich people problems.”
I tip my chin. Better he thinks I’m a stuck-up rish bish than a conniving liar who’s out to get him in her bed and his semen in her egg. “Don’t give me that look,” I say. “I know, I’m petty. But whatever, I’m bored.”
“We do this, you better be serious. There’s a standard and a premium package. Standard, no degrees. Exams and certificates. Premium, exams and degrees from Brown or Columbia—I’ve got connections, don’t ask. For the position you’re after, I suggest the premium package.”
“Great!” I grin, giddy with excitement. Holy crap, I pulled it off and found a solid reason to lock him into my life, at least for another year.
“I’m not cheap,” he warns.
“I’m rich,” I remind him.
At this, he smirks. “Take my number. Text me your email address and tomorrow I’ll send you the contract for the premium package.” He stands and stretches his arms over his head with a yawn. “As it is, today’s my day-off and I’d like to go back to bed.”
I get out my cellphone and transcribe his number to it. “Do you always sleep this late on your day-offs?”
“If I’ve got ass in my bed, yeah.”
I’m beyond befuddled about this pinch of jealousy I feel toward whoever is upstairs in his bed right now. I flick my gaze up to the ceiling, then back to him. “Julie?”
With a crooked half smile, he walks out of the living room and straight to the front door. He holds it open. “I’ll email you in the morning, Miss Bentley.”
I’m almost out the door when I stop and turn to him. I don’t know what I want, or why I’m finding it so hard to leave, but…I just gaze up at him. He jerks an eyebrow at me.
Lowering my gaze to his scar, I reach out to gently touch my fingertips to it. “Was it a tough recovery?”
He catches my hand by the wrist and removes it from his person. “It was a pain in the ass trying to function with one arm but…” He trails off and shrugs.