Blue Velvet

by Linnea May

  I’m such a wimp.

  The fact that Rowan’s unrelated revelation made me think back on that night only shows how messed up my head is. He told me about something truly traumatic, something that was a lot worse than what happened to me, yet his tale also included a truth about him that led me to conclusions I probably shouldn’t make.

  He said he’s prone to lose his temper, and he has hurt others because of it. He hurt women who were with him the way I was with him. I hated hearing those things about him.

  Why would he tell me about this? Why would he tell me in the blue room, right after we had sex? Was he just trying to be honest with me, or was he trying to scare me?

  I don’t really believe it could be the latter, but I can’t dismiss the idea completely. Hearing those things changes the way I see him, whether I want it to or not. I have known him for less than two weeks, but I feel so close to him, so at ease. I’ve never felt like this with a man before, and I’ve never experienced sex the way I did with him.

  And now all of that is gone because he’s not who I need him to be.

  “Don’t be silly,” I hiss at myself. I’m blowing this out of proportion. I must be.

  Days have passed since that night, since he shared those dreadful details of his past with me, and I haven’t seen or spoken to him since. I excused myself rather abruptly that night, claiming I had to go home, and was picking up my clothes before he could even begin to stop me.

  He didn’t even try. He just sat there, watching me as I got dressed in a hurry, his face heavy with sorrow and regret. I hated seeing him this way, but just as when that brawl erupted at Captain Seaweeds, I chose the chicken way out and averted my eyes. I protected myself by ignoring his own pain, neglecting to give him the comfort he needed after reliving the horrible events that shaped him and stripping his soul in front of me by telling me about it. I chose my own fear over him.

  And I feel terrible about that.

  Great, now at least I know why I’ve been feeling so shitty for days. Knowing the problem doesn’t make it go away, though. We exchanged numbers, but I never contacted him since I practically ran from him and his dark past that night.

  And I haven’t heard from him either, though I can’t blame him. It’s up to me to make this right. I’m the one who has to show him that this is not over. I’m the one who has to apologize and let him know that he did nothing wrong.

  I check the time on my phone. Ten minutes left until the club officially opens. My thumb slides across the screen, searching for his number.

  I should text him. Should I?

  Will I be okay, knowing the things I now know about him? Will I be safe with him?

  “Do you trust me?” he always asked, and I always responded in the positive. Could I still do that?

  He confided in me, after all. It’s my obligation to show him the same trust he has shown me.

  And he’s never done anything to me that would make me think of him as an abuser. Even the pain he inflicted on me during our play is engraved into my memory as nothing but erotic caress.

  But there was a moment when I didn’t feel safe with him. During our very first night, when he assaulted me with a feral urge, grabbing and fucking me way too hard. He did that for like a split second. And I could tell he was afraid of himself when it happened. He stopped right away and changed our position, placing the control in my hands so he wouldn’t give me a reason to fear.

  And everything ever since has been nothing but fun and pleasure.

  Fuck. I miss him.

  Six more minutes until the door opens. Six more minutes until I will be too occupied to contemplate a decision. I know he won’t be among the patrons tonight because he hasn’t been here since our last night together. He won’t come back unless I ask him to.

  I check the door one more time. Waitresses are fluttering around the room, making last-minute checks on the room before they’ll gather next to the bar, ready to greet the first customers. We will provide them with their first drink, making sure they’re happy and comfortable before the curtain opens for the angels and devils to entertain them.

  I take a deep breath and lower my gaze to the little screen in my hands as my fingers start typing.

  23

  Rowan

  “That’s not what your father would do.”

  Oh, how I loathe that sentence. I hate it even more when it crosses Dwight’s lips, emphasized and loud enough so even my impaired ears can hear it across the room.

  And he knows that I hate hearing it. The fact he knows it but still deems it appropriate to lecture me antagonizes me even more. He knows how to play me, how to push the right buttons to anger me just enough to follow his suggestions.

  I pace up and down the office, followed by six pairs of eyes—five of them anxious and expectant, and one of them condescending and boastful. Dwight is about fifteen years my senior and has been working for and later with my father for most of his adult life. That also means he has been a part of my life for longer than I care for. He was one of the reasons I didn’t see myself following my father’s footsteps when I was asked to do so. I didn’t want to become a man like him. Dwight has something about him, something nasty and unpleasant, a side that stands in stark contrast to his occasional displays of supportive advice.

  When I returned from Ramadi a broken shadow of myself, he was the one to help me get back on my feet, more so than my own parents. It wasn’t because they didn’t care enough, because they did. But they were not only helpless against the trauma that had befallen me but also had to deal with my father’s cancer diagnosis at the same time. Dwight, being a veteran himself, knew how to deal with me way better than they did. I owe him for the things he did back then, but I also hate him for exploiting that intimate knowledge he has about me because of it. It’s hard to trust a man like him, and it’s probably smarter not to. More than once I felt that his interest wasn’t so much in supporting me but in getting rid of me. He was there for me back then, but he never said a word about me becoming my father’s successor. On the contrary, he was the only person to support me in the decision against doing so when I joined the Army. And he voiced concern when I said I wanted to step up to the challenge after I’d dealt with the damage left by the incidents in Ramadi. I thought it was actual concern that caused him to hold me back, but sometimes, I wonder.

  Sometimes, I wonder if he really has my best interests at heart.

  Right now, he’s trying to make me feel small, to make me feel like I have no idea what I’m doing. We’re discussing a new client, one that my father has been trying to acquire for years—long before I showed any interest in stepping up to take over his business. He built this empire from scratch, eventually dominating the market for electronic equipment and hardware. We sell to the biggest names out there, but the one we’re fighting for right now is not one of them, and I know that my father would like to change that.

  I also know that Dwight is right. My father might disagree with my decision and do things differently, but that is only because his obsession with this potential client has fogged his judgment of reality. We shouldn’t agree to the prices and conditions that it would take to get these guys on board. They are a big name in the industry, and it would be great to be able to list them under our clients but not under these conditions. The return on investment would be too low, making it a terrible business decision, to say the least.

  “I’m aware of my father’s wishes,” I tell Dwight and everyone else in the room. “But we can’t agree to this deal, not under these conditions. It would hurt us a lot more than we would benefit from it.”

  Dwight sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. I know he’s doing it on purpose, turning toward the room so everyone can see what he thinks of my refusal to go along with this. He’s undermining my leadership again, and I don’t understand why. Why did he help me get here if all he’s doing now is standing in my way?

  “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere with this today,” he says,
addressing first me and then the rest of our accounting team, his words muffled and harder for me to perceive now that he’s not facing me directly. “Let’s schedule another meeting for next week. Maybe the young Mr. Kingsley will see things a little differently by then.”

  The young Mr. Kingsley will not concede to these conditions under any circumstances, and the fact that Dwight thinks he could change my mind just like that shows how little he understands.

  I lock him into place with a stern gaze while the rest of my employees gather their paperwork and hurry to get the hell out of that room. I know that at least half of them agree with me—mostly the financial accountants and my controller—but unlike me, they don’t have the power to actually stop this from happening. They consistently talked to Dwight and my father, when he was still around, pointing out the same things I find fault with now.

  I wait until they are gone before I gesture for Dwight to sit down.

  “Let’s have a word.”

  He fixates me through narrow eyes, his eyebrows furrowing a tad before he reluctantly follows my demand.

  “Don’t talk to me like that in front of my employees.” I deliberately stand on the other side of the desk even though I asked him to sit down. “You have to stop treating me like an unruly child.”

  Dwight looks up at me, wrinkling his nose. “I’m just trying to protect your father’s wishes. It’s what he’d want me to do.”

  “Don’t talk about him as if he’s already dead,” I warn him, raising a finger as if he’s the misbehaved child now. “He still has a say in this, and I’m sure if he was aware of all the details, knowing what I—and you—know, he’d be on my side.”

  Dwight shrugs. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

  “Do you want to destroy this company?” I bark at him. “Is that what you want? Because you’re sure acting like you don’t care. You’ve seen the numbers, haven’t you? You’ve seen—”

  “This isn’t just about the numbers, Rowan,” Dwight interrupts me. “This is about a once-in-a-lifetime chance, a deal that we’ve been trying to nail since ... forever! The profit will come in the long run, once we have that client name on our list. Trust me.”

  Even Dwight doesn’t sound convinced at his words. The look he’s giving me now speaks of doubt and insecurity, hiding a truth he’s not willing to share with me. Something in that look unsettles me, convincing me even more that I shouldn’t allow him to persuade me.

  I shake my head. “There’s no way we’re doing this.”

  Dwight lets out a deep sigh.

  “Look, sleep on it again, will you? You’ve been stressed lately. Take some time, relax a little,” he says, raising a hand as if to calm me by that gesture alone. “Maybe pay a visit to The Velvet Rooms? I hear you already took advantage of my referral?”

  My eyebrows draw closer as I respond with a hesitant nod. “Who told you about that?”

  He looks as if he just got caught with his hands in the cookie jar, loudly clearing his throat to gloss over that momentary slip.

  “How was it?” he asks, ignoring my question. “Did it help?”

  I press my lips together, refusing to give a response to his audacious question. Had he asked me the same thing yesterday, it would have been even harder to contain myself.

  I was certain that I had lost Melina with my confession, that I scared her enough to turn her back on me forever. Her message last night was a pleasant surprise. She said she wanted to see me again but not at the club. I didn’t know what to make of that but tried to find out by inviting her to my home. If she was scared to be alone with me, she would have rejected the invitation.

  But she didn’t. She agreed to let me pick her up and bring her to my new townhouse. Tonight.

  The prospect of seeing her helps me overlook Dwight’s obnoxious behavior even though I know the problem won’t go away anytime soon.

  “I think we’re done here.”

  He nods, remembering his place just in time before I really lose my patience. He gathers his things and gets up from his seat while I watch him from the other end of the room with my arms crossed over my chest.

  He heads for the door, reaching for the doorknob, but just before he turns it to open the door, his eyes trail back over his shoulder, finding me.

  “Your father may not be dead yet,” he says in an ominous tone, “but you know it’s only a matter of time at this point, right? His last test results were—”

  “I’m aware,” I cut him off, dismissing him with an aggressive wave of my hand.

  Yes, I’m fucking aware that my father is dying.

  And I still need to prove myself before that happens.

  24

  Melina

  “So your place, huh?” I ask dumbly.

  He’s sitting in the back seat next to me, meeting my bewildered look with calm confidence as the driver chauffeurs us through town. When I texted him last night, his response came almost immediately, showing that he had indeed been waiting to hear from me. He wanted to meet at the club again, but I told him no. I needed somewhere else. I needed to see him outside that environment, especially after the way we parted last time.

  He didn’t fight me on this but asked where he could pick me up to drive somewhere else instead.

  That’s when the surprises started. I didn’t expect him to show up in a limousine, welcoming me with a glass of champagne and informing me that we were headed to his place.

  “We don’t have to if you’d prefer somewhere else,” he assures me again, looking so freaking handsome in his dark shirt and matching slacks. “I had my cook prepare something for us, but I understand if you feel a little—”

  “No, that ... that sounds great,” I utter, slightly dumbfounded. “You have a cook?”

  He chuckles, taking another sip of champagne, before he says, “I’m not much of a cook myself, to be honest.”

  Neither am I, but that doesn’t mean I hire someone else to do it for me. I wonder if he’s aware that the luxuries he’s used to are anything but common for normal people like me. However, based on what he told me about his family background, I don’t think he knows much about life outside of abundance and wealth. Lucky bastard.

  We don’t speak much during the drive, which creates an awkward atmosphere between us even though we know we need to talk about things. My abrupt disappearance must have left a mark on him and not a good one. I never apologized for it, but I don’t even know if he expects me to.

  I’m relieved when the car stops in front of a white brick townhouse with an elaborate exterior. I follow him out of the car, my eyes scanning the four-story building in front of us.

  “Shit,” I whisper, like a real lady. “This is where you live?”

  He doesn’t answer me but places his hand on the small of my back, beckoning me to walk up the flight of stairs in front of us.

  Holy shit. I knew he had to be rich, but I never expected this.

  The black entrance door stands in contrast to the white brick, which looks so pristine that it must have been renovated quite recently. I avert my eyes as Rowan punches in a pin before opening the door for us.

  We step into a generously proportioned room with a sitting area in front of a fireplace. The furniture is just as white as the walls surrounding it while the wooden floors are dark like the entrance door. Everything looks brand-new and unused, almost as if this is a model home.

  “You really live here?” I wonder out loud, feeling bad I asked a moment later as I realize how this question may come across. “All by yourself?”

  He chuckles coldly.

  “Yes, all by myself. But I haven’t lived here for very long,” he says, gesturing through the reception room. “And I’ll be honest, I’ve never spent a moment in this room.”

  From the looks of it, he doesn’t plan on spending any time in this beautiful room now, either. He beckons for me to follow him, and I try to keep from gawking as we pass through the open corridor, a staircase revealing itself to our left and
an open kitchen and dining area to our right. Lavish subway tile backsplash, marble countertops, and custom white cabinetry define the bright and airy space with large French doors leading to a patio in the back. My eyes linger on the elegant décor while I follow him to the left.

  “After you,” he says, gesturing for me to climb the stairs ahead of him.

  I shyly make my way up the considerate steps, feeling his eyes on my back as he follows behind me.

  “First room to the left,” he announces once I reach the second floor, speaking in such a hurry as if he doesn’t want to me stalk anywhere else.

  The second floor looks just like the first; the same dark wooden floors and white walls finished with elaborate stucco on the ceiling. The living room he directed me to does not have a door but just an archway, letting an abundance of light flow through the hallway from the south-facing floor-to-ceiling windows on the far end of the living room.

  This room is bigger than the reception room downstairs. There’s a fireplace as well, and a sitting area arranged around it. While the furniture and room décor look equally pristine and new up here, the room doesn’t look as unused as the one downstairs. There’s a stack of magazines on the coffee table next to a tablet, and the imprints on the cushions show that someone was sitting here not too long ago.