by Piper Rayne
I tiptoe down the stairs, my hand sliding down the railing, my other hand raised with the flashlight in my grip. Adrenaline gives me the strength I didn’t have minutes ago to get out of bed.
The loud noises increase, coming from the kitchen, so I don’t have to worry about my approach. I round the end of my stairs, walk past my bookshelves and, grabbing every ounce of my Wonder Woman strength, I run forward and hit the man over the head.
He spins immediately. “Whoa!” His hands move up to block me, but I continue hammering away at him. Over and over again until he loses his footing on the floor and falls to his ass, his hands criss-crossed in front of his face. “What the fuck?” he screams.
Dropping the flashlight, I dart over to the counter and yank open a drawer, plucking a butcher knife out, holding it out toward him.
His arms slowly lower and the knife trembles in my hands, thudding to the floor. In my haze of recognition, he slides his leg out and kicks the knife away.
“Jagger?” My voice is like a scared mouse in front of a cat.
Confusion is etched in every line of his still-handsome face. “Belle?”
Rage over the nickname he used to call me because of my love for reading lights a fire in my belly. “Don’t call me that!” I imagine patting myself on the back. In my head, I’m bouncing from toe to toe like a boxer preparing to pummel her opponent. But my exhilaration slows as I really see him now.
Fourteen years later and he still has the ability to steal my breath away. He rounds to all fours and his large frame rolls up until he towers over me. At one point, I loved that about him. The way my head fit perfectly under his chin. The way his long arms encompassed my entire body, warming me like a blanket. The way his lips would brush along the top of my head, silently telling me no one would hurt me as long as I was in his arms.
His movements pause, and his gaze fixates on me. Too quickly, that look of surprise vanishes. “Let’s not continue with the dramatics, okay?” He raises his hands in front of him in a placating gesture. Condescending and arrogant—a side to him that once turned me on.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
His gaze inspects my body like he’s trying to figure out what I look like under my pajama pants, t-shirt and sweater.
Fuck. I grab my stringy brown hair and pull it to the side, hoping to God I don’t look like I feel, which is beaten and left for dead on the side of the road.
The right side of his lips tip up like he’s enjoying what he’s thinking in that mind of his.
I crisscross the sides of my cardigan to cover myself. He can masturbate his dick off before he’ll ever get a look at me again.
Without a word he walks over to the counter, picks up a card and hands it to me.
Clean Queen.
“You hired this service?” He cocks an eyebrow.
In the haze of my illness, I never cancelled.
“I did.” I look him up and down. He’s wearing a white button-down tucked into tailored suit pants, rolled at the bottom. The watch adorning his wrist probably cost more than my car. No wedding band—no surprise there, and not that I care. A suit jacket is draped over my kitchen chair with a pair of wingtips and black socks tucked inside. “You’re the Clean Queen?”
Did Bernie Madoff bankrupt the Kale family or is this all a hallucination brought on by my fever?
He laughs, a look of ‘get a life’ splashed across his face. The same look from that night. The night that tore me to shreds.
Anger snaps like a twig inside of me.
“No. You remember Marisol, my nanny?”
I nod. Isa flickers to mind. I meant to reach out when I landed in L.A. a few months ago, but deadlines and the fact that I had a feeling she might still be in touch with the man in front of me stopped me.
“She owns it. You didn’t know?” Again, his gaze traces a path down my body.
I grip my cardigan tighter, sidling up behind the counter to hide myself from him. Of course, when I finally come face to face with the asshole from my past I have to be one dose of Nyquil away from poisoning myself, haven’t showered in two days, and probably have dried snot under my nose. Just fucking great.
“No. I didn’t.” I place the card on the counter. “I wouldn’t have called if I had.”
“She’s sick, so she asked me to take over today. She was afraid you’d fire her if no one showed.” He leans his body weight on the counter behind him, his arms crossed. My fingers itch to reach out, to find out if his once-teenage flat stomach is rippled with abs now, but I shove them in my Kleenex-filled pockets.
“Nice. Well, you can go.” I stand up straighter, squaring my shoulders. I might look like I’ve been run over by a truck, but this time our reunion is going to end on my terms.
“You’re sick?” he asks, not adjusting his casual stance.
“What clued you in? My Rudolph nose, or did you think I’ve been a mess like this for fourteen years, pining away for you?”
He smirks, the devil-made-me-do-it one that used to get me to straddle him on those lawn chairs out on his family’s patio. “Sounds like someone’s still hung up on the past.”
Stay calm, Quinn. This is Jagger testing limits. Don’t give him the satisfaction of engaging.
“Please go,” I say like the dignified woman I am not.
“You look pale.”
The chills creep up my body and I tug the sweater tighter, wishing it was a wool blanket. Then, without warning, my stomach rumbles and extra saliva pools inside my mouth.
“Go, Jagger.” I point to the back door, swallowing down the bile that’s burning my throat.
“Nah.” He pushes off the counter, walking toward me.
Unable to hold back the spasms wracking my stomach, I place my hand out and run to the sink, throwing up water and the few crackers I ate late last night. The convulsions continue, my back rising and falling. I grab the faucet, turning it on and hoping like hell when I pick my head up from this sink, he’s gone.
“Man, I just cleaned that,” he says from next to me. I pick up my head, pushing on the counter to hold myself up. “Let’s go.” He nods toward the doorway.
“Jagger, please just go.” There’s barely any fight left in my voice.
After fourteen years—fourteen years of imagining what I’d look like when I saw him again—this was not what I had envisioned. In my imagination I’d been in a red dress, make-up done, the ten pounds I’ve gained through the years gone, and a gorgeous man on my arm. One more gorgeous than him, even if I had to buy him for the night, because truth is, Jagger Kale could be a GQ model, a Playmate, a Chippendale dancer, a Calvin Klein model.
That wasn’t what I loved about him, though. It wasn’t his chiseled jaw, or his cocoa eyes that felt like they could see into me. And it wasn’t how his hair was light brown, but sometimes, depending on the way the sun hit it, it looked more like dark blond because of his natural highlights. Not his olive skin tone or six-foot-three stature covered with lean muscle. Under the facade of a rich boy who gets what he wants, there’s a lost boy I found once upon a time. Too bad he disappeared from me just as fast.
He scoops me up, carrying me over his shoulder.
I slap his back. “Put me down.”
“I’d like to put you in the shower, but it’s bedtime. Sad to say I won’t be joining you.”
“You’re not invited!” I scream, my fists balling.
He carries me up the stairs, not rushed in any way, as if he has all the time in the world. I turn my head, smelling myself. Yep, epic fail on the next time I see him.
“Since you’re sick, I’ll let you believe that—for now.” His hand runs over my ass.
“Stop that.” I wiggle in his arms, hating myself for loving the feel of his hands on me.
“Still a great ass.” He smacks it lightly.
“Thanks for the molestation.”
He lowers me to the bed, lifting the covers.
“You can go now, creep.”
“I
’ll be downstairs.” He points to me, ignoring my comments. “You sleep.”
“You’re not staying.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re not.” I go to move, but the nauseated feeling begins again and I still.
He tosses something on the bed. “Remind me to get you some Mace or some shit. Beating an intruder with a dildo isn’t the most effective way to protect yourself.” Then he walks out of the room.
I glance down to the comforter and see my Unicorn Cock vibrator. My insides scream like I’m in a dark tunnel, Nooo! As if this situation wasn’t bad enough.
He peeks his head back into the bedroom. “Don’t blush. Once you’re better, I’ll be happy to take its place.” He winks and then his footsteps sound on the stairs.
My back falls to the bed and I glance around. I am still in L.A., right? I’m not in the land of Oz or on some reality television show?
Then I hear his voice again from downstairs and I know that this is really and truly happening. “Vic, I’m out for the day. Only anything important.” A short pause. “Don’t worry about where I am.” Another pause. “I have to go clean a sink now.” Another pause. “No, Vic, I have not been kidnapped. Bye.”
The water starts running and the sound causes my eyes to lose the fight and close as I drift off to sleep.
3
Jagger
Sometimes I amaze even myself.
The fact that the girl—well, she’s all woman now. The fact that Quinn, whose heart I purposely broke all those years ago, is lying upstairs is un-fucking-believable. After all the time that has passed, all the regrets that I’ve had over the years, all the times she’s come to mind and I resisted the urge to look her up… she’s here, in L.A.
She’s not waiting for me half naked though—she’s half dead. Touching her ass was a jackass move, but it was instinctive. Even after all these years, she’s still like a magnet, drawing me to her.
I run my fingers through my hair, my ass on her couch, booting up my laptop while sipping on a beer from the fridge. Twenty new emails populate my inbox, along with the fifteen voice messages on my phone. At least there are no huge fires to put out this morning. No cheaters banging hookers, no drunken brawls, no paparazzi knock-outs that need to be hidden. The kind of morning I would’ve preferred to spend riding waves and eating tacos, not cleaning up vomit and washing floors.
A soft knock sounds on the front door and I jump up, my gaze veering toward the stairway. I open the door of the matchbox-sized house to find a brown paper bag shoved into my chest.
“This is not my job.”
I grab the bag and my assistant Victoria walks in past me, her heels echoing on the hardwood floors.
“Take off the heels,” I demand, and she whips around, narrowing her brown eyes at me.
“I’m not into kinky shit.” As usual her curt words are all bark, no bite, because she slips off her heels, placing them by the door.
I bypass her and head to the kitchen with the bag. She inspects the small family room for a minute then follows me.
“I’ve been looking for a place like this. It’s quaint. Neighborhood seems great. The old restored fireplace, the bookshelves. It’s like a cozy cottage in the middle of L.A.” She pushes herself up to sit on the counter, her navy-blue pantsuit hiding her curves and legs.
“It’s obviously taken.” I pull the orange juice out of the bag, followed by the soup and the cold medicine. “Thanks for this.”
“Where is Sleeping Beauty?” she asks, looking around.
“She’s upstairs, so lower your voice.”
Victoria rolls her eyes and then locks in on me again, her gaze not wavering.
“What?” I ask.
“Why are you here?” She lowers her voice, leaning in like I hold the secret government files on alien abductions.
I glance quickly at her and then transfer my attention to putting the orange juice in the fridge, where yogurt and takeout containers look like they’ve been spawning and reproducing. They’re the only things that fill the fridge. Pulling out a container, I open it up, smell it and then dump it in the trashcan under the kitchen sink.
“No wonder she’s sick.” Sparing my nostrils and my stomach, I chuck the rest of the takeout containers.
“What are you doing? That’s not yours to throw away.” Victoria hops off the counter, picking up containers and putting them back in the fridge.
“They’re probably growing mold.”
She grabs the carton from my hand, opens it, smells it. “It’s fine.” And she shoves it back on the shelf.
“I’m taking it all out.”
She blows out a long breath and walks back to the counter, springing up like a damn cat. Fitting since her personality is like a cat—moody and unpredictable. “Whoever she is, she’s going to be mad.” Her voice is singsong now, suggesting she warned me of my future.
“I’ll buy her fresh food,” I say, filling the garbage up with the containers once again.
“That’s always your solution. Why don’t you just write a check? Or better yet, go to the bank and come back here and spread hundred-dollar bills across the counter.”
I peer at her over my shoulder. “I just cleaned her whole house—the downstairs at least. Give me some credit.”
A wicked laugh rises out of her and she claps her hands slowly. “Did you do that for Marisol or mystery girl?”
“Hey.” I shut the fridge. “Thanks for the groceries, the door is that way.”
She laughs, as always forgetting that I’m the authority figure here. When I don’t lower my outstretched arm that’s pointing to the door, she holds her hands up in the air.
“Sorry.” Her small shoulders rise. “I’ll leave, but tell me one thing.”
“What?” I say, pulling up the garbage bag from the container.
“Where did you learn all this domestic stuff?” She swipes her finger along the counter like she’s giving it the white glove test. “I’d hire you.”
I smile and wink.
She rolls her eyes.
“On the days that I’d be frustrated with school, sports or my father, Marisol would hand me a bucket and tell me to do the bathrooms. It was a stress reliever for me.”
She laughs, and I shoot her a look of warning. I don’t want her waking up Quinn.
She sucks in her lips, silencing her amusement. “I give it to Marisol, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
I round her to throw away the trash bag, opening the back door. “I always go above and beyond.”
Her smile falters. “You do at work. No argument there. But I’m sure if I called you because I was sick, you wouldn’t clean my house and get me groceries.”
I leave her for a second and throw out the trash bag, then return and close the door quietly behind me. “How could I get you groceries? You’d be sick, so you wouldn’t be able to deliver them.” She balks and I shove her in the shoulder playfully as I pass. “I’m kidding. The girl was barely coherent and threw up in the sink. As much of an asshole as I can be at times, I do have a heart.”
“Of course. You’re standing, aren’t you? Everyone has one, I just assumed yours was blackened and the same size as a shrew’s.” She leans back on her palms, her eyebrows raised in question.
“I’m going to assume that a shrew’s heart isn’t big?” I spray the cleaning solution, wiping down the outside of the fridge.
“I knew everyone was wrong when they said you weren’t all that bright.”
I glance over my shoulder, finding a wide smile on her face. She razzes me on a consistent basis and it might be the reason I’ve kept her as my assistant this long. Not that I’d tell her that. “They must’ve missed the Stanford business degree on my wall.”
“That’s what you get for being the boss’s son. Don’t you know? No one likes the boss’s son.”
“Speaking of, aren’t you worried about your job?” She should be back at the office by now.
“No, instead of managing m
y boss’s office, he’s requested to me to grocery-shop for some mysterious woman he says is upstairs sick.”
I throw the paper towel in the trashcan, grab the bucket, and place it at her feet. “He could ask you to clean the bathrooms.”
She sits up straight, holding her hands up in the air. “I’m out.”
“Even if it could cost you your job?”
She jumps down from the counter, shaking her head. “If you fired me you’d only be proving those doubters right about the not-so-bright comments.”
“You think I need you that bad?”
She swivels around, backing out of the door. “Should I list all the reasons you need me?” Her feet halt and her pointer finger shoots up.
“No. Go back to the office and make sure no one misses me.”
“I’ll be sure to use my sugar-sweet voice to soothe all those entitled actors’ and actresses’ tempers.” She smiles and turns back around, her footsteps halting, her body freezing.
“How come I’m always finding you with another woman?” Quinn stands in the doorway, looking the same as she did earlier, except maybe this time she’s run a brush through her hair.
The hatred in her eyes though. That’s familiar. It’s the same look she gave me over a decade ago when I broke her heart.
4
Quinn
“And that would be my cue to leave.” The petite brunette glances over to Jagger and he steps back until his back hits the counter.
“Nice of you to bring your girlfriend over to clean for you,” I say and the brunette smiles, her gaze again veering toward Jagger.
“Girlfriend? In his dreams.” She holds her hand up for a high five. “He treats me more like I’m Cinderella and he’s my evil stepsister most of the time.”
I stare at her hand. She seems nice enough, but why is this woman in my house?
“Thanks for keeping the germs to yourself. I’ll fist-bump though.” Her small hand closes. Jagger always liked the small ones.