by Marie James
“Yeah.”
“He tracked Ms. Blair to the same hotel.” I keep my mouth closed. “What room were you in?”
I tell him, eyes focused on my clasped hands like a kid in trouble.
“Wren said she was booked into that same room.” Papers shuffle on his desk. “That’s a two-bedroom suite.”
I look up at him. “We stayed in the same room.”
His jaw ticks, and the humor in his voice when he told me over the phone that Remington wasn’t the client is gone.
“You know better.”
“You told me to kiss her!” The roar that leaves my mouth is uncontrollable. I’m not one to point fingers, but he didn’t have a problem with it then and he shouldn’t have one now.
“I never said that.”
“You hinted at it.”
That strong jaw flexes again.
“We were hired to watch her. How do two kisses land you inside of her?”
I’d argue about his presumption if it wasn’t so damn true. I scrape my hands over my face, trying to tamp down my growing frustration. Walking away from her was hard enough. Sitting here and taking shit from him is going to tip me over the edge. It takes several long, slow breaths before I’m calm enough to speak.
“You married and knocked up your client,” I remind him. “Plus, you practically gave me permission, taunted me for not following through the first time I put my lips on hers.”
Does he have any damn clue how hard it was to keep my distance after that? How watching her pleasure herself and making her come on my fingers nearly cost me my sanity with trying to stay away from her?
“Kissing the girl and fucking her are two very different things.” I clamp my mouth closed so hard, I just know I’m going to crack a tooth. “Getting caught coming out of her hotel and landing your face on the front page of a celebrity magazine isn’t what I thought would happen.”
“Me either,” I mutter, hating that Remington, who hates this kind of attention, is once again being trashed publicly.
“Did you even see this?” He snaps open the magazine and slides it across his desk.
My eyes land on a very public embrace on a dance floor. God, do we really look that amazing together? The first picture shows her smiling face angled up at mine, pure heat and desire in my eyes. The next is one of us with our mouths locked together, one hand tangled in her hair, the other squeezing her ass in a punishing grip.
“The paparazzi weren’t supposed to have access inside.”
“And that makes it okay?”
“Any number of her friends could’ve taken pictures just like this.”
“Phones were collected at the damn door. I know how to do my job.”
“It’s in every one.” He emphasizes his words by pulling a stack of rag magazines from his desk and scattering them on the top. “The damn phone has been ringing off the hook. We have hundreds of client requests we have to sort through.”
“So it’s good for business?”
He huffs. “Not even close considering #BlackbridgeSpecial is trending on fucking Twitter. We don’t know which cases are real because we’re drowning in requests from horny women. The nation thinks we’re fucking prostitutes and escorts.”
I shrug, not feeling the humor when I say, “If there’s a market for it.”
He growls, his fist slamming down on top of his desk.
“This isn’t a fucking joke, Flynn.”
Neither is walking away from someone as special as Remington, yet here the fuck I am.
“I never asked to be sent to New York. If memory serves, I was insistent about not going.”
He leans in close. “So you fucked her out of spite?”
I growl, a low rumble from deep in my chest as I glare at my boss. “It wasn’t like that.”
“So it was more?” He leans back in his office chair, eyes darting between mine like he’s reading an open book.
“Am I fired?”
“Of course not.”
With that answer, I stand and leave, his laugh following me out into the hallway.
As much as I want to hide until everything settles down, I have to know if she’s okay. That need is what carries me to Wren’s office. Several of the guys are hanging out in the breakroom, but I don’t even slow my stride before pushing open Wren’s door. Whitney screeches, tugging down her shirt as I step inside.
“Motherfucker! Do you people know this is a place of business not a goddamned honeymoon suite?”
“Did you see her tits?” Puffy Daddy squawks. “Perfect tits.”
“Puff,” Wren warns.
“Tight little nipples,” the bird continues.
“Tightest pus—” the bird squeals, words cut off when Wren tosses a peppermint in his direction.
“And that’s my cue to leave.” Whitney smacks a chaste kiss to Wren’s lips before sliding past me with red cheeks.
“Did you see her tits?” Wren hisses, his face masked with anger.
“I didn’t. A flash of skin, that’s all, but are you really in any position to say a fucking thing? It’s not like you haven’t been up my ass and in my personal business the last couple of weeks.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“You’re in here getting ready to fuck your girl on your desk,” I argue. “That’s not working.”
“I do my best when my nuts are empty.”
“Don’t we all,” I mutter.
“Where did Momma go? Daddy wants to play!”
Puff Daddy bobs his head, dancing back and forth to a song only he can hear.
“You need to quit doing shit in front of that dude. It’s creepy.”
“Exhibitionism is a healthy form of sexual expression. I think—”
“Stop.” I hold my hand up. “I need to know who is looking after her.”
“Security Plus,” he answers without having to look at his computer. “A guy named Reginald Quake. He’s a good guy, very professional. She’s in good hands.”
Not my hands, literally or metaphorically.
“You’ll let me know if that changes?”
“Yep.” He dismisses me by turning back around and facing his numerous computer screens. “Now I have work to do.”
“Stroke my cock like a good little girl,” is what Puff says as I step out of the room.
Wren only laughs before saying, “So true, Puff. So true.”
Chapter 26
Remington
Reginald is so quiet, it’s almost like he’s a ghost. I don’t forget he’s around. That would be like forgetting that Flynn used to be in the very position he’s now tasked with. I don’t think I’ll be able to forget Flynn Coleman. I can’t even sleep without seeing flashes of his stupid handsome face in my dreams.
What is it about me that makes people use me up and throw me away? It’s almost like I have those words written on my face, in plain sight instructions there for the world to see. Why else would everyone continue to treat me the same way?
Unable to be alone with myself any longer, I came down to the living room this morning and I’ve been posted up on the sofa ever since. The pile of magazines burns holes in my crossed legs, but I can’t seem to set them to the side.
I’m just another joke, another hashtag trending online. Some girls comment about how lucky I am, many others call me a whore. The Karens of the world are praying for my soul while blessing my mother for having raised such a child.
My mom and Charles left the day after I returned, making sure to let me know they won’t be around much over the next month. They’re both too ashamed of my actions to even look me in the eye. I couldn’t care less, and as the days drag by, I don’t think I care if I never see them again.
Other than a controlling interest, they haven’t been a part of my life for years. I mourned the loss of them a long time ago.
Shifting my weight, trying to get the ache in my back to subside, I accidentally knock one of the magazines to the floor. I can’t be bothered to pick it back up. It’s
not like I don’t have a dozen more staring up at me. I’ve studied every picture they took of me that night. The ones on the dance floor are my favorite, and if there weren’t the ones of him coming out of the hotel like he’d just smelled something rotten, I can almost let myself imagine that he wanted to be with me.
The primal look in his eyes with his mouth inches from mine has the power to make me hot. If it weren’t for the broken heart, it might even be possible.
His hands were on me, keeping me close in what I thought was a protective embrace. Turns out it was just another lie, another manipulation to keep me compliant. I fell for it. Every breath, every time he watched me, touched me, every time he pushed me away, he knew that it would make me hungry for more, and by the end I was practically on hands and knees begging him to give me just a little more, another taste of what he was offering.
I gave up drugs, cocaine and pills, just to turn around and form another addiction. One that has left me more messed up, more strung out than anything ever has before. He’s in my soul, not my bloodstream. There’s no way to detox from him, no way to move on knowing what he felt like, what he sounded like.
I hiss, pushing the stack of magazines to the floor in anger. I’m wallowing in pity, feeling bad for myself for ending up in a position I practically begged him to put me in.
Days ago I convinced myself that if I had an explanation, just a conversation long enough for him to tell me it meant nothing, then I could move on, but the texts are undeliverable, even after finding out that I had his number right. My feet were swept right out from under me that day, and I haven’t found my footing since.
For the millionth time, I type in his name on social media. Other than three stupid #BlackbridgeSpecial fan groups, nothing pops up. It’s like the man is a ghost. I don’t know what type of jobs they do other than security detail, but their names aren’t listed on their company website. Only Deacon Black’s smiling face is on there. I’m sure it’s because they may have to work undercover or something sometimes, but it’s really put a damper on my ability to stalk him.
I throw my phone across the room, barely flinching when the thing breaks into several pieces. I don’t talk to anyone. Flynn has blocked me out of his life. So it’s not like I need the damn thing.
Reginald huffs from the corner, but he’s looking out the window when I roll my head on my shoulders and look over at him. I haven’t taken off once. I haven’t even left except for a scheduled appointment this morning. I have no desire to put up a fight about being a prisoner here.
Hell, I’m on #BumpWatch for fuck’s sake. It’s only been days since he walked out of the hotel without looking back and I had a paparazzo ask me if I can feel the baby kick yet. Fools.
“What?” I snap, but Reginald doesn’t display the same agitation Flynn would let slip. His jaw doesn’t tighten, and I have yet to see him clench his fists when I speak, not that I open my mouth often these days.
“Tell me,” I hiss when he stands stoic in the corner without saying a word.
I feel the heat of his glare when he looks in my direction. “Are you happy with yourself?”
“What?”
“Do you like watching his life unravel? Get a thrill by seeing him try to ward off paparazzi every time he steps out of his office?”
“No.” But I won’t deny that I scour the internet for new pictures, just so I can see him, see how he looks since he found it so easy to fuck me and leave me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to silence the voice in my head that still thinks that night was special to him. The softness in his hands, the way he looked down at me as if he knew what I was giving him without me even having to open my mouth with the words. The way he made sure I came before he did so himself. All of it, even the way he brushed my hair from my face and kissed me like I was the air he needed to breathe before falling asleep in his arms. None of it was real. He’s a professional, and clearly, it’s not only Hollywood where great acting takes place.
“You don’t care that he’s been fired for the stunts you pulled? Black—”
“What?”
“—bridge is the elitist company in the nation, and you’ve put a black mark on it with what you’ve done.”
My mouth hangs open.
“He was fired?”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t act like you didn’t know, that it wasn’t your plan all along.”
“I didn’t.” I swallow, hot tears threatening to fall from my lashes. “It wasn’t.”
“You care about nothing but yourself.”
Reginald hasn’t said but a handful of words to me since arriving, and now it seems like the cork has popped and he can’t stop. He’s got a nice voice. Too bad he only seems capable of spitting hatred.
“I need your phone.” He glares at me when I walk across the room and hold my hand out. “Phone, now.”
Reluctantly, he places it in my hand. I turn it his direction briefly until his face unlocks the screen then search my last name, hitting send on my mother’s contact once it’s pulled up.
“Reginald, dear. Please tell me you aren’t calling with troubling news.”
I let silence fill the line. When I call, their phones always go to voicemail, and they rarely call me back. I was hospitalized for three days after my overdose before they got around to finding out where I was.
“Mother,” I hiss. “Why did you fire Blackbridge?”
She makes an awkward noise, clearly taken by surprise that I’m not Reginald. “Remington?”
“Who else calls you Mother?”
She scoffs an ungodly sound. “We weren’t paying that company any longer. It’s bad enough the scandal is all over the American news. Can you imagine how I felt when I saw you traipsing out of a hotel on a magazine in Prague yesterday? Such a disgrace. We weren’t paying them to sleep with you. The expectation was to keep you out of trouble.”
“I couldn’t get in much trouble on my back, Mother. You need to make your expectations a little more clear.”
“That nasty mouth is going to get you into a load of trouble, young lady.”
“I’ll call you when the baby is born,” I snap and hang up.
Reginald’s eyes are wide saucers on his face, and it forces a laugh to bubble up my throat.
“Learn a little anatomy.” I slap the phone against his chest. “It’s been days, not weeks.”
“What are you planning to do?” he hisses as I bolt for the stairs.
“It’s no fun if I tell you!” I say, my feet carrying me two steps at a time.
I’m pissed, livid, angry beyond description. I want to throttle Flynn, slap him in the face, kick him in the gut, twist his balls until he begs for mercy. I also want to brush my finger down his face, taste his mouth, and get on my knees for him.
I’m a complicated person. All I know is I have a list a mile long of things to say to him, and I’m done wallowing, done questioning what’s wrong with me.
No matter the outcome, I want to hear from his own damn mouth what happened.
Chapter 27
Flynn
“Nope. Not a fucking chance!” Brooks lifts his arms over his head.
“Just until Simon’s tail heals,” Wren begs. “Two days, a week tops.”
“No way. Have him boarded.”
“The vet won’t take him. He gets all the other animals riled up.”
“Because he’s got a filthy mouth. Finnegan is a sailor and he doesn’t cuss that much,” Brooks continues, refusing to take the handle of the cage.
“My dad is a fisherman, not a fucking sailor,” Finn chimes in.
“Hey, man,” Wren says, switching gears and turning to Deacon.
The boss man doesn’t even look up from his tablet. “You know better.”
I narrow my eyes when he glances at me. With the mood I’ve been in, he doesn’t make it another step before turning toward Gaige.
“I’m allergic,” our acquisitions expert reminds him.
He’s not, but Wren h
as believed the lie for over a year.
“What exactly happened?” Deacon asks, knowing we’re all curious, but not wanting to open ourselves up for babysitting the foul-mouthed bird.
“The other day Whitney and I were… talking… and all of a sudden there was this crash—”
“Miss! Please!” Our heads snap toward reception to find Pam scurrying after…
“Remi?” I stand from the table, growling when Ignacio intercepts me, grabbing her hand and pressing his Latin lover lips to the top.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says pulling it away and patting his cheek like a granny would their grandchild. “We’ll chat later. I have things to say.”
Like a grand moment, Ignacio sweeps his arm out, body bent low in my direction.
She hasn’t even opened her mouth to speak with me, and Finnegan and Brooks are chuckling.
God, she’s beautiful. Has her skin always been so smooth and flawless? My eyes dart to her belly. Is she here—no, no, it’s too soon to know, right?
“Don’t even,” she snaps, the tip of her pointer finger digging into my chest.
I wonder what her reaction would be if I lifted her from the ground and made her wrap her strong legs around my waist. If Wren and Deacon can dry hump their women in the office—
She’s not mine, I remind myself, looking over her shoulder thinking I’ll see Reginald from Security Plus huffing in after her.
She’s angry—pissed would probably be a better word—but the sight of her angry eyes makes my cock throb in my slacks.
“Who raised you?” She doesn’t give me a chance to open my mouth. “Whoever it was should be ashamed.”
Did she just insult my amazing parents?
“Good men don’t sleep with someone and bolt without so much as a whisper goodbye.”
The guys begin to chatter behind me.
“Taking off from mediocre sex is tacky, Flynn Coleman. Were you ashamed of your performance?”
Ignacio snorts a laugh, drawing her attention for the briefest of seconds. Her cheeks heat, turning bright red in seconds, but I can see the determination in her eyes. She may regret it, but she isn’t going to back down. I hurt her, and she’s here to get a pound of flesh and take a little power back for herself.