But before I can make any progress against him and the wall that he is and get myself down off the counter top, I feel the back of my skull connecting with the vanity mirror behind me, and a swift second later I feel his palm setting fire to the outside of my right hip when it connects.
Did he just fucking slap me?
His right hand slides up between the valley of my breasts, and his fingertips grip then dig into my cheeks at my chin. His firm, rough manner with me causes my eyes to fly open and I glare, boring them into his brown ones.
And what I see, almost…it almost makes me hesitate.
His eyes are the most honest eyes…but I refuse to look too closely at that thought right now. I grit my teeth and flex my jaw against his clenching fingers before squaring my shoulders and keeping my eyes glued to his, and I speak in the most intimidating voice I possess, “Get. Your. Fucking. Hands—“
SMACK.
His left palm cracking against the tender flesh of my already slapped side-ass cuts off my words, and my mouth— despite his grip on my chin— falls open.
“Let me make myself fucking clear, Mrs. Dean. When I informed you of my past and the cell I spent it in, I must’ve somehow been preempting the fact to you that I…don’t give a single fuck. I have nothing.” His mouth is a breath away from mine and when the word ‘nothing’ leaves his warm lips, they sweep against my swollen ones. “Fucking nothing, left to lose in this life. And I for goddamn sure won’t be going back to prison, so when I finish getting the retribution I’ve been due, and I go down in a fucking blaze of glory, who I take with me matters none. Now…” He’s there. Hell, he’s everywhere. Then, all of a sudden he’s not. He’s gone.
I sway forward and have to catch myself from falling, but a split second later, he’s back and wrapping a large, soft bathrobe around me and tying the sash. “Whoa, easy does it.” As he helps me down off the counter, his eyes smile along with the smirk across his beautiful face, and I can’t help my heart from fluttering. I can’t.
“I was left in the front sitting room when your husband’s mistress called and he needed to step out, so if I’m in here when he comes back…it isn’t going to look good. No Bueno. Now, I need you to get dressed—or whatever. And when you step out, act as though we’ve never met. The only reason I came in here to introduce myself is because I hate your fucking husband—and I hope now that you’ve been armed with the knowledge of his indiscretions, that I could call you friend and offer my sincerest regrets. Mrs. Dean, my current circumstances put me at a bit of a disadvantage where trust is concerned. And when you need something…you build it. Can I count on you?”
His eyes never waver. They never flicker to the side or even blink. They stay glued to mine, and for the first time in my entire life I don’t have to think before I answer, I just speak.
“Yes.”
I understand that I don’t know this man from Adam. I understand that in the span of five minutes he’s gone from intruder, to messenger I wanted to kill, to something I’m not even going to attempt to label. I understand—all of that.
But I also know when I’m being lied to. I know that very well, and this man hasn’t muttered a single lie from the moment he started speaking. So trust? Yes, I trust him. And yes, he can count on me.
I’m ten minutes into the oddest first encounter with a prisoner turned business associate, over-fucking-night, when Summer sends me the first text message out of nowhere.
I hadn’t heard a peep. Not a sideways glance, nothing—from her in over a month. So to say I was a little taken aback at her coy and flirtatious texting, is an understatement.
I barely, and I mean barely make it half way through the first drink and my phone blowing up causes me to start coming up with reasons to call it a night with ol’...Red? No, Rhett.
Sorry.
The first few texts from Summer were so confusing. First she seemed pissed because I’d just stopped all communication with her out of the clear blue. Then she flirted with me, and her texts made it sound like her feelings were maybe a little hurt over it. But her last text…well, it was a pic of her hand, three fingers deep into her cunt, with one sentence, reading: I want you to fuck my cunt within an hour of you landing.
Not a problem.
I thought.
And if one presents itself, I’ll handle it. Within that hour.
Now, I just got to find a way out of the current conversation I’m stuck in with a complete waste of my time and efforts.
This is Trav’s boy, let him tuck him in. I just decided—I’m done, and the text consisting of Summer’s wet cunt was probably the catalyst.
I stand abruptly from the bar stool before emptying out the contents of my left pocket and thumbing a twenty out of my gold money clip and tossing it onto the bar. “Well, sorry, man. I said one drink, I know. But we have an early morning. I trust you can see yourself to your room?” I give in to the urge to patronize and let the claws out a little bit. “I hope you’re a big enough boy to, anyway.” I hold my phone up. “Duty calls.” But his words stop me from leaving.
“That’s a whore duty, if I ever,” he quips. “Wives don’t conjure up that brand of urgency, not any that I know, anyway and not after…how many years did Trav say you and Sexy Lexy have been married again?” The cocky bastard chuckles before standing and attempting to walk around me. As if he’s dismissing me.
I’m forced to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from scoffing. “Red? Was that your fucking name? Whatever, man, it doesn’t matter—“ And before I can finish he butts in, speaking louder than I am, and he doesn’t stop.
“No, it’s Rhett. And I apologize, I made a mistake and didn’t follow the cardinal rule of business by not assuming. It seems I afforded you more intelligence than you actually have in our initial introductions. Keep the facts straight, sir. I have nothing to lose,” he quirks his head to the side before smirking and narrows his eyes tighter on mine, “and everything to gain.” His hand pats my shoulder before squeezing, when he continues, “You and I both know about gains, and how Trav can supply them, man. I just wanted you to know, I don’t like being dicked around, and I don’t have patience for motherfucker’s trying to patronize me—If you have something to say, say it. If not, then get the fuck outta my face. It’s how I roll. The only thing I ask is for you to respect that. You feeling me?” His smile is kind but his eyes are speaking different volumes.
“Absolutely,”
I say without hesitating.
I don’t know this guy’s angle, and other than the snippets of info I’ve gotten from Travis about Rhett Bennett, or what he himself has revealed, I know nothing about this man. Nothing.
So I retract the claws. But I still continue speaking.
“And apology accepted. Although, I need to correct you, you assumed earlier quite right. You just haven’t had time to figure out who it is you’re dealing with…yet. And I understand that. I’ll afford you that.” I return his earlier smirk. “Also, if you would, please be at my suite tomorrow morning at seven a.m. sharp. I’ll have Drake text you my room number, I’d like a chance to at least introduce you to my wife before dragging her onto a plane with you. Hopefully a pre-flight meeting will desensitize her enough so she doesn’t look too shell-shocked at the airport, flying with two men,” I look the man in front of me up and down, “one of whom looks entirely up to no good.”
And how does the bastard respond?
He chuckles, then responds, “No. No Bueno, indeed brother. And sure, seven a.m. sounds great. I look forward to meeting your beautiful wife.”
The last part of what he says is covered up by a band in the bar breaking out into the chorus of a cover for Fleetwood Mac’s Go your own way. And it prevents him from hearing any response I may have on the tip of my tongue. So, this time I let him leave without hearing it.
Who the hell does this guy think he is?
I think as I watch my new business associate leaving the bar.
And why the hell does he ke
ep bringing up Lexy? What the fuck did Travis tell him about her? She’s fucking nothing, she doesn’t even matter.
The questions circling my head are firing off quicker than any answers are and it causes my irritation to gain momentum.
So then why is Lexy even being brought up? Time and time again, and if not by Travis, then now by this douche bag, Rhett Bennett.
Lexy better mind her P’s and Q’s, because I will be watching her. I know an attractive guy when I see one, and I know my wife’s fucking type. And if this guy isn’t through and through whatever she calls her ‘book boyfriends’ when she’s yapping on the phone to Mary, then I haven’t done my job monitoring my wife.
And yes, I record those conversations. I record every square inch of my property, both audio and video.
It’s a necessary evil, that believe me, Lexy is better off not knowing about.
After the exhausting conversation I have with Summer, I quickly snort three lines of New Orlean’s finest white girl, courtesy of my bellhop, Steve, and head back into the formal sitting room of the suite.
As soon as I step foot into the room, my eyes seek out Mr. Bennett, and as soon as I spot him I feel at ease.
He hasn’t moved. Good. I had a moment of concern when I was dealing with Summer on the phone when I remembered I’d left a perfect stranger in my suite with all of my belongings. Unattended.
So when I see him exactly where I left him, I feel myself relax.
“Bennett, I need to wake my wife. She kept me up a little late last night.” I wink, and yes, it is probably a bit immature. “Anyway, would you like some coffee before I go? It shouldn’t take long, though. I plan on leaving here in thirty.”
His smirk slithers across my nerves. “Nah, I’m alright, man.” He nods towards the master suite’s double doors, “She that gorgeous? It only takes thirty? Or is that the time you allow her?”
What did he just say?
“I beg your pardon?” I demand, feeling the coke hit it’s high in my veins.
Say something sideways. Say it. Give me one reason to kibosh this whole thing right now.
I don’t like this guy. Hell, I haven’t liked this guy from go. And I don’t foresee that changing, especially with the damn Lexy comments.
But instead of elaborating, he just laughs it off. “Nah, it’s nothing.” He keeps chuckling, then finally he finishes. “I don’t know a damn thing about wives, man. But from what my old celly, Cecile told me—about his wife, them damn women need a time limit when putting on their faces.” He shrugs, still chuckling, “I’m just saying, thirty seems plenty of time.”
The entire exchange is past bizarre. And I can’t even remember if I really did see that dead serious look in his eye when he first asked the odd question.
But he was smirking.
Everything about this guy is off. I just can’t put my finger on it.
“Don’t make yourself at home.” I bark, “There’s no need, this won’t take long.”
I stare at him sitting there for several seconds, before stalking towards the master suite.
As soon as the doors are closed behind me, I call out to Lexy. “You’ve five minutes, so don’t plan on a shower. I’m ready to get home and get the hell away from this new associate—“
When she comes out of the bathroom completely dressed with her purse on her shoulder, my words falter for a second. “Ready?” I don’t wait for her response. “Very well.”
Once I have both hands full with luggage, we leave the suite and enter the main sitting room at the same time as the bellhop, pulling carts into our hotel room. And after luggage has started being stowed onto them, I make the introductions between Rhett and Lexy as briefly as possible and thankfully it’s concluded without any instance.
Just a bland nod by him and hardly a glance by my wife.
And during the ride to the airport, waiting in the lines at security, even on the flight itself, neither of them even acknowledged the other, much less speak. And had my wife not been completely embarrassed the night before, to the point of still carrying some of that humiliation from last night into today, then I’d think their entire encounter was also odd or off somehow.
However, I know better.
I was there last night when I delivered the first ego blow.
The first of many, if her attitude doesn’t stop.
As soon as our plane lands and we’re moving from the tarmac, the calls begin flooding in. Both mine and Lexy’s phone start ringing, notifying us of missed calls and texts. Most of Lexy’s are from Mary, aside from one or two from her mother, and mine are from the contractor who built our house, as well as Travis.
It takes almost five minutes to get the information needed to conclude that when our house was being built, before they poured the foundation, one of the steel rods they drive into the soil that reinforces the structure of the house, accidentally pierced a piece of the plumbing and over the last six months, the minor issue has become a sentinel event that has led to the entire right side of the house from the second floor down, being flooded and sitting in sewage for the last eighteen hours.
Meaning?
Lexy’s side of the house is destroyed.
Mine? Perfectly intact.
Mary’s husband, Charles was able to react quickly enough and get the left side of the house sealed off. Mr. Smith, the contractor said other than a faint scent in the first and second floor sitting area, the mess on the other side of the house was undetectable in my wings.
So, as far as I’m concerned this whole incident is nothing more than a speed bump. A minor inconvenience. And nothing more.
Once Drake has helped Mr. Bennett retrieve his bag from the trunk and he’s well tucked into his hotel, Lexy and I speak for the first time since last night, besides the initial introductions between her and Bennett, of course.
And honestly, no, what I say is not riddled with politeness and pleasantries. Between the hell storm that my career is at this moment, the shit I have going on with Summer and her indecisiveness, and this new associate I’m supposed to be mentoring, I’ve no patience for my wife or her semantics.
“I’ll pack a bag and stay at the penthouse until this mess is cleaned up. Just give me a few hours to clear out some work files and such. I’ll make room for whatever things of yours that were salvageable. If any. And of course we’ll replace what wasn’t. Mr. Smith should be getting back with me within the hour to let me know the length of time this should take. Surely no more than a few days. I have some extra business I need to attend to, so we’ll just drop you off at home. And no, I don’t have a time to give you to expect me back, but still, I want you to stay out of my main room until I’ve cleared it out. There are too many documents with client information and details, that you have no business being privy to.”
When I’m forced to wait for longer than ten seconds for a response, my patience with Lexy finally, truly, and completely snaps.
An eighth of a second later, the back of my hand connects with the side of her fucking face. Not once, but twice before my palm then connects with the opposite side.
“When I speak, you fucking respond, you little cunt. Do you fucking understand me?” My words fly out, unrestrained.
“Now. What is the response I deserve, darling?” My fingers clench harder around her jaw, and I curl my fingers tighter until the blunt tips of my nails score her into skin. “Baby girl,” I taunt. “Don’t make me wait—“
“Yes—Liam. Jesus, okay? Yes, Liam.” She must not think I can see her cutting her eyes at me through her bangs, so I wrench her head back up to me and pull her across the back seat by her waist until her body is flush with mine. With my hand still clamped down around her chin and her bangs now out of her eyes, I slowly explain myself.
“Don’t cut your eyes at me. Don’t fucking blabber, don’t fucking stammer. Speak clearly and concisely or don’t fucking speak at all. But most importantly, NEVER. EVER contradict me. Is this understood, Lexy? Or shall you take an extended
vacation, making up for all that time you keep complaining about missing with your mother, only let’s have that vacation take place back on the West coast, at Gigi’s in Seattle. That’ll help snap you out of this…this fucking rut you’re in. I’ll tell you this, baby girl, I’m over it.”
And if I had an ounce of humanity left in me, I still don’t think I would’ve lessened the accurately aimed blow to my wife’s disheveled ego.
I allow the faint smirk to slightly cross my face before looking back and forth between her green eyes and winking. Then with the last reserves of my affections for her dying away, I blandly stare and speak, “Truth be told, I’ve been over you. And this sham of a family we can’t even make because you can’t hold a fucking pregnancy.”
And as if it’s choreographed, the limo pulls around the circle drive, parks in front of the house, and Drake opens Lexy’s car door as my words are finished being spoken.
She’s subconsciously shoved a good foot between us as I spat my words at her, and she’s hugging the door when it opens. And even as she almost falls out, her flapping jaw and the ignorant look across her face never cease.
“Mrs. Dean?” Drake holds his hand out for her, but she keeps her eyes pinned to mine, completely oblivious of his kindness to her.
I shake my head, hardly attempting to hide the disappointment from my face and then move my eyes to where Drake stands still holding open the door, hand still out, and I nod towards him.
“The driver is kindly holding not only the door open for you, but his hand out for you, too. Do you think you could return his common courtesy and accept, or are you past such minute commonalities?”
She just blinks. Opening and closing her mouth, like a drowning fish. “Lexy!” I shout. “Snap the fuck out of it. Get the hell in the house. Unpack our bags, and stay out of my main rooms. I’ll be back either late tonight, or tomorrow morning. But right now, I need you to get out of the car so I can go take care of business.”
Mind F*ck Page 10