When I pull back, she cups my cheeks, rubbing her thumbs over the stubble along my jaw, her eyes serious and focused on mine. “I love you so much, Marcus.”
“I love you, too.”
She brings my mouth to hers once more, mumbling, “I love you,” against my lips, kissing me and sealing the words between us.
Chapter Thirty
Kendra
Marcus kisses me awake the next morning, fully dressed and leaning over the bed.
I stretch, taking in his jeans and T-shirt, a jacket in his hand. “What time is it?”
“Just after seven.”
I groan. “No wonder I’m still so tired.”
His grin is knowing and satisfied. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I have a long day of rehearsals. Not sure what time I’ll be home. But I couldn’t stand leaving without kissing you goodbye.”
My heart melts then dives to my stomach when I realize what today likely holds. But I push down my foreboding and reach for him, bringing his face to mine for another kiss, forcing casualness into my voice when I release him. “Have a good rehearsal. Say hi to the guys for me.” I swallow. “I love you.”
“Love you too.” He runs a hand down my side and stands. “Text you when we have a break.”
Nodding, I roll over and snuggle under the covers, listening to his soft footfalls as he leaves the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. I wait until I can’t hear him moving around in the main part of the condo anymore and assume he left, closing the front door just as softly so as not to disturb me if I were trying to go back to sleep.
Which I’d love to do, but my mind is racing, and even though it’s early, I know I won’t get any more rest with the meeting with Mitchell hanging over my head. Instead, I kick off the covers and get up, pulling on workout clothes, grabbing a bottle of water from my fridge, and heading to the workout room. If I just sit around till three, I’ll go crazy. Might as well get in a workout while I have time to kill. Maybe it’ll keep me distracted.
Grabbing a magazine off the stack on the table inside the door of the workout room, I settle on the open stationary bike, holding back a wince as the seat presses against my nether regions which are pleasantly sore after last night’s sex marathon, and set the magazine and my phone on the stand. With my favorite workout playlist blasting in my bluetooth headphones, I try to distract myself with the gossip magazine. It’s a few months old, talking about celebrity breakups and new relationships.
But it succeeds in keeping my attention for a few minutes at least when I see a few inches of space dedicated to Danny and his young son, complete with a long-range photo of the two of them at the park. The text speculates that Cataclysm is taking so long to announce their next album because Danny is distracted.
I snort, knowing that it isn’t Danny that was the holdup. Or at least not all Danny.
But Marcus hit his stride after we became a couple for real, and the songs have been flowing ever since. Which is why they’re now rehearsing to prepare for their recording sessions coming up in a couple of weeks. Marcus bribed their choice producer with a case of expensive whisky, but they’re all pumped about the new album.
Flipping pages, I scan for anything of interest, attention snagging on another piece about Cataclysm, this one under a picture of Blaire, their assistant, sandwiched between Aaron and Mason. The caption reads, “Saint Sandwich—Blaire Saint doesn’t live up to her name.” The speculation about her relationship with the two band members turns my stomach, painting her as little more than a glorified groupie passed around the band rather than the one who keeps them organized and on track. I’ve met Blaire. I like Blaire. It’s possible that she has slept with both Aaron and Mason, but if she has, they’re all aware of the situation, and it’s no one’s business but theirs. I hope she didn’t read this.
Disgusted, I close the magazine, focusing on pushing my body to its limits, sweat dampening my forehead and running between my breasts and down my back.
After a cool down where I guzzle water, finishing the bottle I brought with me, I wipe down the machine and make my way back to my condo. The workout has succeeded in loosening the knots in my stomach enough that I make myself a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast.
But once I’m in the shower, my mind wanders back to the problem of Mitchell and my dad, and I can’t put it off any more. I need to plan. Figure out what I can offer Mitchell to buy his silence without sacrificing anything I can’t live without.
Mitchell stands when I walk into the coffee shop, crossing the room to greet me with a kiss on the cheek. I steel myself, forcing my face to remain bland, receiving the token gesture without flinching.
“I took the liberty of ordering you a coffee,” he says as he leads me to the table with one hand on my elbow. “A nonfat mocha, no whip, extra cocoa sprinkled on top. Just the way you like it.”
Pulling off my coat and draping it over the back of my chair, I narrow my eyes at his memory of my preferred coffee order. “How kind of you. Thank you.”
He settles in his own chair, straightening his cuffs, blue eyes piercing. “You’re welcome. Just a small gesture to show that I can be thoughtful when I choose to be.”
When he chooses to be.
It’s some magnanimous gesture he’s bestowed upon me for some specific purpose. Not just to be nice, like a normal person.
After sipping my coffee, which is perfect, I take a deep breath and fold my hands on the table. “You called this meeting, Mitchell. What is it you wanted to discuss, precisely?”
He lifts one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Straight to the point. You’d make a formidable business partner, Kendra.”
I incline my head, accepting the compliment he intends it to be. And I wait.
He studies me for a long moment before pulling out a tablet and opening the black cover. He taps on the screen a few times before turning it around to face me and sliding it across the table.
There’s a scan of some kind of document on the screen that appears to be a contract. My father’s signature is circled in red at the bottom. I swipe my finger across the glass, changing to another contract, another circled signature.
After a few more of these, I push the tablet away from me. “Fascinating. I have no idea what I’m looking at, Mitchell.”
He smirks. “What you’re looking at are contracts that your father signed promising investors that he was sending their money to new startups and IPOs. Startups and IPOs that don’t exist. What you’re looking at is evidence of fraud.”
The words ripple through me, my brain trying to absorb the shock, an automatic denial on my tongue. “What you’re saying makes no sense. Why would he do that?”
With a careless shrug, Mitchell reaches across the table and pulls the tablet back, closing the cover. “Money. Why else? Instead of investing the money as promised, it gets wired to an offshore account.”
“How do you know that?” My voice is croaky, my palms clammy. I pull them under the table to rub them surreptitiously on my thighs.
He gives me a condescending look. “If you’d kept going, you would’ve seen the documents with the bank account numbers, the list of wire transfers to that account, the total deposits matching the amount of money taken from these new investors. There’s enough there that the prosecutor’s office would have no trouble making a case.”
My mouth is dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. I clench my hands in my lap. “So what is it that you want?” At least my voice comes out steady and clear.
He leans back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, and fiddles with his cuffs again, that smirk firmly fixed on his lips. “You.”
Striving to maintain my composure, I clear my throat. “I’m not a bargaining chip.”
He chuckles, rough and mean, leaning forward and propping his elbows on the table, his hands folded in front of his face. “Oh, but you are.” His eyes track over me, lingering on my lips and my breasts. “You see, with you attached to me, I g
ain total control of the company once your father retires. And with my father’s retirement coming soon, it’s only a matter of time before Richard decides to step down as well. When we were together, he talked about it fairly often.” His face hardens. “That all stopped when you broke up with me. Now he’s talking about sticking around for years, at least five, maybe ten, while he decides the best way to handle his own retirement. He’s talked about finding a buyer or another company to merge with.”
Slap!
I jump at the sound of Mitchell’s palm hitting the table. A few heads turn our way, and I offer them a sickly smile, torn between hoping they’ll leave us alone and hoping they’ll intervene, worried he’s dangerous.
But after looking us over, they all turn back to their coffees and newspapers or conversations, leaving us to ourselves. Two young, attractive people can’t be dangerous, after all.
“I won’t have the company that I’ve dedicated myself to since I wasn’t even old enough to shave get ripped away from me, parceled out in acquisitions and mergers.” He sits back again, straightening his tie at his neck and smoothing a hand down the silk, assuming an aloof and calculating posture. “With you at my side, that won’t happen.”
“But I’m dating someone. I’m not available.” As if I’d ever want to get back together with him anyway.
His eyes are distant and icy. He flicks his fingers, glancing around the room. “Please. We both know there’s nothing between you and your little rockstar friend. It would never last, if it was even real to begin with. I’m not convinced it wasn’t just a cover—a human shield to keep me from cornering you.”
“That’s not—”
He leans forward, cutting me off. “You’ve always had a terrible poker face, Kendra,” he whispers. “I’ve known you since we were little kids. I’ve always known when you were lying.”
“I’m not lying.” But my words lack conviction. Even if our relationship isn’t fake anymore, it started that way, and Mitchell has decided that he doesn’t care anyway.
He shrugs. “If you say so. It doesn’t actually matter one way or the other. If you want me to keep what I showed you to myself instead of say, anonymously sending it to a detective at the police department, you’ll break up with him. And we’ll announce our engagement next week.”
An hour after my meeting with Mitchell, I’m in my condo, wringing my hands, trying to decide what to do.
He gave me twenty-four hours to let him know my decision. Twenty-four hours in which to decide whether to sacrifice my father’s life or my own.
I’ve pulled out my phone at least twenty times, my thumb hovering over both my parents’ names in my contact list. But who should I call?
Normally when I have to make a big decision and need a sounding board, I call Marcus. But I can’t do that for obvious reasons. He’d tell me there must be some other way to stop Mitchell. Or that I’ve already spent my life bowing to my parents’ wishes. How can I throw away everything we have for them?
It’s his voice in my head already saying those things.
But how can I let my dad go to prison if I can save him? And what if he’s innocent? I can’t let him go to prison if he’s innocent.
What if he’s not? whispers a dark voice. But I tell it to shut up and push it away. I can’t believe that of my own father. I can’t.
My next thought is to call my mom. But what would I say?
Hey, Mom, guess what? Mitchell is accusing Dad of fraud. And blackmailing me into marrying him.
Ha. That would go over well.
Which leaves my dad.
Dad, did you really commit fraud? Why? What were you thinking?
Because that’s what troubles me the most. There’s no reason for it. I know the status of the family trust. I had my annual meeting with the managers of my portion at the beginning of the year. Everything’s as healthy as ever. Mom and Dad barely draw on their portion, because Dad’s business maintains their lifestyle just fine. And if it didn’t, if things were bad, there’s still no reason to con people out of their money. We have plenty of our own.
Mitchell couldn’t answer that question, just giving me a smug smirk and reiterating that the proof was airtight.
But why?
Going stir crazy, my mind whirling, I grab my keys and my purse and head out the door. I don’t know when Marcus will be home. And I can’t make any decisions without more information.
Chapter Thirty-One
Marcus
“Hello?” I call softly as I shut the door quietly behind me. The lights are off, so I hit the switch for the light here in the entryway.
I woke Kendra up early this morning after keeping her up late last night. Maybe she’s asleep? It’s almost nine, and she didn’t respond to my text that I was heading home, so it’s possible.
But when I set my keys into the bowl on the table in the entryway, I notice that her keys are gone. The purse she used yesterday that was next to it is missing too.
Huh.
Pulling out my phone, I check for anything from Kendra. But there’s nothing. No text. No missed calls. No voicemails.
I even check my email, grasping at straws, but there’s predictably nothing there either.
I send her another text, hoping nothing’s wrong and that she’ll get in touch with me soon. While I wait, I get a beer from the fridge and crack it open, turning on the TV to fill the silence, feeling bummed.
This is a disappointing way to come home. We had a great day, everything was clicking—our sound, the songs, all of it. Danny’s parents brought dinner to us and Eli, Danny’s son, came too. He’s a cutie, cracking everyone up with his antics, running around and begging for food from everyone else’s plates, even though his grandma had made him a plate of his own with bite-sized pieces of food.
Revitalized by dinner, we rehearsed more, getting caught up in the music, in the connection. After we finished, we hung out and joked around, laughed like old times. Even though we’ve been rehearsing for the past week, it’s the most together we’ve felt since we first started this crazy journey.
We used to hang out together for hours. Entire weekends spent rehearsing, performing, making crappy recordings of our best songs, trying to get our demos into the hands of someone who would do something with it. Playing shithole bars, frat parties, bar and bat mitzvahs. You name it, we played it. Constantly looking for our big break.
We were a team. A family.
Even recording our last album felt that way.
The stress of touring for two years with only short breaks that were too few and far between changed us on a fundamental level. And with the label breathing down our necks about the new songs—well, breathing down my neck, but all the guys were feeling the pinch. They all knew our deadline. And no one was happy with how long it was taking to get new songs written. Because we can’t record songs we don’t have.
None of which helped my process.
Everyone who mattered was there at some point tonight. Danny’s family, his kid, Blaire, our assistant. Everyone except Kendra.
I was looking forward to coming home to her. To picking up where we left off early this morning. Or even just cuddling on the couch and watching mindless television.
I don’t care. I just want to be with her.
Finally my phone alerts with a text from her. Had to go see my mom. Sorry I didn’t respond earlier. Be home in 45.
Another sigh of disappointment comes out. There’s no one here to witness it, so no reason to hold it in. Okay, I type back. See you soon.
At least I know she’s okay and will get her all to myself when she gets here.
Kendra’s entry is so quiet I almost miss it, but the click of the door latch happens in the brief silence as the TV switches between commercials. Muting it, I set my beer bottle on the coffee table and get up to meet her.
She’s hanging up her coat, and I wrap my arms around her from behind, pressing a kiss to her cheek when she doesn’t turn her head enough for me to reach her
lips. I sigh into the skin where her shoulder meets her neck, placing another kiss there. “I’m glad you’re home. I missed you.”
She doesn’t say anything. Which is crazy weird. And she’s stiff in my arms, I realize now that I’m paying attention.
“Kendra?” Releasing her, I take a step back. “What’s wrong?”
Her head drops forward, her back to me, her shoulders hunched like she’s defending herself against an attack.
“Ken?”
She shakes her head. “Don’t call me that.” Her voice is little more than a broken whisper.
And I can’t take it anymore. Reaching for her shoulders, I turn her around so I can see her face. Her skin is ashen, her lips pressed together, trembling, her eyebrows scrunched, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Kendra? Talk to me. You’re freaking me out here.”
She shakes her head, drawing in a shuddering breath.
“Are you hurt? Is one of your parents hurt?”
She shakes her head again. “No. No. No one’s hurt.” Her hands clutch at my sleeves. “I need you to listen to me.”
“Okay. Of course. Let’s go sit on the couch.” Gently, I lead her into the living room. “Do you want some water or anything? Whisky? You look so pale. Anything you need, just say the word.”
For some reason, that makes her lips tremble more, her chin wobbling as she shakes her head again, pulling her hands away from me to run them under her eyes.
Heading for the couch, she gives me her back for a moment, drawing in another shuddering breath, then sits down on the edge, her spine ramrod straight, her ankles and knees pressed demurely together. “Please sit,” she says softly.
I do.
Anything You Need (Cataclysm Book 1) Page 15