Complicated Parts: Book Two

by Jade, Ashley

  He stares at me like I’m crazy. “Why didn’t you just buy the tickets yourself? It’s not like you couldn’t afford them.”

  “Oh, I totally could, but I wanted the experience. And I wanted Demi to know that I was willing to sacrifice for our love.” I point to my face. “Now spill it, Holden. Or you’ll be staring at this mug for the next three days.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re such a pain in the ass. Like I told you before, I don’t want to talk to my brother. For reasons you’ll never understand. It’s not because we got into a fight, or because I’m mad at him. I just don’t want to be around him. I can’t, okay?”

  There’s so much torment in his eyes it punches me in the heart. “I’m not dense, but if you guys didn’t fight and you’re not mad at him, what possible reason could you have for staying away for three years? Is someone threatening you? Forcing you to keep your distance?” When he stays silent, I sit down on the bed. “I know sports aren’t your thing, but are you jealous because he’s a famous football star? I won’t judge you if—”

  “No one is forcing me to stay away, and I’m not jealous.”

  I clutch my chest when I realize. “You’re scared to be around him because of what Kyle did.” I sit up straight. “I know it was scary, Preston, I still have nightmares about it, but it wasn’t Asher’s fault—”

  He rolls his eyes. “I know it wasn’t. That’s not it.”

  “Is it what Breslin said at the hospital? Because I know she didn’t—”

  “No. Jesus, stop trying to figure this out! If I wanted you to know, or I thought you could understand, I would tell you. I know in your world everything is either good or bad. Evil or benevolent. But things aren’t always so black and white. Sometimes they’re gray.” His eyes drift to my hair. “And sometimes your reasons for doing things make no sense to anyone else but you.” He punches his chest. “And I don’t have to stand here and justify my reasons or my feelings to you or anyone else, because they’re mine.”

  “I get it.”

  He scoffs. “No, you don’t.”

  “I do. Look, no one believed me about my uncle. And even though all the evidence proved otherwise, in my heart, I know he had something to do with their deaths.” I blink back tears because I understand what he said more than he’ll ever know. “So, yeah, I get not wanting to talk to someone, even a member of your own family for reasons that don’t make sense to others. And you’re right, whatever is going on with you and your brother is none of my business. Sorry for not respecting that.”

  He looks surprised. “Does this mean you won’t tell him where I am?”

  “You have my word.” I reach for my purse and shoes again. If I don’t haul ass, they’ll have a legitimate reason to fire me. “I’m gonna go, but for what it’s worth, I hope everything works out for you.”

  I don’t know what to make of the look he gives me. “Take care of yourself, Bishop.”

  I stand. “You too. I can’t believe I’m about to say this but—” A forceful knock cuts me off mid-sentence and I flinch.

  “I’m telling you, Matteo, he’s not here. Something about a family emergency. But he assured me he’ll be back in a few hours and I know he’s good for it. He won the game last night,” some guy says and Preston, Mr. Poker Face himself…pales.

  When I open my mouth to ask him what’s going on, he places a finger over his lips.

  “Campanelli’s not stupid, it’s awfully convenient of him to not show up and make the drop off after last night’s game,” another male voice says. “Now, I suggest you stop covering for your friend and open the fucking door, or I’ll open your fucking skull and force feed you your brain.”

  I barely have time to process what’s happening before Preston is covering my mouth with his hand and dragging me to the closet with him.

  I’m about to point out that a closet is the most obvious place for someone to look, especially a spacious one like this, but then he uncovers an oversized trunk, and the next thing I know, we’re both crammed inside of it.

  If I thought being trapped in an elevator with Preston was claustrophobic, it has nothing on this. That elevator was a huge breezy island compared to the matchbox we’re stuffed in currently.

  Every single appendage of his, with the exception of the one digging into my ass, is wrapped tightly around me—like a snake coiling and suffocating its prey.

  Holy hell. I’ve never been so fused to another human being before. I’m literally folded and tucked into his body. I’m grateful he showered.

  Grateful and scared. Which isn’t fair, because I’m not the one who pissed off whoever this Campanelli guy is.

  Darn it, if only I left one minute earlier, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. Preston’s right, I really need to start minding my own business.

  I can hear things being tossed around, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to blow our cover because my heart is pounding like a feral animal stuck in a cage.

  The frantic thumping only gets worse when I hear footsteps approaching. The poor thing is thrashing so hard it physically hurts.

  If this guy doesn’t kill me, I’m confident a heart attack will.

  I nearly pass out when I feel a hand move up my stomach. I’m about to scold Preston for trying to cop a feel, but his palm skates past my breast, coming to rest over my heart.

  The pads of his fingers draw slow, gentle circles around it, almost like he’s telling the organ it’s okay and vowing he’ll keep it safe.

  It’s the strangest exchange I’ve ever been a part of, but to my surprise, the action works because I no longer hear it drumming in my ears.

  That is until the closet door opens and it takes off, galloping like a stallion.

  Oh, God. This is how my life ends. I’m going to die jammed in a box with the person I loathe. Maybe this is fate’s cruel way of punishing me for making it out of the school shooting alive when three innocent people didn’t.

  I’m about to lose what little composure I have and breakdown, but then Preston’s fingertips slide down the top of my dress…and he finds the poker chip.

  Otherwise known as the lifeline he handed me three years ago when I needed something to hold on to…because I had nothing left.

  The one I started wearing on a necklace when the nightmares became more frequent and more terrifying—because I needed to have it close to me at all times.

  I don’t have a chance to wonder how he knows it’s there though because the guy who wants to crack open skulls and feed people their brains orders the other guy to open the trunk we’re in.

  I hold my breath and focus on the poker chip Preston’s pressing into my skin. I need the illusion of security. I need to know I’m safe again.

  And the only time I’ve ever felt truly safe after my parents’ death was in an elevator with this dipshit.

  “I wish I could, boss, but no can do. This thing hasn’t been opened in over fifteen years. Someone left it here back in the day and there’s no key for it. Evidently, it’s an antique. You’re welcome to try it yourself, though.”

  Preston’s heart batters my back when there’s tugging on the latch followed by a hefty kick.

  “You weren’t kidding,” the guy says. “Fucker is heavy.”

  “Between you and me, I think it’s filled with cement. Don’t know what’s in the cement, but…” His voice trails off and they both laugh.

  “Listen, Max,” the guy says. “Campanelli likes you. Your wingman though, not so much. But, since he’s a pal of yours, and you’re an associate of ours, here’s what’s gonna happen. Tell your buddy he has until tomorrow morning to give Campanelli his money. Otherwise, he shouldn’t bother coming back, because we’ll be on our way to him—and we’ll have no problem making a few pit stops and spending some quality time with his family members along the way. After we visit yours. Then you’ll both have a family emergency on your hands.”

  Underneath me, I feel Preston’s entire body tense and my heart jumps to my throa
t…only to make a U-turn a second later when Juan’s ringtone goes off.

  I’m about to piss myself until I realize my phone’s not in the trunk with me. I must have dropped it outside the closet during all the commotion.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Not sure,” the other guy answers. “Some chick he was screwing probably left her phone behind. Wouldn’t be the first time. You know how the clingy ones are, always looking for a reason to come back and get more of that vitamin D.”

  Wow, this Max guy is super charming. A real Casanova that one.

  The other guy grunts. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Soon after, their voices become distant and there’s nothing but silence. Before I can speak, Preston clamps a hand over my mouth.

  After what feels like an eternity, he whispers, “Max should be back soon to let us out.”

  My lungs strain against my chest with those words and the already confining trunk we’re in becomes downright suffocating.

  “Breathe, Kit. Everything’s okay.”

  I clutch my throat. Everything is not okay. Far from it. I’m trapped in a coffin with the card shark of the underworld, and the people I care about are on the butcher’s block.

  I’m shaking, downright seething with rage that by the time Max opens the trunk and I climb out, it’s all I can do not to wrap my hands around Preston’s throat and squeeze.

  “I owe you one,” Preston says to the short guy who let us out as we exit the closet.

  “Yeah, man, you do. I thought Matteo was going to blow my head off.” He looks between us, his stare settling on me. “Who’s the chick?”

  I pick up my phone off the floor. “The chick has a name.”

  He starts to say something, but I brush him off and focus on Preston.

  “You told me you weren’t in trouble and they wouldn’t come after me.”

  “They won’t.” His jaw hardens. “They’re not the same people from last night.”

  I’m no longer seeing red, I’m seeing black. “Not the same people from last night? Like that somehow makes all this better?” I shove him. “They just threatened to go after your family. I know you don’t want to talk to Asher, but he doesn’t deserve to be killed over your fuckups.”

  “Hey, relax, doll face,” Preston’s friend interjects.

  I glare at him. “Stay out of this. And the next time you call me doll face, short stack—I’ll rip your testicles off and pretend they’re a piñata.”

  He looks at Preston. “Chick’s got spunk. She must be wild in bed.”

  “You have no idea,” Preston mutters and I lose my shit.

  I push him with every ounce of anger pumping through me. “Why are you such a sociopath!”

  Preston motions for his friend to leave, but I charge at him again. “Don’t you care about anyone other than yourself?”

  He doesn’t budge, as usual, he stands tall, completely unaffected, and it only makes me more enraged.

  “Why do you like to hurt people?” My vision becomes blurry and my voice starts cracking, but I don’t let up. I’ve snapped and there’s no going back. I pound on his chest with my fists. “I hate you.”

  It’s not a lie, I really do hate him.

  I hate him for hurting me.

  I hate him for making me think we could be friends.

  I hate him for breaking me.

  But mostly? I hate myself for still trusting him, despite all the reasons he’s given me not to.

  He grabs both my wrists and backs me into the wall. “Calm the fuck down, angry girl.”

  “Go to hell.”

  He deflects the kick I send him. “Asher isn’t in danger. I’d turn myself over to Campanelli before I’d let anyone else go down for my shit.”

  I try to twist out of his grip, but his hold is too tight. “Liar. You’d throw anyone in the fire if it meant saving your own ass.”

  “That’s not true.”

  When I give him a look, he drops my wrists and sighs. “Okay, it’s mostly true. But there are exceptions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Who.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “It’s not what my exceptions are. It’s more like who are my exceptions. I have three. My brother is one of them.”

  “Who are the other two?” I ask, my throat tight.

  He holds my gaze for a long beat, those dark gray-blue orbs cutting through me like a blade, causing a rush of emotion to wrap around my heart and squeeze.

  Preston doesn’t have to say it. Just like I didn’t have to ask.

  Because we both already know the answer.

  I’m his exception.

  He leans his forehead against mine and I clutch his t-shirt, loathing him for making me feel things I don’t understand. Despising this unspoken bond between us that makes no sense.

  He catches the tear I didn’t know I shed with his thumb. “You should go. I don’t want you to be here if he decides to come back.”

  Taking a breath past the ache in my ribs, I peer up at him. “How much money do you owe this guy?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I got this.”

  My eyes narrow. “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “I’ll have the money by tomorrow morning.”

  “What happens if you don’t?”

  His silence hangs in the air between us like a bad omen and it makes my throat lock up.

  The corners of his lips turn down in a frown, and then, as if we didn’t just share a moment, he backs away; his expression flat, his eyes void of any and all emotion.

  That vacant mask of his on display once again.

  He points to the door. “Go.”

  When I start to argue, he takes hold of my elbow and leads me to the door. I barely have time to catch my shoes and purse he tosses behind me before it slams shut. “Have a nice life, Bishop.”

  Indignation pricks my chest as I bend down to put on my heels. The nerve of him throwing me out like I’m garbage when I was only trying to make sure he didn’t end up dead in a ditch somewhere.

  Excuse me for daring to give a shit.

  I curse when my foot slips and I nearly break an ankle. I hate these stupid death traps.

  That’s a lie, they’re secretly my favorite, but every time I take them out, stick my foot inside, and start the tedious process of lacing them up my calf, I’m reminded that a few hours of pretty aren’t worth the effort it takes to put them on or take them off.

  Until the next time that is. My love affair with these shoes is a vicious cycle.

  It hits me approximately ten minutes later when I’m exiting the grungy motel and getting into a cab.

  I didn’t take my shoes off last night. Preston did.

  He didn’t take a scissor or knife to them either. He went through the monotonous process of undoing each knot, and then unraveling each delicate lace strap from my calf and then my ankle so he could take them off.

  I’m still thinking about him taking off my shoes twenty minutes into the third workshop I managed to make it to.

  He did that for a girl he can’t stand. A girl he threw out of his crappy motel room because he wanted to protect her.

  No strings attached.

  I never in my life thought I’d say this about Preston, but he’s exactly what I need.

  I hate him, but I trust him. He’s not too fond of me either, but he’ll protect me.

  He needs the money, and I need a husband.

  A husband with no strings, and no feelings. A husband who can hold up his end of a business deal. A man who knows how to con, because my nanna wasn’t born yesterday.

  The air around me stills, almost like the universe is agreeing with me.

  A smile touches my face as the meeting ends. The only thing I have to do now is excuse myself from the rest of the day’s workshops, take a shower, and trek back to that god-awful motel.

  So I can save my soon-to-be husband’s ass.

  Chapter 3

  “Kit, a word plea
se.”

  My boss’s voice has me skidding to a stop when I’m halfway out the door. Juan shoots me a look of sympathy before he skedaddles out of the room. Can’t say I blame him, I’m not looking forward to this conversation either.

  I hold my head high as I turn to face her, something I give myself credit for considering my disaster of an appearance.

  Her glare is scrutinizing. “Rough night?”

  For once, I don’t crumble. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, it was. You see, this girl I was into set me up to have sex with some old guy who happens to be my new boss.” I place a hand on my hip. “After she gave me drugs.”

  Her expression falters. “Well, when you put it like that, I sound like an even bigger bitch.” She blows out a breath. “Clearly, I misconstrued things between us last night.”

  “How exactly do you misconstrue not telling someone you were about to have sex with that there was another person involved? After you put a blindfold on them. There’s a name for that, you know.”

  Sick. Unethical. Nonconsensual.

  She has the good grace to look embarrassed. “Listen, for what it’s worth, I was wrong and I’m sorry. I truly never meant to hurt you or put you in such an uncomfortable position.”

  I fidget and look down. “I can’t tell if you actually mean that or if it’s something HR told you to say.”

  “We don’t have an HR department. But for the record, I like you. I think you’re cute and fun. However, my current situation doesn’t permit me pursuing other relationships. It’s something I should have been upfront with you about before anything happened between us. Looking back, I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Probably because I failed to realize how serious your feelings for me were. I never should have let things get as far as they did.”

  It’s not so much what she’s saying, it’s what she isn’t saying. The lines she’s making me read between.

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that.” A blast of perseverance hits me and I find my inner strength. “Actually, I do. First—you knew damn well I had feelings for you. I might not be as put together or posh as you are, but I’m the most upfront and straightforward person I know. You let things get as far as they did because you wanted them to. Don’t stand there and act like I was some lovesick puppy following you around and it was one-sided. Put your big girl panties on and own your shit, Jess. Second—if you think you can fire me without starting world war three, you’re higher than you were last night.” I stab my chest with my thumb. “I am a damn good worker. But unlike some people, no matter how bad of a position I might be in, I know I’m worth more than spreading my legs for some geezer with a Rolex. Therefore, I’m not about to bend over and let you give me the shaft.”