What If I Never

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Yes,” he says softly.

  I have no idea why his simple answer triggers me, but it’s most likely about my father, but then again, I’m not sure I want to allow Dash that out, either. The second thoughts I wasn’t having are now clear and present. I twist away from him, but when I would start walking, he catches me, rotating me back into him. His fingers splay on my lower back, our bodies molded snuggly together. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t have it in me to play head games, Dash. My father is all about games. Tyler is no different. I can’t take that from you, too.”

  “I don’t play games.”

  “I’m having a hard time believing that right now. Just—I’ll call an Uber.”

  “No, you will not call an Uber. If you really want to go back to Tyler’s house—”

  “My house,” I amend. “I don’t live in Tyler’s house any more than any tenant does a rental property. And that house is the last place I want to be right now.” My cellphone rings and I pull it from my purse to find Tyler’s number on my caller ID. Anger jabs at me. He did this. He arranged for my father to be a surprise tonight. I hit decline.

  Dash, who has obviously seen my caller ID, arches a brow.

  I answer that non-question with a non-answer. “Can we please go now?”

  His eyes glint intensely through the darkness, a second that becomes three before he captures my hand and starts walking.

  Our destination turns out to be a sporty black BMW at the side of the house, out of the view of the front door, and parked under a willow tree. Dash is opening the passenger door for me and eager for the escape, I slide into the seat, sleek leather hugging my body. Dash shuts me inside, seals my fate for this evening, which will end with him. I think, on some level, this night, me going home with him, was always where we were going to land. I’ve just hooked my seatbelt and Dash is already sliding in beside me, man and machine, both fiercely masculine. He revs the engine and glances over at me. “My place.”

  It’s not a question, but yet, it is a question. “Your place,” I repeat.

  His lips curve, satisfaction filling his handsome face, before he sets us in motion, driving us away from Tyler’s house and toward his own.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Dash pulls us onto the highway, heading back toward downtown, and turns up the radio as Jason Aldean’s “Girl Like You” begins to play. I smile at him and the radio choice. He smiles back and that push and pull of me staying behind or going has passed. I’m going with him. I’m all in on this night and so is he. The words of the song fill the air.

  The night's moving fast but we ain't taking it slower

  You hit me harder than a drink does

  You're gonna take me all the way up

  Something about you baby, got me going crazy

  I sink back into my seat, the attraction between me and Dash charging the air, the earthy, masculine scent of him all around me, and I am swimming in the vast ocean of this man. He catches my hand and the heat between us is downright visceral, the looks we share heated, intimate. We’ve just entered downtown, anticipation and tension building, when a siren whirls behind us. Dash eyes his speed and then glances at me. “And I’m speeding.” He glances over at me. “Obviously, I’m in a hurry to get you to my place.”

  And I’m in a hurry to get there, I think, as he pulls us over and then rolls down his window. An officer shows up at the door. “Sorry about that, officer. I do believe I was speeding.”

  “Well, sir,” the officer replies, “I’ll let you off if you let me just take a gander at this here car of yours. She is a beauty.”

  I’m kind of appalled at this reply, but Dash laughs a low rumble of laughter. “You can drive it if you want, Jack.”

  That’s when I realize he knows Dash. “And wreck it?” Jack asks. “Hell no. I just want to gander. And it’s official, the M4 special edition Kith is a stunner.”

  Dash glances over at me. “Give me a minute, cupcake. I’ll be right back.”

  I smile and nod, starting to actually like the “cupcake” nickname. Dash opens the door and steps outside and I can hear him talking to Jack. “Come by this weekend,” Dash tells him. “You can drive it.”

  “No, man. I don’t need to do that.”

  “It’s cool,” Dash says. “I don’t mind at all. Just text me first to make sure I’m there.”

  They talk another minute or so, and Dash climbs back inside. “Sorry about that.”

  “No ticket?”

  “No ticket,” he says. “Jack’s a good guy. He actually gave me a ticket when I first moved to Nashville and I took it on the chin. We ran into each other at a restaurant a few months later and we’ve been friends ever since.”

  I like this about Dash, the way he seems to get along with everyone. Well, except Tyler, of course. “So, he never intended to give you a ticket tonight?” I ask.

  “No. He knew I’d custom ordered the car and was dying to see it. He had no idea I had company tonight.”

  Me. I’m the company, I think. Oh, how life changes in a blink of an eye. One minute he’s saving me in an elevator and the next I’m going home with him. “I thought I smelled the scent of fresh leather.”

  “Two weeks old,” he says. “And I love this thing.”

  “It’s a beautiful car.”

  “Not as beautiful as you. And most certainly not as adorable.” He winks and sets us in motion again, while butterflies flutter about in my belly, both from his charm and my nerves.

  Nerves that barely have time to take flight as in only a few short blocks we arrive at our destination, which turns out to be a fancy high-rise in The Gulch neighborhood—where food, entertainment, and living are walkable and upscale.

  “If you’re hungry, there’s a great late-night restaurant in the building,” Dash says, pulling the M4 to the front door of the building and glancing over at me. “I’ll come around and get you.” He exits the BMW and the nerves that jolt through me deliver doubts. Suddenly, I wonder how many women the doorman has seen in a moment just like this one, headed up to Dash’s apartment, ordering takeout. What am I doing right now? What am I thinking?

  It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. The past, the future, isn’t a part of the present, the right now. This is one night, just one night for me, with him. For once in my life, I want to give myself permission, to just live in the moment and do something for me.

  I reach for my door and already Dash is there, opening it for me, and helping me to my feet, his hand settling on my hip, fingers flexing against my skin. He surprises me by walking me to him and leaning in close. “I have a rule, Allie.”

  The night is cold, while his breath is warm on my cheek, his touch hot on my body, I inch back and look at him. “A rule?”

  “I never bring women to my apartment. Ever. And yet, here you are.”

  My breath hitches with this surprising confession, but I am suddenly emboldened on this night, eager for the freedom of not looking forward, but only living here and now. “Because you invited me.” I push to my toes, and now I’m the one leaning in close, my lips at his ear. “Last chance to change your mind.”

  His hand presses to my lower back, molding me close. “I want you, Allie, on my tongue, naked and on top of me, beneath me, beside me, and any which way I can convince you to let me fuck you.”

  I suck in a breath at his bold words, words no man has ever spoken to me, and apparently, this generally good girl likes just how naughty he is because my body reacts of its own accord. My sex clenches and my nipples pucker. Dash Black wants to fuck me in as many ways as I’ll let him fuck me. And I want him to fuck me every single way he can possibly fuck me.

  He eases back and stares down at me. “What do you want, cupcake?”

  As Adrianna might say, to lick him all over, but what I say is, “To go upstairs.”

  His lips curve and his eyes darken. “I’ll demand you be more precise about that request upstairs,” he promises.

  Feeling br
ave and bold, I decide maybe games aren’t so bad at all, and I respond with, “You can certainly try.”

  Sexy laughter rumbles from deep in his perfect chest, and his arm slides around my shoulders. “Come with me, my little kitten. I promise not to hurt you. Well, maybe I will, but you’ll like it, I promise.”

  He turns us toward the door, tossing his keys at a young, redheaded man by the door. “Drive her slow and easy, Bobby, or I’ll find you and claim your firstborn.”

  Bobby laughs and heads toward the car, while Dash leads me inside his building, and I’m no longer thinking about my father’s stunt tonight. I’m thinking about being alone with Dash Black. And just how good he can hurt me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Dash leads me through the lobby toward the elevator, lifting a hand at a tall Black man in an official-looking jacket where he stands behind the security desk. “Howdy there, Brian,” Dash calls out, and I can’t help but laugh at the “howdy” that is so not Dash Black at all, but it’s over-the-top Nashville. I also can’t help but notice the surprised look Brian casts in my direction. Maybe Dash really doesn’t bring women to his place, a possibility that pleases me perhaps more than it should, but I set aside my overthinking. Tonight is about tonight. Just tonight. I’ll deal with tomorrow.

  I think this, and I mean it, but then he kind of sideswipes me yet again.

  We enter the elevator and I watch as he punches in a code before he pushes the penthouse button. I’m taken off guard by this elite location and I don’t know why—he’s highly successful—he deserves to live on that floor. Just like my father and just like my ex. I can’t pull back the comparison and I hate myself for it. I hate that I’m here with Dash, and those two men, who are nothing like him, managed to push their way into this elevator car. Dash catches my hips and eases me in close, our legs intimately aligned. “What’s wrong, cupcake?”

  And of course, once again, Dash has read me like a book, and I chide myself for being incapable of keeping my emotions between the covers. “Nothing is wrong,” I say, not playing coy, not at all. There’s nothing wrong. Or nothing logically wrong. Nothing worthy of my feelings, that’s for certain. Certainly nothing worthy of speaking aloud.

  His eyes, those intelligent eyes that miss nothing, narrow on me. “Try again.”

  It’s a gentle nudge, but a nudge, that leads me to just say what is on my mind. “It’s really nothing. I just reacted to you being in the penthouse.”

  “And that’s a problem for you why?”

  “It’s not a problem. I mean come on, Dash. You’re rich, powerful, successful, and good-looking. What more could a girl want?”

  “That’s not an answer. Why is that a problem for you, Allie?”

  “It’s not,” I assure him. “How you handle those things is what matters.”

  “And how do I handle them?”

  “I don’t know how you handle anything, Dash. Not really. How can I know that?” Then because I’ve been honest with Dash because I need things that are honest in my life, I continue, and I say what I once would not have. “But I’m here,” I add, “and I wouldn’t be if I thought you let money and success make you forget that you’re just a man, and men, and women, are human. That means they’re capable of mistakes.”

  I must hit a nerve for him now because his jaw hardens, his expression with it, and there is something in the depths of his stare, something I cannot, no matter how hard I try, name. “More flawed than you might think, Allie,” he says.

  The ghost of a painful past lurks beneath those words, and I realize then that our connection is all about just that: pain. I find that I want to know what has hurt this man, but I know that I may never know anything beyond where our naked bodies take us this one night. This night though is ours. I press my hand to his jaw and speak the words that in every part of me, I want to believe. And I want him to believe them, too. “We’re all flawed, Dash. And inside those flaws is everything that makes us stronger.”

  “And vulnerable,” he adds softly.

  “A very famous writer once told me that being vulnerable is not weakness.”

  He catches my hand and brings it to his lips. “It’s only weak if you allow that vulnerability to control you.”

  Considering he’s confessed to a weakness for me, I’m not sure how to take this comment, but I read between the lines. He’s telling me that he needs to be in control. Before I can digest what that might truly mean, the elevator halts with our arrival. And the door opens to the penthouse floor.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Dash captures my hand with his bigger hand and guides me to the door. We step into the hallway together and walk to the only door on the floor. It’s actually two grand double wood doors and Dash uses a code on a panel to clear our path. Once the apartment is opened, he motions me forward. All my bravado about being present and in the moment, boldly going where the night leads me, plunges down a steep hill. But the most unexpected thing happens. I draw a deep breath that vibrates with nerves, and look at Dash. His eyes meet mine, and there’s a warm invitation there that somehow makes me smile. And then he smiles and it’s this easy wonderful feeling between us that has me entering his apartment more than a little eager to see where his brilliance lives.

  I step inside to find what is nothing short of an architectural masterpiece.

  The ceilings are a half-moon shape with steel rails across them and an epic view of downtown as the centerpiece from everywhere you look. “Who designed this?” I ask, as Dash steps to my side, while I turn to admire the open kitchen to the rear of a dark cream-colored couch and chairs.

  “Apparently some crazy famous architect contracted by the original owner. I just inherited that owner’s good taste. How about a drink?”

  “Yes, please,” I say, thinking a drink will help check my nerves. “But it won’t take much to get me drunk, so just a very little bit of whatever you suggest.”

  “I have wine, whiskey, and the leftovers of a batch of lemon drops my sister made last weekend.”

  I love that he’s so close to his sister, I really do, and of course, that he was with her last weekend, not some other woman. Or maybe he did both, at different times. I don’t want to think about it. “Will Bella mind?”

  “She’ll make more,” he says. “She lives right around the corner and is always dropping by to cook. I’ll grab the drinks.” He motions to the apartment. “Look around if you want.”

  He heads into the kitchen and while I’d love to look around more, for now, I’m drawn to the window view, and I ease in closer for the full effect. The city lights sparkle in the darkness, drawing me in, hypnotizing me. I stare out at the city I grew up in and love so very much. I’m not sure how I left. I’m not sure how I’ll leave again. Dash turns on a country music station, and the room is filled with Lady A’s “What If I Never Get Over You.”

  It’s supposed to hurt, it’s a broken heart

  I touch the window just as the chorus continues with: What if I never get over you

  I didn’t have that issue with Brandon. I was over him the minute I knew the kind of man he truly was, which was probably because on some level I already knew. And because I wasn’t really in love. I think I always knew that as well. I’d wanted to come home after it all blew up, but it had felt like I was running away. I didn’t realize then, what I do now—there are ways to run that have nothing to do with location. Curling into oneself is isolation. And isolation is its own form of running.

  “Do you have a view in New York?” Dash asks, rejoining me.

  “Of a wall,” I laugh, glancing over at him. “I make good money, but a box-sized place in the right building, with no view, is still high-end for me.” That’s when I realize he’s holding a carafe and two glasses by the stems.

  “Let me take the glasses,” I offer, and he allows me to scoop them up but then, for a moment, that stretches miles it seems. we just stare at each other, heat radiating between us.

  “We make a good team,” he says
softly.

  Team.

  I try not to read into those words, as if they represent something with longevity, a partnership that lasts. Nothing about tonight is about anything but tonight. “Yes,” I say softly, and he lifts his chin behind my back, indicating a direction.

  To his bedroom, I know.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  I’d like to say that my bravado is like a fine wine, exploding with various flavors and tastes. But it’s more like a cheap wine that hurts so bad going down, you might as well drink it as a shot. I did that once in college. I shared an entire bottle of cheap wine with a friend. I threw up the next day. As Dash and I walk toward his bedroom, I’ve got the bad wine bravado going on.

  I enter the bedroom first, stepping inside his private space, his room, and I find the designer ceiling flows through the entire apartment, as do the views. There’s a king-sized bed, with a built-in dark wooden bookshelf and headboard, and a fireplace on the opposite wall of the footboard.

  Beyond the bed, is a step-up to a seating area facing the window and a fireplace that is built into the windows. I wonder if that’s actually safe because it’s easier than wondering what comes next.

  “It’s cold in here,” Dash says. “Let’s go to the couch by the fireplace and I’ll power it up.”

  Relief at this location suggestion is instant, and now instead of the safety of the fireplace, I wonder if he knows the bed, his bed, is a whole lot more intimidating than the couch. His bed actually intimidates me more than his résumé of success. I think it comes back to just what I said in the elevator, how he handles his success which appears to be as if it’s no success at all.

  We pass the bed, with a few vivid images of him naked and on top of me, or vice versa, do a seedy number in my head. Meanwhile, we reach the couch and I primly sit down, knees together and everything. He sits, too, but not so properly. His knee presses to mine, heat in the connection, so much heat that I feel in every part of my body.

  Mostly because I need something to do with my hands, I slide my purse off my body, and set it on the couch while he hits a remote and the possibly dangerous fireplace flares to life. With another button, the room fills with country music again. This time it’s Jimmie Allen’s “Best Shot.” I can’t even decipher the words at this point. I’m just not capable.