I look inside and there are three boxes of protein bars—in chocolate, peanut butter banana, and coffee mocha. I’m so hungry I open the box labeled coffee mocha, and rip open a bar. The whole bar is stuffed in my mouth in no time. I barely remember he’s standing in front of me.
“Um, thanks,” I say. “These are really good.”
He’s got a broad, entertained smile plastered on his face.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’ve got some—oh let me just get it.” He leans down and brushes the side of my mouth with his thumb. “Just a few inconvenient crumbs. No biggie. By the way, that cookie monster puppet character has nothing on you.”
I’m flushed again from mild embarrassment, but I opt to let it slide. “So what’s in the bag over there?”
“Getting a little greedy, aren’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “No, no. I’m just curious.”
“It’s fresh workout gear. I keep some in my car. I’ll sleep in them tonight.”
“You know, I’m sure that after I eat I’ll be back to normal. I feel better already just from the protein bar.”
“Nice try.”
The intercom buzzer goes off and he answers it. It’s the delivery guy calling from downstairs.
“Be right back again.”
I wrack my brain for a convenient segway for him to talk about our earlier meeting. The fall must have really done some damage, because my head feels fuzzy and lethargic. I try to stand, but become painfully aware that the room is rotating slightly, before the fog in my head slowly clears again. I face the facts—I’m exhausted, weak and Jonathan is probably right to stick around, in case I pass out again. I flop down on the couch. I can’t help but feel defeated, and resentful that I have to depend on another human being.
He comes back with bags of takeout. The smell is heavenly. It curls around my nose and tells my brain it’s time for no holds barred, stretchy waistband styled eating. He lays the food out on my kitchen table, and searches my cupboards for flatware like he owns the place. I’m about to tell him where things are, but he finds two plates, two glasses and eventually, some cutlery.
“Okay, Rebecca. Food’s ready,” he announces. “Get over here and eat.”
I’m a little nervous to stand up. I almost fainted just now, and if he sees how weak I am, he’ll probably insist on a hospital visit. The man must read minds. He must, because he walks over to me and holds a hand out.
“I saw how you ate that energy bar. There’s no chance I’m letting you eat where I have to sleep tonight.”
All I could come up with was, “You’ve got an interesting way of showing kindness, Jonathan.”
“You’re welcome. Now take my hand so I can help you to the kitchen. Do you think I can’t tell you’re dizzy? I’ve spent years around some of the toughest fighters. I know what a mild concussion looks like. I’m not taking any chances with you.”
I give up on resisting his offer. He’s seen my attempts to put on a brave face. He knows I’m hurt. I rest my hand on his forearm, which he takes as the signal to wrap his other arm around my shoulder to hold me up securely for the walk to the kitchen. I’m dwarfed beside him, and again, my body has a mind of its own. I melt into his side, allowing my weak frame to rest on his strong chest. As I’m pressed up on him, I smell his cologne again. It’s more potent and more addictive than when we were in Long Island—but just as dangerous.
We sit to eat. The food is divine—everything I put in my mouth tastes better than the last bite. After his comment about how I ate the protein bar, I’m taking my time, doing my best not to wolf down whole boxes. I’m famished, so it’s hard. It takes all my energy not to close my eyes and moan with pleasure from every morsel.
I could just be extremely hungry, but that’s’ not it. He’s ordered from le Chinois. It’s the top-rated, authentic Chinese restaurant in midtown. Before this job, while I articled with Barnaby, I could only dream of having a meal there once or twice a year.
“I see you have good taste in restaurants,” I tell him, trying to break the ice with a compliment.
“Yes, and I see I’ve met my perfect dinner companion,” he answers.
“How’s that?”
“I get so tired of women who eat those dainty little servings, or plates full of garden salads. Going out with the guys is not always my kind of thing, but I could get use to eating with you.”
I hesitate. I’m not sure how to take it. Again, he reads my mind.
“Relax. It’s a compliment. Don’t take it the wrong way.”
I decide I need to work on my poker face, then launch into my subtle questioning. It’s not direct, and does not specifically ask about the night Rushton’s niece is murdered. All I’m doing is getting a sense of his routine, how close he is to his father and the rest of his family, how wide a social circle he has. It’s the basics.
So far he’s open, but I assume he knows exactly why I’m asking. The man is a Harvard graduate and a VP at Fairchild. I’m putting myself at a disadvantage if I assume he’s not as sharp as a whip. I don’t push too hard. I’m building trust, and too much pressure will make him clam up. Still, I want to know what I’m dealing with.
“Why don’t you just ask me if I did it, Ms. Clark?”
“Pardon me?”
“Just spit it out and ask me a direct question. Or are you like Kara—just assume I’m guilty, and focus on reasonable doubt and other tactics to get her criminal clients off.”
“You’ve got a massive chip on your shoulder Mr. Sloan. I would never—”
“Never assume I did it? Or never ask me a direct question?”
He’s getting a little angry and defensive, and so am I, for that matter. If I keep up the line of questioning, it’ll get us nowhere.
“Jonathan. Can we continue this conversation when my head isn’t throbbing in pain? I think I should rest now.”
“Oh. Of course. I’ll help you to your room and get this stuff cleared away.”
He helps me to stand, and I’m certain he’s capitalizing on his power over me. He picks me up effortlessly. He’s carrying me again. He walks down the hall and eases my bedroom door open, turning so he can get me through the doorway. He lowers me on the bed and pulls the covers over me. His physical strength is almost as remarkable as his tenderness.
“Sleep well,” he says, and casually walks away. When he gets to the door, he turns and says, “Just in case you were still wondering, I didn’t do it.”
He leaves before I could reply. I could yell from frustration, but opt for letting out an exhausted breath. I can only imagine how Kara will react when I report back to her. I’m disappointed in how I’ve let him get under my skin. I feel unprofessional and out of control, like I’ve already failed him as a client. Most of all, I feel need rising up in me.
I settle under the covers and bury my head in the pillow. Tomorrow is a new day, so I let sleep find me.
Chapter 11 - Jonathan
I leave her room, and the realization of what’s happened creeps up inside me. My heart is racing, my hands start to shake, my skin gets clammy from cold sweat, and I’m so irritable, it’s a wonder I didn’t fly off the handle with her earlier. I suddenly feel paranoid and out of control.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt like this, and it certainly won’t be the last. When I found myself reacting this way to mildly tense situations years ago, Mandy wanted me to sit down with a therapist. She kept telling my dad she felt I had post-traumatic stress disorder from something that happened in the past. Her guess was it had to do with the death of my mom. If only she knew.
My dad shut that idea down in a heartbeat, telling Mandy no son of his was going to see a shrink to talk about his feelings. He had the most to gain, so understandably, he resisted the most. She dropped the subject eventually, but it didn’t stop me from looking into whether or not I had PTSD. I was skeptical at first—like so many people, I thought it only happened to combat veterans or people who were victims of some h
orrendous crimes. I realized after several hours of in-depth internet searches, that I displayed all the classic symptoms.
The recurring nightmares happen often. There are two dreams in particular. In one of them, all the girls I helped cover up for my dad would stand around me in a circle and ask me why. There’s blood on my hands. They would get closer and closer until they were swarming me and tossing me around. Their voices would start off soft and sweet and tender, but by the time I wake up, they’re shrill and squeaky to the point of seeming deafening.
In the other dream, I’d be sitting in a psychiatrist’s office. It’s a man who looks just like Sigmund Freud. He would tell me I’m keeping a deep, dark secret, and as I open my mouth to deny it, all my teeth would fall out with a mouthful of blood. I never experienced flashbacks, but the night sweats, irritability, paranoia, heart rate surges, outbursts of anger, emotional numbness and trouble sleeping were commonplace for me.
Tonight, I’m sleeping on a lawyer’s couch. Before I do anything, I talk myself down. I use one of those meditative type affirmations. It’s the only thing recommended on those PTSD websites that does not involve telling someone. There’s no way I’m going to a support group or getting a peer mentor for this disorder. There is no one I can talk to for this, unless I’m ready for a walk down death row. I’m an accessory to federal serial murder. If I ever share my feelings, the only place for me after that is the green mile.
Saying my affirmations on Rebecca’s couch makes me feel a little calmer. I use her bathroom to change, and curse because there’s no toothbrush in my workout bag. I settle for swishing around some of her mouthwash, and head back to the living room. I shake my head, and push back a faint smile when I look down on the couch. This woman does not listen. She got up while I was changing, and has left me a pillow and blankets.
I settle into her sofa. Once I’m relaxed, I give my sub-conscience a stern warning that it had better not have nightmares tonight. There’s a woman in the other room with the power to save my ass or take me the fuck down. If she gets the faintest insight into the gory memories locked up in my brain, it’s over for me. As sleep comes over me, there’s a new image in my mind, moving around with the others—it’s Rebecca.
* * *
It’s the middle of the night and I abruptly jump out of sleep. It’s one of my nightmares. It’s Freud again, except I wake up before the teeth fall out my mouth and down the front of my shirt in a bloody mess. There’s a bit of cold sweat on my face and neck, but I’m not feeling as tense as some of the other nights. I’m not anxious or panicked at all. I could get used to waking up before the worst part happens.
It’s barely past midnight. It’s no wonder I’m up. I’m usually not in bed until now. I take off my t-shirt and head to the bathroom. I need to throw some water over my face to try and get some more rest. Before I go inside, I stop to listen at Rebecca’s door. There’s no sound. I’m relieved. I take it to mean I didn’t holler during my nightmare, so no harm done.
I’m only in the bathroom for a minute and when I come out, I walk right into her in the hallway. At the pace I’m going, with my height and size, I almost shove her to the ground.
“Whoa, there,” I say, holding her shoulders to stop her from falling back. “I didn’t see you—what are you doing up? Can I get you something?”
She doesn’t answer. Not with words anyway. She just looks at me—through me. It’s unsettling. I want to look away.
“Are you alright?” I ask again, without releasing her shoulders.
She tilts her head back slightly and exposes the soft flesh of her neck. I know how I want to react, but it’s not what I expect from her. I hold back. Her hands snake up my stomach and come to rest on my chest. There’s a change in atmosphere in the hallway. It’s palpable. It’s sexual tension and need, and once it mixes in with the lust my body’s been giving off since I met her, we become lost in it.
There’s no asking and there are no words. Her unspoken permission is in her eyes. It’s embedded in every shallow breath I hear escape her mouth and come to rest on my chest. She wraps her arms around my waist. She lifts a leg up and rubs it against my calf, letting her hips rock and her stomach rub against my already throbbing cock. In two steps, I’ve pinned her to the hallway wall.
I don’t know where the fierceness comes from, but it takes us over. Before my lips even touch her, she’s digging her nails into my back and moaning like I’m already fucking her. The sound fuels me forward. I need to claim her. I press my lips into hers. She’s so soft, so welcoming. She parts my lips with her tongue and begins to duel and dominate mine. I reach up and slide my fingers through her hair, my grip tightening as I press her harder into the wall to get closer.
I feel her leg is practically rubbing up to my thighs now. She’s anchoring to me for more contact. I pick her up. She wraps both legs around my waist, and bucks her hips. I don’t know if my cock can take much more of it without thrusting inside her. Before I move, she kisses and sucks my neck like I’m edible. That’s it. I’m ripping these clothes off her and fucking her hard—as soon as she’s in the bed.
I carry her to the bedroom. She’s purring in my ear like a hungry kitten. I lower her on the bed and just as I said, I rip her clothes off and throw them to the side. She’s not shy laying there either. She spreads her legs out slightly. She’s so seductive. She slides her hand over her belly, snaking it from her navel to her waxed mound. I’m spellbound and ready to rock her into Tuesday morning—but I stop.
I quickly excuse myself and rush out to the living room. I duck down and search through my duffel bag. Condoms.
Yes!
I hurry back to her and she’s in the same spot. She rolls over and gets on her knees to face me at the side of the bed. She reaches out to grasp my waistband. I look on with excited amusement as she tugs my sweatpants and boxers down my leg, exposing my rock hard cock. Her eyes widen. I don’t judge why, all I know is she looks like she’s figuring out what she wants to do with it.
I don’t give her the chance to do much thinking. I push her back on the bed and spread her legs wide. I kneel on the floor and pull her hips to the edge of the bed in front me. I hear her beg me to come inside her. I’m not ready for that. I lower my head to her belly. I need to taste her first. My arms push her thighs wide open and she hisses.
My tongue slowly trails down from her navel and comes to rest on her clit. She’s wet and so sweet. I lick and suck for a while as she fists my hair and pulls me closer. Her hips lift up to my tongue, and she tries to move her thighs out of my hold, but I’m too strong. I hear her squeal like she’s going to come. I’m ready. I rip the condom open, slip it on and slide her up in the bed. Her legs are still spread wide. Lowering myself on top of her, my throbbing cock presses into her tight center.
“Oh God,” she groans, gripping my arms and rocking her hips up to mine. I find my rhythm, and move inside her channel, then out, staring down at her face. I duck my head and latch onto her breast and she shouts that she’s coming. This ride is for her, but her voice sends me wild. I release her breast and my hips thrust deep and hard. I let a groan rumble from my throat as I sink my shaft deeper into her soft flesh. My movements are wild, and in less than a minute, I feel her orgasm. Her channel tightens around my cock like a vice, and coupled with the force of my own movements, I feel my release approaching. I give a powerful thrust once, then twice, and on the third time, I explode so hard I could almost roar.
I collapse in the spot beside her in bed and before I know it, we both fall asleep.
* * *
It’s seven in the morning. I’m back on the couch. Before I fell into a deep sleep, I got out of her bed and returned to the living room to sleep. I’m glad I did—I can’t take any chances. I hear her in the bathroom. She’s singing. It sounds like something by Katy Perry or Bruno Mars. Who knows? It’s garbled, but she sounds happy.
Everyone sounds great singing in the shower. I think my mom would sing to me, but I can’t rememb
er much. I’m getting sentimental listening to her in there. I’m not in the mood for sentimental shit, but her singing is also confirmation she’s conscious and not passed out, so I let her be.
She comes out, and I go in for a quick shower once she’s safely back in her bedroom. I need to keep my distance this morning. I’ve got things to do and am usually at my office before eight-thirty. That sexual energy between us was just the beginning, so it’s best if I don’t get too close right now.
By the time I shower and put my shirt and slacks back on, she’s ready and waiting at the front door.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Good morning, Mr. Sloan.”
I ignore the formality. It’s clear she’s a little uncomfortable. “Can I give you a ride to work?”
“I think I’ll be fine walking. It’s just a twenty minute walk.”
I don’t say a word. I just give her a look and she knows I’m not letting her walk to work on her own.
“Okay, fine,” she says. “I’ll take the ride.”
We’re heading out, and I tell her I just need to stop at my place for a fresh shirt and suit. Nodding, she gets into the passenger seat when I open it for her. She’s quiet as we drive. I don’t mind. My condo is on the way to her office. I park in the underground, inviting her upstairs to wait. Surprise, surprise. Rebecca agrees. I sense she’s being a quiet observer, making a note of my actions and behaviors, but whatever. Everyone has a job to do, I suppose.
We get up to my condo floor, and there’s a man waiting right off the elevator. This is unusual. Something is wrong. This level of the condo is all mine. Only Mandy, Claire and my dad have access. I step in front of her and tell her to wait.
“Are you lost?” I ask. “This is a private floor.”
“No, sir, I’m not. The concierge let me up,” he answers. His tone is serious, professional. His body language screams he’s a cop. “Are you Jonathan Sloan?”
Wicked Bad Boys Page 7