Devil's Plaything (Playthings, #1)

by Lydia Rowan

  Unlocking her door, she smiled. She had had fun tonight, so while her life was still far more confusing than she liked, she had managed to get away from it all for a bit.

  After closing and locking her door, she pulled her shirt over her head and sniffed it. Albert did like his cologne, but it smelled better on him, she thought as she scrunched up her nose and headed to the bathroom.

  A tap on her door stopped her midway.

  ••••

  Seething and rage-filled was probably not the best mood for a visit, but here he was. When she hadn’t answered the door earlier, he’d decided to wait, certain she’d be home shortly, feeling creepier and more pathetic as the hours slid away but equally determined to see her tonight. A giant man milling in the hallway would probably garner too much attention, so he’d settled in his truck with a clear view of the front door and waited. And waited more, until she and her companion finally pulled up, all smiles and hugs. The wrongness of seeing Julie with someone else hit him hard. That should be him, especially since the asshole had no idea how to treat a woman, sitting in the car while she walked to the door. Why didn’t Julie seem to mind? He’d never do something like that.

  You’ve also never taken her out, idiot, a little voice in his head whispered.

  And, righteous indignation aside, the voice was right. Did he expect Julie to sit around, content to wait for him forever? Well, truthfully, it was better than the alternative, but Julie didn’t seem content anymore. He had no choice but to act fast.

  He hopped out of the vehicle and made his usual circuitous entry into her building before knocking at her door.

  The pop of the dead bolts followed by the sound of the chain sliding and the creak of the door as she opened it were his only greetings as he entered and closed and locked the door behind him.

  Hands on her hips, she stood in the entryway in jeans, a bra, and no shirt. The stern look on her face suggested she would not appreciate his words of admiration, so he stayed silent but still admired the view of her rounded shoulders, her full—fuller than full—breasts nestled in the cups of her black lace bra, more beautiful because it didn’t try to titillate, the curve of her sweet belly, which felt so wonderful pressing against his abdomen as he pounded into her.

  “I hope you didn’t come here for that,” she said, her voice angry.

  “No, I didn’t.” He looked into her eyes. “Where were you tonight? And who was that man? What did you do with him?” He flinched at the slight pitch in his voice. He sounded angry and needy, which disgusted him.

  Her too, apparently, because her eyes widened, and a riotous expression covered her face in an instant.

  “None of your business. Good evening.”

  She headed toward the door, but he placed a hand on hers when she touched the doorknob.

  “I was worried when you weren’t home.”

  Shoulders shaking, she took two deep breaths and looked up at him, her face a mask of rage.

  “How dare you! What gives you the right to me a question like that?”

  “I thought we had an understanding,” he said, happy that his voice had returned to it’s normal cadence and no longer betrayed any emotion.

  “Understanding? What? That you come and go as you please without telling me your name, or anything else for that matter, and I, slut that I am, keep my fat thighs spread to make sure access to my pussy is convenient?”

  Splotches of red covered her face and chest, a true mark of her anger, and D’yavol reached out to touch her, but she slid away before he could make contact.

  “I need to take a shower. Be gone by the time I get back,” she said without looking at him, removing her remaining clothes as she walked across the room and slamming the door, the best she could slam it anyway, given how the flimsy the damn thing was, with finality.

  Not that he was going anywhere.

  Nope. Julie was his, and even if he didn’t know anything else, he knew how to fight. And he was going to fight for her.

  Chapter Seven

  Following the routine he’d memorized by watching Julie, he set about her kitchen to make tea, the sound of the shower droning in the background. The activity gave him time to plot a course of action. Julie was mad, nearing her breaking point, and he’d do everything he could to save this… He frowned as realization dawned on him. He knew what he needed to do, but doing so might end them before they really had a chance to begin. Risky, but he’d do it. He just prayed she wouldn’t shut him out of her life.

  The shower stopped, and after a few moments, Julie emerged, along with a cloud of steam and a scowl. She huffed and didn’t even acknowledge him as she moved around the room, settling on the love seat, still wrapped in a towel and dropping three bottles beside her. Starting with the smallest, she picked it up and squirted a tiny bit of the white cream in her palm before she slathered it all over her face, Then she picked up the next bottle and rubbed some of its contents all over her body, opening her towel without hesitation, the tilt of her head saying she dared him to look. Finally, she sat again and rubbed oil from the third bottle on her feet and promptly put on socks before wiping her hands on the towel.

  Then, out of a separate pail from the one that contained the lotions, came the hairbrushes.

  He’d never have guessed Julie had a beauty ritual this complicated. His laugh jumped out of him on its own volition. Julie cut a glance at him.

  “You think it’s easy being this beautiful?”

  “For you, yes,” he said, trying desperately to contain his laughter.

  She looked away, but she’d spoken to him and not just to demand he leave, so it was progress.

  After she finished and returned wearing a large T-shirt and cotton shorts—as if he cared what she wore—she sat on the love seat, shaking her head when he motioned toward the tea. Undeterred, he picked up the mug and walked over to the love seat to sit down. This was better than the table; no way she could avoid contact with him here.

  “It’s cool enough to drink,” he said as he offered her the mug.

  She rolled her eyes and took a sip, looking at him with surprise when the liquid hit her lips. It was as good an opening as he was likely to get.

  “You didn’t think I’d know how you like your tea? You know how I like mine.”

  “And that’s about all I know about you,” she said, tone a depressing mixture of anger and bitterness.

  “Let’s fix that.”

  “Meaning?” She looked over at him.

  “Meaning ask me anything. I won’t lie to you.”

  Her expression was skeptical. He should have known this wouldn’t be easy.

  “Why? Why now? Is this some kind of jealously thing? A mind fuck? You get off on this?

  “I’ve never done this before. And as to why, you’re right. It’s not fair of me to come here and take from you. You said you needed something, so here it is. Ask me anything.”

  Expression softening, Julie placed the mug on the floor beside the couch and leaned back, considering.

  “Anything? Really?” Her eyes were now glittering with rising excitement, what he imagined a child on Christmas morning would look like, as she leaned forward.

  “Yes, but don’t be excited. I’m not that interesting.”

  Her face stiffened, and her eyes went flat again.

  “D’yavol, you just told me a lie.”

  “What?” he said, concerned at the turn in her expression.

  The smile she unleashed put him at ease.

  “You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met,” she said, and he could tell she believed it.

  A crease marked her furrowed brow, and he reached up to trace the spot.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what you’re thinking. What has made you frown?”

  “Nope,” she said, waving as if to dismiss the question. “I refuse to waste time on me when I have you in my greedy little palms.” She rubbed her hands together with glee, the earlier tension broken, and the Julie that had woven
herself into the fabric of his being returned.

  “I very much enjoy being in your greedy little palms,” he said with solemn seriousness, gaze boring into hers.

  He heard her sharp intake of breath, saw the way her tongue darted nervously at the corner of her mouth as she broke eye contact, flicking a quick glance over him, feminine appreciation clear in her eyes. But just as quickly, she looked back up, smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

  “We agreed, none of that, sir. Besides, asking questions is much more exciting!”

  “I need to do a better job,” he said and smiled, her enthusiasm infectious.

  “Okay, down to business. It’s a dumb question, but do you have a last name?”

  “Are you going to Google me, Julie?” He couldn’t help but tease, and he also couldn’t deny what this meant any longer. He was about to make himself real.

  And she might very well reject him, recoil in disgust, and shut him out of her life forever.

  “DiCosta.”

  “Hmm. D’yavol DiCosta.” She rolled the words on her tongue, and he tried to squelch the warm glow in his gut at the sound. “I like it. Not what I was expecting.” She continued at his questioning glance. “Well, between your accent, your coloring, and some of the words you say, I figured you were Eastern European.”

  “I have no accent.”

  She laughed and patted his cheek. “Of course you don’t.”

  “No one has ever told me that before.”

  “Duh, they’re probably scared. Besides, it’s very light, and I mostly only hear it when we’re…” Her little titter and the blush that burned deep red under her brown cheeks was adorable. “Fucking.”

  The word was grating to his ear. What he and Julie did was so much more than that, but he couldn’t put it to words, so he let the curse stand.

  “My mother was Russian, but I was born here. Don’t know where DiCosta came from. I assume my father, but I never met the man, so I can’t say for sure.”

  “I never met my father either.”

  The offhand statement confirmed that she, like he, had long ago gotten over the absence.

  “I’ve never heard your name before. Does it mean something?”

  “Yes, the rough translation is devil.”

  “Why would your mother name you that?” Her tone was cautious, worried, and he could understand the reaction, though in this case it was misplaced.

  “Don’t worry, nebesa, it’s nothing mean. She said when she was pregnant it felt like a tornado inside that like old cartoon, the Tasmanian Devil, so she named me Devil.”

  Memories of those earlier years with his mother flooded his mind, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  “You said ‘was’ earlier. Did she pass away?”

  He felt his smile falter. “Yes.”

  “And you were in the system at some point, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Could she see something in him, tell what he really was?

  “It’s okay, D’yavol. I just know the look. It’s hard to tell foster home or juvie, but we all wear it, even when we’re grown.”

  “You, too?” he asked.

  “Yeah, foster homes, but this isn’t about me.”

  He supposed he’d been too taken to really look, had just assumed that her resilience was a gift from good parents, but it made sense and was probably why she didn’t seem too scared of much of anything.

  Saying nothing, she reached out to rest her hands atop his, thumbs stroking his knuckles. After a few moments, she said, “Your hands feel like mine, but different, so I think you work with them…”

  “Heh.” He breathed out on a sigh. Different indeed. Her hands were rough from honest labor; his were roughened by violence, an outward reflection of the darkness within.

  “So what do you do?”

  He looked at their entwined fingers, her hands work-roughened but still gentle, so fragile-seeming in his, and considered her question for a moment, not quite certain how to answer. But he’d promised her the truth, and the truth was what he’d give her.

  “I hurt people, Julie.”

  Confusion clouded her clear brown eyes.

  “That’s very vague, D’yavol. Bad doctors hurt people. Shady bankers hurt people. Dishonest politicians hurt people. So what do you mean?” She’d stopped moving her thumbs, and her tone was firm, almost strident. But she didn’t pull away. That gave him more hope.

  “It means I hurt people. I beat them up for money.”

  “Like a bouncer? Or what, you, like, kneecap people who owe money to the mob?” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  “No, though I was tempted.”

  Her eyes bulged, and he felt himself shrugging.

  “The money’s good, but I couldn’t make myself punch degenerate gamblers. I fight in private matches.”

  “Like a fight club?”

  “Sort of, but for money. And for enjoyment. I really, really enjoy it.”

  He wouldn’t look at her, unwilling to see the revulsion in her eyes, but as her silence stretched, he felt the tension rising, and he had no choice but to look at her to break it. Face impassive, she looked at him, but he couldn’t read her expression.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay? Just ‘okay’?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I don’t like the idea of people hitting you but…” She shrugged. “You look like you can take care of yourself. Should I be worried?”

  “So that’s it? You don’t think I’m some kind of monster?” The disbelief was apparent in his tone, even to himself.

  “Those guys that night. They’re monsters. You’re not,” she said with finality. “Who convinced you that you are?”

  Her brown eyes were imploring, and the tenderness in her words stung more than any reproach would have. He didn’t deserve her kindness.

  He pulled his hands away, tried to put as much space between them as the small space would allow.

  “I killed someone, Julie,” he said on a broken whisper, relieved despite everything to have finally said it out loud, something he’d never done with anyone else. He flinched when he felt her arms slide around his shoulders, the soft crush of her body against his.

  “Tell me,” she said and squeezed him tighter.

  He looked away and started his story.

  “After my mother died, I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I stuck around the neighborhood. I was a big, rambunctious kid, and you know how it is. I wouldn’t have made it in foster. I landed with one of my mom’s old boyfriends, a real nasty son of a bitch. He used to smack me around a little, but after a couple of years, it got pretty intense, and I told him that I’d kill him if he ever touched me again. He couldn’t let that pass, so he came at me, and we started going at it. Hard. He beat me like I never had been before. Or since, for that matter…

  “Something in me snapped. I got the upper hand, and I just kept hitting him… I remember the blood on my hands, but mostly I remember how good it felt.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing really. I called the cops. They looked at me and said it was justified. I got sent to a group home that may as well have been a detention center. No family would take me in, not that I blame them. I did the classes, got way better at hiding when I was up to no good, aged out, and eventually started fighting.”

  There, he’d laid it all out. The next move was hers.

  Long minutes passed in silence, but he remained still, as restless as he was inside. Then she caressed his cheek and pulled him close to her.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  He flinched, automatically wanting to reject her sympathy.

  “Nothing happened to me.”

  “A person you trusted abused you, and now you carry around the guilt of having defended yourself. That’s something, D’yavol.”

  Conviction shone in her eyes.

  “You’re kind, Julie, too kind to see the truth. I know what I did, what I am, and still to this day I fight.”

 
; “Don’t patronize me.” Her words were hard but not angry. “It’s probably easy to see yourself that way, imagine that you’re some monster so you don’t have to try. We’re a lot alike, you and I, and I can see you, even though you try to hide. You’re only a monster if you chose to be. So what are going to choose?”

  You, he thought, but rather than speak he held her in his arms for a long, long time.

  When she spoke again it was to say, “So do I still get to ask questions?” her eyes again bright with excitement.

  He laughed and nodded, and off she went.

  Later, as they lay, limbs entwined and quiet murmurs giving way to sleep, she whispered, “You asked what I was thinking earlier. I just wondered why someone like you, someone so special, would spend time with plain, old, ordinary me.”

  Because I love you.

  The words were right there, a breath away from her ears, but weakness and fear, unlike any he’d ever known, stilled his tongue.

  Chapter Eight

  Today was the day!

  Julie was up with the sun, practically counting down the seconds before D’yavol arrived to pick her up for their very first date. He’d been so polite when he’d asked, calling her, even though he’d only had her phone number for two days, and asking if she’d be kind enough to accompany him to dinner that Saturday evening. She swore she could even hear an undercurrent of nervousness, which was hilarious after all the things, physical and emotional, they’d shared. Still she’d been so excited she hadn’t even been able to play coy, maybe pretend she had to check her calendar. Nope, she’d said yes almost before he’d gotten the words out. And, cruel man that he was, he wouldn’t even give her hint about where they were going, not even when she’d badgered him. He just said she should wear evening attire, which for her meant her all-purpose black dress.

  She’d laid it out last night, but now, in the harsh light of morning, it was the saddest, drabbest thing she’d ever seen. It simply would not do. Oh God, where could she get a dress on such short notice?

  Inspiration struck, and she went to her purse and grabbed her phone.

  “Somebody better be dead,” Shayla said as she picked up after the second ring, her hoarse, throaty voice revealing she’d been asleep.