Left (Still Standing, #1)

by Graves, T. R.

  Ryker: I'd never take the clothes or the furniture away. I'm not a small-dicked asshole like your ex-boyfriend.

  Me: I wasn't referring to the clothes or the furniture, but it's good to know you're not... an asshole.

  Ryker: I'm not small-dicked either.

  Me: Equally good to know.

  Ryker: And I have every intention of fucking you long and hard very soon in order to prove that to you.

  Holy hell! Where did that come from?

  My face flushes. I've never sexted with anyone. In fact, I'm not even sure this would qualify, but it seems like it might.

  Me: I'm not sure how to respond to that.

  Ryker: I think it's customary to respond to a man who has voiced a desire to fuck you with something like, 'I'd love nothing more'... If that's how you truly feel.

  I nod as if he can see me and reply, cringing the instant I hit the send button to engage in my first very, very mild sext.

  Me: Thank you, kind sir. I'd love nothing more.

  Ryker: I'm in a meeting, one where I've already been demeaned and belittled for my tardiness, or I'd fly out of here and finish what we started earlier.

  My heart squeezes. A very hot night of sex with this gorgeous man would definitely improve my mood.

  Me: My boss frowns on an employee sexting... I mean texting... during meetings.

  Ryker: First of all, I'm the boss so I do whatever I want. Second, I don't consider this sexting, but I like the idea of doing that as foreplay with you.

  Me: If you're the boss, who gave you a hard time for being late?

  Ryker: James. He's not my boss. For all practical purposes, he's my father. I do everything possible to make him proud... though he can be a real asshole himself... hence the verbal assault when I was late.

  Me: My father would never yell at me.

  Ryker: Can I meet him this weekend?

  Holy moly! He's fast.

  Me: Yes. He'll be here Friday. Brunch on Sunday?

  It takes a while before I get a response, and I wonder if he's rethought his request. After I've walked away from my phone (reminding myself a watched pot never boils), I hear the ping that lets me know he's responded.

  Ryker: Sorry. I was reprimanded for not paying enough attention to James. He wants to know who my newest tart is. I couldn't tell him because it seems I don't know your last name.

  Me: Keep him guessing. Tell him I'm the tartest of tarts, and that is all he needs to know about me.

  Ryker: That's good. He loves smartasses. Thinks of them as kindred souls.

  Me: He sounds like a real saint.

  Ryker: He is in my eyes.

  Me: I know, but I think he's the lucky one to have you.

  Ryker: We'll have to have the 'who's luckier debate' later. He's giving me the evil eye, and I'm sure I'm about to have a glass of scotch thrown at my head.

  Me: If he does anything to damage that beautiful face of yours, he'll have me to answer to.

  Ryker: I'll tell him. Talk to you later.

  Flying high on my sexting hormones, I grab my car keys. I have every intention of heading over to the mall and taking my mind off of everything by enjoying a few hours of mindless shopping. I need new covers and sheets for my bed and all kinds of apartment staples since Colt took or broke so many things.

  I'm almost skipping when I take the elevator down to the garage and am stopped dead in my tracks when I find that my beautiful burgundy Lexus ES 350, last year's birthday present from Colt, is missing from its designated parking spot. I don't look long or hard for it. Its seizure reeks of Colt's revenge. I curse myself for not noticing earlier.

  "Goddammit, Colt! Have you got to take everything away from me?" I scream with my every word echoing loudly around the underground garage.

  I could take the bus to the mall, but I'm not. Bags of sheets, pillows, and comforters are not carry-ons I have any intention of hauling via Houston's Metro. Instead, I'll ask Sabrina to drive me to the Katy Mills Mall tomorrow after work. She's a shopaholic. I'm absolutely sure she won't mind.

  Furious with Colt, I stomp like a child as I storm my way back up to my apartment.

  I'll just have to make do until I can resupply the apartment.

  * * *

  Several hours later and long before I would normally go to bed (with nothing to do, no place to sit, and no TV to watch), I head upstairs for a long hot bath before going to bed. After I'm out of the tub and my hair is silky, clean, and dry, I head into my closet. I want to don a pair of my new pajamas and plan what I'm going to wear to work the next day.

  Every pair of pajamas bought for me by Ryker is small, thin, and silky. I grab a purple camisole with a tag that reads Majestic and a pair of matching sleep shorts. I slip them on before studying the rest of the clothes and embarking upon the task of picking the perfect work outfit.

  It only takes me a second to find a body-hugging, high-waist red pencil skirt, a black, fitted, silk T-shirt, and Christian Louboutin red velvet and black ostrich boots. The outfit is so smart and sexy, I debate its work professionalism given it tightness, but decide... Why the hell not?

  Coming out of my closet, I stare at the stripped mattress and try to think of what I can use as makeshift pillows and covers. In the end, I grab a few beach towels from my weekend beach bag and a brand new giant fluffy terry cloth robe. After pairing the towels, folding, and rolling them into a pitiful excuse of a pillow, I wrap up in the robe and crawl into the bed.

  It may be early, but I'm exhausted. The last few days of battling with Colt have finally taken their toll on me. I curl up in a tight ball and cover my feet with the robe. Nothing about the bare bed or the improvised linens are comfortable, but its lack of coziness doesn't prevent me from falling asleep almost instantly.

  I'm not sure if I sleep for minutes or hours before I open my eyes and see Colt sitting on the edge of the bed. He's got his elbows on his knees and he's holding his forehead in his hands. I can tell by the way his shoulders are bobbing that he's crying.

  I sit up and reach out for him. He's hurting, and no matter what he's done to me, I can't stand to see him like this.

  "Colt," I whisper.

  As soon as my hand touches his bicep, he jerks away from me.

  "Stop touching me!" he yells with every ounce of hurt he feels, making his words more forceful, more hateful.

  Stunned by his venom, I pull back and watch him. In a moment of surreal clarity, it occurs to me that Colt and I have never had the first real serious conversation before this weekend. We've spent our time together talking about our projects, attending dinner parties, obeying Wyatt's orders, claiming to love each other, and fucking. Nothing more. The intimacy of the secrets I've shared with Ryker and the way he's accepted me despite them shines a light on the fact that my relationship with Colt has been too shallow to withstand the tests of time.

  With an anger that is barely controlled, Colt says, "I know you didn't stay here Friday night because I waited and waited for you to make it home. You never came. I wandered around this apartment worried sick about you. I wanted to apologize, to let you know I was sorry for hurting you, but I couldn't."

  "When you finally came home Saturday, I thought we could make up. Let bygones be bygones. That's what I thought until I saw that you had the man from the restaurant with you. I snapped. I didn't mean to touch you. I really didn't. I wanted you to know that, but you wouldn't answer your goddamned phone. I tracked your cell until you made it to the hotel in San Antonio," Colt says, shaking his head. "When I called the hotel and asked for Baylee Messenger, they told me they didn't have anybody by that name there. That's when I knew... you were with him... registered under his name. I was so pissed that I had everything I ever bought for you moved out of this apartment."

  Colt wipes his hand across his face, smearing his tears. "Tonight, I come here and find you alone, giving me the tiniest ray of hope that you've come to your senses and booted him like the sleazeball he is." Colt holds up my cell phone. "Funny what m
essages can tell you about someone."

  I sit up straight when it occurs to me that he's read the very private messages between Ryker and me.

  Holy hell!

  My mouth drops as I wait for the train wreck to happen. In slow motion, I witness every excruciating second.

  "I have every intention of fucking you long and hard." Colt coldly reads Ryker's message to me, purposefully accentuating several key words.

  It never occurred to me that anyone would see that message but me. I'm ashamed I didn't delete them. More than anything, I'm appalled that he's checking up on me as if we're still together.

  He left me.

  He left me.

  He left me.

  "Colt, that's an invasion of privacy. It was never meant for you to read," I exclaim, reaching over as if I could easily take the phone away from him.

  He holds it up out of my reach and keeps reading. "I think it's customary to respond to a man who has voiced a desire to fuck you with something like, 'I'd love nothing more'... If that's how you truly feel," Colt reads hatefully. "Do you know how surprised I was when I saw that my Baylee, my sweet and innocent Baylee responded back with, Thank you, kind sir. I'd love nothing more. Jesus, Baylee! Within hours of our breakup, you become a fucking whore."

  His words hurt. "That's not fair. You left me. I didn't leave you."

  "I've been trying to apologize to you since it happened, but you've been too busy fucking a stranger to concern yourself with saving our four-year relationship. I really didn't know what a bitch you were until this. Dad's been right about you all along," Colt says, laughing. It's dark in the room, but his sardonic and sarcastic tone is impossible to miss.

  "I took everything so you'd know what it's going to be like for you without me. You don't make enough money to afford this apartment, much less to buy a car so you can get back and forth to work. After you get tired of living like this,"—Colt motions to the coverless bed—"you can let me know, and we'll talk about how we can move forward. It won't be the life either of us ever planned. Dad will never let that happen, but you can live here. I'll take care of you. We'll be together the only way I'll ever be able to be with you again."

  His vile mood is not one I've ever seen before. His plans for the future and the way he talks about it with such disgust scares me. I know better than to antagonize him, especially after the way he shook me yesterday. Rather than challenge him or let him know I'll live in the Star of Hope Homeless Shelter before I live a life where I'm dependent on him and his money—before I become his kept mistress—I scoot away from him.

  As soon as I make the first move, he looks over at me, waiting for something. It takes me a second to realize he's assumed before this minute that his offer would be instantly accepted, that I would fall into his arms and thank him for keeping me around.

  Very gently, I shake my head and say, "Colt, I can't live like that. I'm either all in or all out. You know that."

  He rounds on me like I'm a jury that just needs to be convinced that what he's saying is the most logical thing for both of us.

  "Baylee, we'd be together. Eventually, I'm going to have to marry Eden. Dad won't have it any other way. But that won't stop us from being together. I love you... I love fucking you. I don't ever want to give that up," he says, watching me and waiting to see if I'll agree.

  When I don't instantaneously agree to his plan, he continues, "I swear to God I'll take care of you. I'll rewrite the check just to prove it to you, Bay." He has the good sense to hesitate before he says, "I-I won't be able to have kids with you... you know... because of your mother."

  My head snaps toward him.

  I've never told him anything about my mother.

  "What do you mean by that?" I ask acerbically.

  He shrugs. "I'm not trying to hurt your feelings. Dad has a file on you. While you never thought it was important to share your mom's history with me, I know she committed suicide. I always assumed you were embarrassed by what she did and didn't want anyone to think you would do the same. I don't really care why you didn't open up to me, but I do know that neither Dad nor I want to run the risk of bringing kids into the world that are prone to depression... suicide." Colt regurgitates Wyatt's words, Wyatt's prejudices, Wyatt's ignorance.

  I jump out of the bed and stand ready to fight for my mother and my memory of her. "I'd be an amazing mother if I were half as loving as she was. She slept with me every night until she died because she knew I was afraid of sleeping by myself. She never yelled. She calmly stated her case and waited for me to understand the rationale behind her decisions. She taught me about karma during a round of putt-putt golf." I defend her hysterically.

  After Colt raises his brows in a way that tells me he thinks I've just gone off the deep end, I explain. "A boy cut in front of me when we were playing golf. I was indignant. She shook her head and said, 'What goes around comes around.' It took that boy a dozen shots to make the very easy hole. I stepped up after him, I tapped the ball, and it went in the first time. When she grinned back at me, I realized that she knew a lot about the world... that she was a good mom... that I was proud to be her daughter." I glare at Colt with my own rage. "I'm sorry if I've ever let you or anyone else think any different. I hate that I've lived every day since her death acting as if I'm ashamed of her. I'm not. I loved her."

  "No one's saying you didn't love her, Baylee. I'm just saying we can't have kids together because of what she did," he says as casually as if he were saying the world is round.

  He left me.

  He shook me.

  He spied on me.

  He violated my privacy.

  He called me a whore and thinks of me as nothing more than his future mistress.

  Now this! He's telling me I don't have the genes to be the mother of his children.

  "Get out and don't ever come back!" I scream, opening the door to the bedroom. "I never want to see you again. EVER!"

  With a glare of disbelief, Colt strolls toward me.

  "You better think about what you're doing before you throw me out. You need me more than I need you. I've thought about this. We can make this work," he says, reaching out to me, putting his arms around my waist, pulling me into him, and acting as if we are still together.

  When he leans over and tries to kiss me, I turn away from him and wipe the tear dripping off my chin on the robe that's fallen open. It may be dark in the room, but there's enough light for him to catch a glimpse of the tiny pajamas and want more than I'm prepared to give him.

  "Jesus, you're beautiful," he mumbles, kissing my neck and squeezing me tighter.

  He's turned completely on—the pajamas his catalyst. I know him, and I know what he wants right now. I reach down and try to tie the robe back together, but he stops me. Quicker than I would ever have thought possible, he has it off my shoulders and pooled around my feet.

  "Stop it, Colt," I order.

  His hand snakes its way under my camisole, up my stomach, and over to my breast while he pretends I've not said a word. He palms me roughly while sliding his legs between mine and pinning me against the wall. "I can't leave these. They are the most beautiful pair I've ever seen," he says, pushing himself into me.

  I know he expects me to wrap my legs around him and give him permission to fuck me, but I refuse. I don't want him like this.

  "I mean it, Colt! This isn't working for me," I say, wriggling to get away from him, but only succeeding in turning him on more.

  "Baylee... this is what we do. We fuck! Besides, this will be the best fuck we've ever had because we thought we'd lost each other... only to find we haven't... because there are other ways for us to be together," he says, ripping the pajama bottoms and underwear off of me and fumbling with the button and then the zipper on his jeans.

  Colt's hand grazes between my legs. After it does, he stares at me in shock... and awe. "What in the hell? Did you shave down there? Holy hell! That's going to make this all the better."

  Jesus Christ! He's not g
oing to stop if I don't do something.

  In that instant, I turn banshee. I fight against Colt for real. This time, I don't care if I hurt him. I use every ounce of self-defense training I've learned over the years. Dr. Aaron would be proud.

  Because of a well-placed head-butt, he backs away from me and holds his nose. I see the blood seeping between his fingers, but I don't stop to render aid or give a lot of thought to the way he looks at me like I've just committed the ultimate betrayal.

  Instead, I push him out the door and yell, "You need to leave before I call the police and file a domestic violence complaint against you. Wyatt won't be happy if he has to get out of the bed in the middle of the night and bail you out of jail, Colt. Now go!"

  "You goddamned whore! I think you broke my nose," he says, and his words are muted because of the way he's cupping his nose with his hands.

  "You wouldn't stop. What would you have me do?"

  "We've fucked almost every night for four years. I know your body better than you do. You would've enjoyed every second of it. I can promise you that."

  "Colt, you're making it awful hard for me to stay friends with you."

  "The only kind of buddy I want to be with you, Baylee, is a fuck buddy. If I can't have that, I don't need you," he says. His words fade the farther away from the door he gets.

  My hands are shaking while I stand in the middle of the room and listen for the front door to open and close, for him to leave. Instead, I hear lots of commotion downstairs. Based on the racket, I suspect he's using my remaining possessions—the ones I very carefully organized today—as soccer balls, kicking them all over the apartment and breaking and tearing up anything that he'd generously left for me when he moved out.

  He's making sure I'm left with nothing.

  Shaking like a leaf, I jump when I finally hear the front door open and slam closed. I don't leave the room. Running down and making sure the door is locked won't do any good.

  He has a key.

  The apartment is in his name.

  He can come in here anytime he wants.

  CHAPTER 12

  UNSALVAGEABLE

  Baylee