Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  The city is alive outside his window, in all its twinkling glory, and I could stand here for hours just taking in the view, but first things first.

  “Can I borrow your phone charger?” I ask, digging my dead phone from my purse. “This thing’s been dying on me whenever the battery hits 37%. I’ve been meaning to take it in.”

  He points to the kitchen, where I immediately spot a familiar-looking white cord plugged into an outlet. If it could just charge for twenty minutes, I could order an Uber and feel better about heading home safely.

  Rhett’s gone when I turn around. I have no idea where he went or if he’s passed out in some random room, but I’m not about to go looking for him. Leaning against the counter, I will my phone to charge as fast as it can so I can get the hell out of here.

  It feels wrong being here, pretending I don’t know him. I feel like a fraud who’s about to get found out any second, and something tells me I don’t ever want to experience the wrath of Rhett Carson.

  There’s an undercurrent of anger in his eyes, something intense in the way he looks at me, like something’s boiling just below surface level, waiting for a chance to explode.

  Shuffling feet from the hallway tell me Rhett’s alive and well and not passed out in some random room, but I’m not prepared for what I see when he comes around the corner.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph ...

  I try not to ogle, but I can’t look away. I physically cannot.

  He’s not a man, he’s a Greek god chiseled from stone by Michelangelo himself.

  “Do you normally walk around shirtless when strange women from bars take you home?” I ask, masking my arousal with sarcasm as I take in the view. No shirt. Low slung navy sweats that show off two very chiseled arrows pointing toward a very noticeable bulge.

  “All the time,” he says, taking a seat in one of his living room chairs. He interlaces his fingers behind his head, smirking in my direction.

  He doesn’t look like the portrait of a man whose fiancée recently died in a tragic car accident, but I force myself to refrain from judging him because I know very little about his situation, and I’m sure there’s more to it than I could ever begin to assume.

  Besides, we all deal with grief in our own way.

  Turning away, I check my phone. It still says it’s charging, but the screen is black. It refuses to turn on, unlike the situation happening between my thighs at this very moment.

  “You have somewhere to be after this?” he asks.

  He seems ... less drunk now. And maybe the alcohol has worn off some since we left Prescott, but there’s something more coherent about his current state, and I can’t help but wonder if he lured me here under false pretenses as well.

  Guess that’d make us kind of even.

  Leaning against his marble island, I think about my brother and how many times he likely stood here, in this very kitchen, shooting the shit with his best friend. I imagine them laughing, giving each other hell. Talking about women and hockey and whatever else.

  “It’s been a long day,” I say, honest to a fault, “and I just want to go home and go to bed.”

  He rises from his chair, moving my way and keeping his cool blue eyes trained on me. He doesn’t want me to leave, and for some insane reason, I kind of want to stay. Or maybe I’m just curious about what would happen if I did.

  He’s interesting, this Rhett.

  And there’s something guarded yet deep about him. I wish I could open him up and pour him out to see what’s inside. I bet it would be fascinating.

  “Who’s the asshole that stood you up tonight?” he asks.

  I’m confused, narrowing my gaze, and then I realize what’s happening here: he thought I was meeting someone special at The Prescott Club.

  “Oh, that was my friend, Bostyn.” I wave my hand. “We were meeting for a drink. Something came up. I wasn’t stood up.”

  “Whatever you say.” He takes a step closer, his eyes gliding over my tight dress.

  Maybe I overdid it in the outfit department. So what? I rarely get a chance to dress up, and Bostyn made it sound like The Prescott Club was swanky. And it was.

  No regrets.

  “It is my story.” I laugh, not meaning to sound as nervous as I probably sound. But his warmth suddenly fills my space and our close proximity suddenly makes me want to know what his mouth would feel like against mine. I inhale, dragging in the scent of his natural musk.

  “What do you do for a living, Ayla?”

  His question catches me off guard, if only because he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who cares what his object of lust does for a paycheck.

  “I’m a writer.” I hate giving that answer, but it’s become a bit of a blanket statement these days because there are so many different kinds of writers and so many different paths for writers, and no one seems to care which kind you are because to a non-writer, they’re all the same.

  “What do you write?” He asks the dreaded second question that so few people dare to ask.

  “Are you asking because you’re genuinely interested or are you trying to make small talk because you think it’ll help you get laid?” My response amuses me and catches him off guard. His eyes lower to my mouth, and for a split second I can almost hear him deciding he wants to punish it for being so brassy.

  Good luck.

  “You want the truth?” he asks.

  “What kind of question is that? Of course I want the truth.” God, there’s not nearly enough truth in this world.

  “You look really uptight,” he says. “Like you could use a good fuck. And I could use a good fuck. So can we just cut this conversation, getting-to-know-you bullshit and get on with it already? Because you haven’t stopped staring since I came out here, and it’s clear as day we’re on the same fucking page.”

  I could slap him.

  But instead I laugh because I’m amused.

  If he were anyone else ...

  “You want my truth?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m oddly fascinated by you.” I want to reach out, touch him. Brush the sandy brown hair from his temple and let him place his hand over mine.

  “Why oddly? Why can’t you just be regular fascinated?” Boy’s got a smart mouth on him.

  “My fascination is odd because you’re odd,” I say.

  “How am I odd? Exactly?” I can’t tell if he’s offended or not.

  My arms fold across my chest, and I’m not sure why I’m so defensive all of a sudden. I stand by my conviction that Rhett Carson is a weirdo.

  A sexy hockey-playing Adonis of a weirdo.

  “You’re odd,” I say, clearing my throat and straightening my posture, “because you have the nerve to insult a woman’s drink, then imply that you want to fuck her, then you convince her to take you home because you’re so drunk you can barely stand and the second you’re home, you seem fine. On second thought, maybe that doesn’t make you odd. Maybe that makes you something else entirely.”

  “Pathetic.” He says the word like it sours his mouth.

  I pause. “I was going to say manipulative.”

  His hands form a peak and he breathes into them.

  “You’re right,” Rhett says, his façade dissolving. “You’re fucking right. And you had absolutely no intention of fucking me, did you?”

  I bite my lower lip. The insane little thought crossed my mind halfway home, when we were in the back of the cab and his leg kept intentionally brushing against mine, and I caught him staring a few seconds longer than he should have been.

  “No,” I lie.

  Why couldn’t he have just picked me up like a normal guy? Casual conversation. Flattery. Feigned interest. The usual tricks would’ve worked just fine because this man could easily be my sexual napalm, but now—if I sleep with him, I will be the pathetic one.

  Not to mention something about it just feels wrong. It wouldn’t be fair to leave out the one crucial little detail that might make him want absolutely nothi
ng to do with me.

  Hey, just so you know, I’m the kid sister of the guy who basically ruined your life the other week …

  The screen of my phone lights up, and I notice from the corner of my eye. My phone is charged, or at least it’s charged enough. He sees it too. It would be awkward if I stayed at this point.

  My phone blows up, text after text, from when Bostyn had been trying to reach me earlier. Her roommate got locked out of their apartment and was late for her London red-eye, so she had to head back and help her out so she didn’t miss her flight.

  “I should go.” I sigh.

  His eyes are focused now, and there’s something tenser and tighter about him. The alcohol must be wearing off, and this must be the real Rhett. His expression is stoic. He doesn’t seem upset that I’m leaving, and he doesn’t ask me to stay.

  “Yeah,” he says. “You should.”

  I let my gaze linger on his lips and the curve of his strong jaw. I visualize a pair of dimples and try to imagine what his corded steel arms would feel like wrapped around me, holding me against his solid chest.

  Shaking myself out of my own trance, I open my Uber app, order a ride, and shove everything into my purse.

  There’s a curious silence lingering between us, like we each feel the weight of what could have been had we thrown caution to the wind and fulfilled our reckless, alcohol-fueled desires.

  I show myself to the door, turning to say goodbye to Rhett one final time. His expression is hard, his eyes glaring. Either he’s pissed because I didn’t sleep with him, or he’s thinking of something else, someone else. I wonder if his mind does that sometimes, if it slips into the dark shadows where hurt and anger reside. I imagine it does.

  “Bye, Rhett,” I say, giving a small wave with my fingertips.

  He seems to snap out of it, his eyes growing clearer as they land on mine, but still, he says nothing. I don’t take offense because this is the man who pummeled into me earlier today and didn’t grunt so much as a solitary “sorry” in my direction.

  I leave his place feeling a little sad. For him, mostly. Sad because beneath his guarded persona, I see he’s deeply unhappy. He’s drowning in all the shit life has flung in his direction lately. His head is barely above water, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.

  Or maybe he does realize it—he just doesn’t care.

  Life called and this is his answer.

  Standing outside his apartment building, I check up and down the street, watching for my ride, which is supposed to be a red Chevy Impala with New York plates. It’s early July, but there’s an unusual chill in the late night air, so I wrap my arms around my sides. I turn to look at his building and watch as the lights go dark in his apartment.

  The car pulls up a moment later, and I climb inside, spouting off Bryce’s address to a middle-aged man with a newsboy cap, a Mets jersey, and a Boston accent.

  It isn’t until I get halfway home that I dig my hand inside my clutch and realize I accidentally took Rhett’s phone charger.

  7

  Rhett

  “Here you go.” My assistant, Allison, stands outside my door Tuesday morning, shoving a white paper bag from the Apple store in my direction.

  “You’re a saint, Ally. I ever tell you that?” I unbox the charger and plug my dying phone into the wall.

  “Every day.”

  “Some chick stole it last night.” I sigh.

  She steps carefully into my apartment, closing the door behind her before keeping her hands at her side. She’s always so uptight, formal. Allison’s the definition of an Ivy League, high-strung overachiever. Her biggest downfall is she doesn’t have the confidence to apply for the jobs she’s really qualified for. She’s too good for this job, and I know it, and one of these days I’m going to lose her. Until then, I’ll keep paying her enough to keep her happy and selfishly hope she doesn’t find something better anytime soon.

  “Who steals a phone charger?” she asks, nose wrinkled. “Maybe she wanted a souvenir and it was a quick grab?”

  “Nah. I think it was an accident.”

  “Oh, by the way, I’ve responded to almost every email in your inbox,” she says, always quick to get back to business. “Except the crazy ones. I deleted all those like you asked.”

  “Good.”

  “Also, I got a call this morning from People magazine.” Her meek, rushed tone is worrying. “They offered their condolences, and they know it’s a little soon, but they were wondering if you wouldn’t mind being interviewed.”

  “For what?” I know damn well for what.

  “They want to do a cover story on, um ...” Her words evaporate, and she won’t look me in the eye.

  I snort. “No fucking way. Not a chance in hell. They’re fucking morons if they think I’ll ever want to commercialize the worst fucking week of my entire fucking life so they can sell magazines.”

  “That’s what I figured,” she says. “I’ll call to confirm that you will not be doing an interview.”

  My jaw clenches as I make a pot of coffee. “Want some?”

  “No, thank you,” she says. “Also, ESPN is in the planning stages of a documentary on Bryce ... they asked if you wanted to be a part of it. The Spartans are going to be featured. They’ll be filming next month.”

  “Hell. Fucking. No.”

  “I’ll let them know.” Allison brushes her wispy blonde hair from her face, pushes her thick glasses up her nose, and repositions her bulky messenger bag over her child-sized body. “I’m going to head back to my office, if that’s okay with you.”

  I nod, pouring black coffee into a mug the color of my soul.

  The latch of the door follows next as Allison shuffles toward the hallway, but it’s the sound of women’s voices that captures my attention. Turning, I lift my coffee to my mouth, take a sip, and nearly spit it out when I see the girl from last night standing in my doorway.

  “Looking for this?” She lifts my charger in her hand. “Sorry. I’m not normally in the habit of stealing things that don’t belong to me.”

  I fight a smirk, placing my coffee aside. “Habit or not, you deserve to be punished, don’t you think? Stealing is a crime.”

  “And so is your lame attempt to pick me up.”

  “Who said I was trying to pick you up?”

  She rolls her eyes, showing herself into my place and depositing the stolen goods on the counter. “Anyway, here you are.”

  “You came all the way here just to give me this?”

  She glances around, shrugs, then secures her gaze on mine. “Yeah. So?”

  “I sent my assistant out to buy a new one this morning,” I say.

  She laughs. “Silly me. Of course you have an assistant.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Kind of.” She bites her lip, and I want to pull it between my teeth. “Yeah.”

  “Shut the door, Ayla,” I demand.

  “What?” Her left brow lifts.

  “Shut. The. Door.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can punish you for your crimes.”

  “Are we seriously back to that?” She rolls her beautiful hazel eyes.

  “Fine. I’ll do it.” I slam my mug on the counter, nearly shattering it, and head for the door. “Was that so hard?”

  “Not a morning person?” she asks, eyeing me up, down, and sideways.

  “I am a morning person,” I correct her. “I just don’t appreciate women who steal from me then find it appropriate to insult and mock me in my own apartment.”

  “Sensitive much?” Her lashes flutter. It isn’t quite an eye roll, but it’s almost the same.

  “Me? Sensitive?” I scoff. “You’re the one who got her panties in a bunch last night because some drunk guy was hitting on you in a bar.”

  “Some drunk guy wasn’t hitting me,” she says, eyes glinting. “Some drunk guy flat out said, ‘I’m taking you home tonight’ and expected me to lift up my skirt and tell him where to stick it.”

&nb
sp; “Classy.”

  Her arms fold across her chest. “Are we fighting or flirting? Because I can’t tell, and I really need to know because it determines how easy I’m going to go on you.”

  I hardly know this woman, but I fucking love her audaciousness.

  “We’re not fighting,” I say, eyes locked on my target as I make my way toward her. “But please, don’t go easy on me. Believe me, I can take it.”

  I still want to fuck her. I want to fuck her in a way I’ve never fucked anyone before. Detached. Unfeeling. Animal.

  Screw roses and dinner dates.

  Screw bended-knee proposals and Tiffany diamond rings.

  Never again.

  I want her body and only her body. And that mouth. God, I want that mouth.

  “Good.” She opens her bee-stung lips to speak again, but I hold up a finger to silence her.

  “Ayla, stop talking,” I command.

  She lifts a single brow again, clearly not appreciating my directives today. There’s a hint of shock broadcasting across her face, and I imagine she wasn’t expecting that pathetic drunk from the bar last night to be anything like this.

  “Anyone ever tell you how busy that little mouth of yours is?” I ask, lifting my hands to the sides of her neck. My fingers bury in her thick dark hair, and my thumbs graze the sides of her cashmere-soft face.

  Ayla’s tongue glides along her lips, and I watch the outside of her throat constrict as she swallows.

  “My mind never shuts off.” Her voice is quieter than it was before. “I talk a lot. I think a lot. I write a lot.”

  “Ayla.” I shush her, my lips drawing closer to hers. Her heartbeat pulses against my palm as I guide her mouth closer. Her floral perfume fills my lungs, and though it’s a scent I’ve never smelled before, it feels like coming home. Shoving all the noise, all the thoughts and feelings from my mind, I punish her with a biting kiss, my fingers tangling in her hair. Inhaling the air she releases as she melts against me, it hits me that she’s the first woman I’ve kissed since Damiana.

  There’s freedom in this kiss, freedom like I’ve never tasted before.