Chapter Nine
Life shrinks or expands in
proportion to one's courage.
Anaïs Nin
I take a step back from him, or I try to. He doesn’t let me. His eyes return to mine, and he frowns at what he sees. I try to back away again, and thankfully, he allows me to. He grabs my hand, though. I don’t mind. It’s easier than being pressed against him. I can’t think when I’m so close to him, when I can feel his erection cutting deliciously into my stomach.
When he starts to drag me toward the stairwell, I relent, but not before giving Aimee a helpless stare. She looks shocked, yet she still manages to give me a sassy eye roll at my attention.
I can almost hear her saying, “Puh-lease. I am not going to feel bad about you holding hands and dancing with Asher freakin’ Black.”
At the bottom of the stairs, I dig my heels in the ground, trying to stop our movement. Asher gives me an irritated sigh before turning to meet my stare, but I’m not focused on his face. I’m eyeing the little wet spot on his thigh, a wet spot that I made.
He follows my gaze and smirks before wiping it with the index finger on his free hand. I watch with an open mouth as—I kid you not—he dips his finger into his mouth and sucks.
“We’ll take care of that later,” he promises, before tugging me up the stairs. “When we get up there, play it cool. Just follow my lead.”
I just nod, too shocked and turned on to say anything. Unencumbered by a bra, my nipples are straining painful against my dress, the friction pleasant and frustrating all at once. In my defense, the man just licked my wetness off of his finger.
At the top of the stairwell, we’re greeted by the group of men in suits. The same group Asher was looking at while he danced with me. These are the men he was putting on a show for, so I force myself to pay attention. To look for any clues that might help me. I may be pliant with Asher’s demands, but it can’t hurt to be more informed.
There are five men here. Each man is accompanied by a beautiful woman. All but one looks like a carbon copy of the blonde girl from the Hallway Incident. Tall and skinny. Small, perky breasts. Heavy make-up. Expensive highlights. Designer dresses.
They’re all stunning, of course, which doesn’t astonish me. It doesn’t intimidate me either, because there’s no way I can’t feel beautiful after dancing like that with Asher. Plus, I may have been in the middle of nowhere for the last couple of years, but I still know what pretty looks like, and I know that, for most people, I fit the bill.
I stand there warily as a few of the women eye me up and down, not cruelly—for the most part—but judgmentally all the same. The man on the far end looks me up and down as well. The beginnings of an ugly sneer curl against his thin lips.
After a tense amount of time, Asher still hasn’t introduced me, so I give a little awkward wave with my free hand and say, “Hi! My name is Lucy. I’m—”
Asher cuts me off, “My fiancée.”
His what?!
A few of the girls gasp.
I’m amazed I haven’t myself.
Is this why one night stands get a bad rep? They up and leave you before you reach an orgasm, track you down a month later, threaten you, then pseudo-propose to you in front of a group of middle aged men and their wives?
“Your fiancée, eh?” a skeptical voice asks. It belongs to the man that has been sneering at us. “That’s convenient timing.”
Asher waves our joined hands a little, as if it’s proof of the legitimacy of our alleged engagement. My hand, which has been sweating since before the news of his fake proposal was announced, almost slips out of his palm. He tightens his grip, which only makes me sweat even more.
Everyone else is still silent.
The sneering man’s eyes narrow on my left hand. A smug look crosses his face. He looks all too satisfied. “Where’s the ring?”
I can feel Asher’s grip tighten around my hand in response. It’s almost painful now. I mentally sigh. It’s now or never, and I have a feeling that this is the favor he has been leading up to. What I’ve been auditioning for.
Pretending to be Asher’s fiancée is better than carrying out a hit or drowning a puppy or any of the million other damning things I thought he would ask me to do. None of my guesses have even been close to being his fake fiancée, but when I really consider it, this is the best case scenario.
I can live my life normally and just nod my head if anyone asks me if we’re engaged. So, I make my decision, resolving to commit to Asher’s lie.
I give a fake admonishing gasp and say, “Asher! You were supposed to be keeping our engagement a secret, babe!” I playfully hit his chest with my free hand. Then, I lower my voice conspiratorially, turn towards the sneering man and say, “He wasn’t supposed to announce anything until I graduate. I wanted to spend my time at Wilton without any fanfare.” I hold up my left hand and wiggle my bare fingers. “Hence the lack of a ring.” I mimic a disappointed sigh. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag now.”
When one of the other men says, “Wow. Wilton? That’s very impressive, dear,” Asher loosens his grip on my hand and gives it a quick squeeze. I know it’s his way of conveying his approval. I turn to look at him, being sure to paste an adoring look across my face.
Damn, I’m a great actress.
My talents are lost on the sciences.
Asher leans in to kiss my temple. The kiss conceals the “thanks” he slips under his breath. I give a slight nod that I know only he will pick up and turn around to lean against him. He wraps his free arm across my body, and one of the girls lets out a long “awwww!” Meanwhile, I’m trying to conceal the way my heart is pounding out of my chest at his gentle touch.
I nod to the man that made the comment about Wilton and say, “Thank you. I’m very thankful to have gotten in. It’s truly a wonderful school.” And to make our fake engagement more believable, I gush, “You know, Asher actually went there, too.” I look up at him with fake googly eyes and say, “He snuck into two of my lectures today and ended up answering all of my stats professor’s questions! It was unbelievable.”
The sneering man’s face is red now. He looks irritated, which gives me the feeling that this charade is for him. And it seems to be working. He’s clearly pissed.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” he says. He turns to the rest of his group. “We have a lot to prepare for this upcoming week. I think I’m going to call it a night.”
The rest of the group give murmurs of agreements and leave after saying their goodbyes to Asher and me. When they are gone, Asher signals to one of his guards, who nods before pulling a device out of his sleeve.
It’s a long, flat stick, like the ones airport security uses to search for any metals. I watch in fascination as the guard waves the stick all around the VIP area, as if searching for something. A bug, probably.
The idea of those men placing a bug in here is disturbing. It makes me tense, and Asher squeezes me in response. It’s then that I realize I’m still in his arms. My face flushes. I step away from his body immediately and turn to face him.
He studies me as I study him.
“You know,” he begins, “you’re a really good liar. If I didn’t know better, I might have to reconsider believing you when you say you’re not a spy for one of the other families. Or a fed.”
He can’t afford to. That’s unspoken, but we both know it’s true. I can tell those men are important, and now they think we’re engaged. He needs me. And as long as he needs me, I’m safe in New York and can stay at Wilton. Because of this, I plan to ride the safety of this fake engagement out for as long as I can.
I’m silent for a moment before giving him a shrug. “I grew up in foster care. I learned how to lie when social services came around.”
It’s grim, but it’s my reality. Some of the foster families used to starve me or made it known that they only took me in for the monthly check, but those foster families are better than the ones that beat me.
The on
es that physically hurt me, and the families like Steve, are the most dangerous ones. You can always steal food and live with people that don’t care about you, but you can’t undo death. It’s just not possible. So, I trained myself to lie to social workers about my living conditions, and in return, I would be allowed to stay in the “better” homes.
Asher nods. There’s no pity in his eyes. Just understanding. “Then I made the right choice. You’ll be heading back with me tonight.”
“What?” Did I hear that right? “You want me to sleep at your place?”
He sighs, like it’s a nuisance to explain his thought process to me. “I doubt they’ll have eyes on you yet, but just in case, you will need to stay with me. There cannot be any doubt regarding the validity of this engagement.”
No way. I didn’t agree to that. I don’t agree to that. I thought that, at most, I would have to go to a few events, look pretty and smile a lot. But moving in with him? That’s asking for too much.
I take another step back, placing even more distance between us. “No. Absolutely not,” I say, crossing my arms.
The more time I spend with Asher, the more confident I feel about talking back. I like the newfound fearlessness in me, even if the reason for it is currently giving me a death glare.
He narrows his eyes. “Need I remind you that you owe me a favor of my choosing? You don’t get to say no, Lucy.” He turns to one of his guards and says, “Let her friend know that Lucy will be coming with me.”
I turn to the guard and say, “No. Let my friend know that I will not be coming with Mr. Black. Tell her to call the police if I do not come home tonight, for I will undoubtedly have been kidnapped.”
Asher growls when the guard doesn’t move. “Xavier, ignore her. Do as I say,” he barks, before forcibly dragging me into a hidden elevator, located behind one of the tinted glass panels.
I struggle against his hold, but it only brings me closer to him.
He laughs. “Keep doing that, sweetheart. It only makes this more enjoyable.”
I stop moving and twist my head to level him with a glare. The scary bastard looks almost… pleased with himself. He presses a button on the panel. The elevator jerks to a downward start, and I stumble on my heels, unprepared for the sudden movement. Asher steadies me, tightening his grip around my waist.
“Let go of me,” I demand.
A fleeting smirk graces his face. “Are you going to fall?”
I scowl. “No.”
“Are you going to behave?”
“No, but I’ll scream if you don’t let go.”
He laughs. “Go ahead. No one will hear you.”
And when the doors open into an empty, private garage, I see that he’s right.
I sigh. “Fine. I won’t scream. Promise.” I hold up four fingers, which I think is Scout’s Honor or something like that.
He looks at my hand, rolls his eyes, and pushes one of my fingers down, so I’m only holding three up. Then, he nods and walks away after releasing me. I follow after him, reluctantly, though I’m actually not too concerned about my safety. I know I’ll be okay for as long as he needs me, though I would appreciate it if he could turn down the scary factor a bit.
“You know,” I begin, eyeing him warily. “If we’re going to do this, you’re going to have to be less scary.”
“Less scary?”
I nod and make a sweeping gesture at him with my hand. “See? Scary.”
He has a scowl on his face. His arms are crossed, causing his biceps to bulge formidably. At my gesture, though, he releases his arms, but it doesn’t make a big difference. He’s still ripped, and it’s still intimidating.
“I don’t know what you expect me to do, Lucy.”
“You could try smiling more.”
I watch as his lips turn up into a forced grin. He looks like the offspring of The Lakeshore Strangler and the Joker. The sight is so frightening, I trip over my heels and nearly face plant onto the concrete. Asher steadies me, but I shove his arm off of me and scowl.
“Never do that again.” The scowl is still on my face.
“Duly noted,” he says dryly.
When we approach a fancy looking car, I see Asher play with his watch before the doors automatically lift like bird wings. As soon as he sees my gaping face, Asher just rolls his eyes and gets in. I slide into the passenger seat and jump when the doors automatically close as soon as my butt hits the buttery leather.
I eye Asher’s magical watch in suspicion as he starts the car and drives out of the garage.
He sees my look and says, “It’s a smart watch. It won’t bite.”
I have never seen a smart watch like that before. It doesn’t even look like a watch. A camel colored leather strap is attached to the face of it. Though it has an electronic interface, the face is set to mimic the analog appearance of a regular watch. It’s so realistic I can’t tell the difference. The electronic screen is circular, encased in an expensive black setting that looks more like it belongs to a Rolex or Cartier than an electronic watch.
“That is so ostentatious,” I say, thinking of all the suffering I’ve witnessed abroad.
“In a few years, it will be the norm.”
“Yeah,” I arch my brow, “for snobby rich guys.”
“Smart phones used to be rare, but now they’re everywhere. You don’t think iPhones are ‘ostentatious,’ do you?” He eyes the iPhone I’m clutching in one of my hands.
His tone is condescending, which annoys me, but I let it go. I don’t know why I’m being so confrontational. It’s not like I don’t know the top one percent of the one percent exists. Hell, I usually don’t even care.
But now, because he is a part of this lifestyle, I feel compelled to resent it. I also quickly realize my stupidity. I’m poking a bear that has been generous enough not to kill me. I should be curled into the fetal position. Instead, I’m angering it.
“Sorry,” I relent, because I don’t want to be bear food.
I’m too cute to be bear food. What do bears eat anyway? Fish? Plants? Bugs? Awkward brunettes with a penchant for running away from their problems? I don’t look like any of those. Okay, well, maybe the last one describes me to a T.
He gives me a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. There’s a rare, dumbfounded look in those blue eyes.
I explain myself, “I’ll stop being petty if you promise we’ll revisit the discussion about my living arrangements after we wake up.”
He nods. “Fine. I can agree to that. We’ll talk about it in the morning, but it won’t matter. You’re living with me, and that’s final.”
My jaw drops. “You’re impossible!”
A hint of a smile ghosts his lips. “I’m not the one who called the cops. You put yourself in this situation.”
I shut up.
We drive a few more minutes in silence before he speaks again. “You’re her replacement.”
“Whose?” I ask, but I suspect I already know the answer to my own question.
“The girl you saw getting a pat down—”
“Manhandled,” I correct.
He rolls his eyes but lets my interjection slide. “That girl you saw that night was supposed to be my fake fiancée, but you ruined that the minute you brought negative attention to her when you called the cops.”
“Oh.” And because I can’t help myself, I ask, “Why was she getting manhandled?”
“She was about to go over the marriage contract with my lawyer. She already signed an NDA, but I didn’t trust her not to have a recording device on her. It was supposed to be a quick and simple pat down. She was being difficult, not letting Bastian do his job. He may have gotten a little rough, but that’s on her.”
I nod. I also suspect that I’ll be seeing an NDA soon. I’m astonished that I haven’t already been forced to sign one, but the whole club ruse seems like it was spontaneous. Like Asher saw an opportunity with both me and those men there, and he seized it.
“Why didn’t you
pat me down?”
“I already did, Lucy.”
“Wh—”
I stop myself as the realization hits. The dance. I thought he was feeling the curves of my body, but he was really patting me down. It’s crazy how someone so book smart can be so stupid. You’d think my life abroad and as a foster child would impart on me more wisdom, but it obviously hasn’t.
I redirect my line of questioning, noting gratefully that he’s actually being pretty open. “Why do you even need a fake fiancée? You have to know how attractive you are.” I don’t even blush when I say this. It’s simply factual. “You could, I don’t know, maybe find yourself a real fiancée? Someone you don’t have to force into this.”
He’s smirking when he says, “I didn’t have to force Nicole into this. She wanted to all on her own. You were the one who ruined that. You led me to this.”
There’s no point in arguing against that, so I say, “A fake fiancée is a pretty drastic solution to anything. You’re going to need to explain this to me if you want me to play along with your charade.”
His face hardens, reminding me that he’s a predator. “You’ll play along, because you have to.” He sighs. “I’m only explaining this because it’s pertinent to your role as my fiancée. I’ve been in the process of leaving the Romano family for a while now.”
Shock eclipses my ire. “What? Nobody just leaves the mafia.”
“I was never actually in it to begin with. I was an independent contractor, someone that was only called in to fix the messes on an as needed basis. I wasn’t involved in the day to day operations.”
Parts of my Google search say otherwise.
“But you own some of the mob businesses.”
“It’s just a small percentage of only some of the companies,” he corrects. “I came in as a business consultant. They gave me a scholarship under a shell corporation that allowed me to afford Wilton’s tuition. In return, I became their business consultant. But only as an independent contractor.”
Asher Black: A Fake Fiance Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 1) Page 8