Her Wish--A Playboy Genie Romance

by Sophie H. Morgan

  She managed a noise, hands curling into the brick behind her. Her head was starting to clear and fear was creeping back in like a swamp fog.

  He shoved her shoulder hard enough it bounced with an audible snap.

  She moaned.

  “She needs to be taught,” his friend said.

  “My little sister died last week.” Baseball Cap pushed his face into hers. “A wish could’ve saved her. You stole that wish from somebody who needed it, and you turn your fucking nose up at it?” His hand smacked her cheek, launching her face to the side.

  Keening noises poured from her as she cringed away.

  “Stupid, uptight bitch. You need a lesson.” He leaned away and pulled a gun from his jeans.

  The metal gleamed in the masked moonlight.

  Charlie stared, hypnotized. Her heart thudded to the rhythm of heavy rock music as she drew shuddery breaths.

  The barrel was thrust against her neck. She sobbed, trying to jerk away. He held her firm, his breath loud and angry.

  “Her name was Rosie and she had leukemia. I bought twenty tickets that Saturday.” He whipped the gun across her cheek. Pain shot like a line of fire across her right cheekbone as her head smashed against the brick.

  His friends shouted encouragement, off their faces with alcohol and drugs and grief-ridden violence.

  This is it. Charlie gazed at the barrel of the gun. I’m going to die.

  “You think you’re too good to wish?” Baseball Cap yelled, spit flying from his mouth and peppering her. “She was eight years old.”

  The gun smacked her again and again.

  When the cold metal pushed into her skin, she didn’t even fight.

  His eyes gleamed with grief. “It ain’t right,” he hissed. “It ain’t right.”

  “I’m sorry,” she managed.

  “You ain’t now, but you will be.” He aimed the gun at her. The safety clicking off was its own gunshot. “Why don’t you wish now?” he taunted. “Wish for your life. Like Rosie couldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her words broke in half as the gun wavered in his shaking hand.

  “Tough shit.”

  A lean shadow dove out of nowhere to tackle Baseball Cap. He yelled out in surprise, the gun going off in an explosion of noise and violence.

  Charlie slid down the wall, muscles unable to support her. She didn’t have to look to know who’d come to her rescue.

  Baseball Cap screamed in pain as something cracked, his friends piling in to help. The sounds floated past her, bones against flesh and blood splattering the pavement.

  The three men—barely older than eighteen, Charlie noted numbly—limped off, shouting as they went. Violence faded into the night, leaving silence punctuated by staccato breathing.

  Jax twisted, breathing hard. Bruises already marked his skin, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Charlie?”

  “Jax.”

  He came closer, squatting. The barest hesitation marked his movements as his fingers caressed the air above her right cheek and eye. “Jesus,” he breathed. Fury marked his eyes.

  She’d begun to shake, teeth chattering in the aftermath. “T-take me h-home?”

  He nodded and brought her to her feet.

  As she stood, she slid a hand across his stomach for support. If she hadn’t been standing so close, she’d have missed his flinch.

  “What . . . ?” she began to ask when her hand encountered something wet.

  She took it out and stared at the sticky red coating her fingers. “Jax . . .”

  “I’m fine.”

  She ignored him, pushing his jacket away from his shirt. A breath caught in her throat at the spreading stain the size of her fist. It oozed as she watched.

  “Oh, my God.” Her strange dreamlike haze snapped. She clutched him, frightened if she let go, he’d slip away from her faster than a dream upon awakening. “Jax, you’ve been shot.”

  “I thought something itched.” His lips curved in a shadow of his kilowatt smile.

  “How can you joke?” she cried, panicking as the stain spread. “We’ve got to get to a hospital.”

  “No, no hospital.”

  “Jax, you could die.” Her heart almost stopped at the thought. A world without this man wasn’t worth thinking about. She looked around wildly, spotting her fallen phone. The screen had cracked, but it could still work. She snatched it, along with her handbag.

  His hand closed over her dialing fingers. “I heal fast. Just take me to your place, slap a bandage on it. I’ll be good as new.” He hissed in a breath.

  “Are you sure?” She didn’t know anything about a Genie’s biology, but surely he wouldn’t lie when he was the one that could die. She knew men could be stupidly macho, but this wasn’t a paper cut.

  He’d been shot saving her. She was responsible.

  “Fine.” She slid an arm around his waist. “I don’t know if I can support you all the way.”

  “It’s fine—I can pop us there.” His chuckle fizzled out. Her hand was becoming saturated. That wound needed something, even if it was just a butterfly bandage.

  “Do it,” she demanded.

  The street wavered in front of her eyes as the gloopy sucking slid up her legs. Within an instant, they were in her bedroom.

  She helped him onto the bed. “Easy.” She stepped back, pushing away her hair with frustrated fingers. “I’ll, ah, get the first aid kit. And you need some alcohol—I think Kate has an old bottle of tequila here somewhere. Do you need anything else?”

  “I’ll be fine, Charlie.” Lines of pain decorated his eyes and mouth even as he said it.

  “You better be.” Charlie hurried off, sick to the heart.

  All my fault.

  8.

  Jax sucked in a breath as Charlie dabbed at his wound.

  “Sorry.” Anxious hazel eyes flicked between him and the injury. “I have to get it clean. Infection could . . .” Her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as she set to her task. “The good news is it looks like the bullet only grazed you.” She hiccupped a laugh. “Hardly more than a paper cut.” She swiped again.

  He slammed down his mask as flames seared his flesh.

  Still she sensed it. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” Her head was lowered; all he could see was the top of her hair, tangled from where she’d been yanked and pushed.

  Fury the likes of which he’d never known still rode him, bubbling through his blood. When he’d answered her call, the last thing he’d expected was to hear Charlie’s scream. He doubted he’d ever get that sound of terror out of his mind.

  “Why didn’t you use magic?” She went deep with her next swipe, and breath whistled in through his teeth. She winced. “Sorry.”

  “Stop saying that.” His mind struggled away from the pain to concentrate on her question. “Magic?”

  “Yeah.” She set the cloth aside, thank God. Her eyes were on the butterfly bandages she pulled from a navy first aid kit. “When you popped in, why didn’t you just, you know.” She flicked her wrist. “Send him flying. Send a streak of lightning at him.”

  Jax stared at what he could see of her face, still made up from Lisette’s Hour. “Adrenaline, I guess.”

  A big, fat lie. The truth was that when he’d seen the man holding a gun on Charlie, the need for blood had overtaken him. A craving for violence, for the heady pain of knuckles against bone, had swallowed any light.

  If he’d used magic, he would have killed them all.

  “Oh.” Charlie set about bandaging his wound. Her fingers grazed his skin, cool against feverish flesh. His belly tensed in reaction.

  She frowned. “Stop moving. You’re making the blood run again.”

  A smile tugged at his mouth. She could only be nice for so long. What did it say about him that he liked her ornery?

  He took a swig from the dusty tequila bottle she’d passed him as she pinched his flesh together. At least she wasn’t trying to sew i
t. Charlie struck him more as Nurse Ratched than Nurse Nightingale.

  “Why’d you call me?” Maybe it was the tequila or maybe it was the blood loss, but his head was loose, relaxed, even as his side pulsed. Charlie’s presence was calming, no nonsense tangled with a concern for his life that he found very sexy. Especially when she pulled her bottom lip through her teeth.

  “Huh?”

  “Why’d you call me?” he repeated. “Why not call 911?”

  He expected a sarcastic, sassy answer. Instead, she was silent. Her fingers stroked the skin above his wound, petting him. Her eyebrows knitted as she traced the line of the bullet. “I wish I had.” Her voice surprised him, broken glass and tears. “God, I’m so sorry, Jax.”

  “Hey.” The tequila bottle landed on her sturdy bedside table. He curled a hand around her arm. When she lifted her face, all he could see was the blossoming violet bruise decorating her right cheekbone and eye.

  His blood simmered. “Jesus.” Lifting a hand, he traced the bruise. “You’re going to have some shiner.”

  “I’ll just say you hit me,” she joked, but tears shimmered underneath.

  “Gorgeous, why’re you crying?”

  “I’m not crying. Only girls cry.”

  His smile was crooked and completely genuine, as was becoming the case around her. “What’s up?”

  “‘What’s up?’” She planted both hands on his chest as he pulled her in. They were cool and soft and made him think of tangled sheets and hot bodies.

  Her eyes became squinty. “I got you shot.”

  “No, I think charging a loaded gunman was what got me shot.” Jax stroked his thumb over her elbow. “You got me tequila.”

  “How can you joke?” Her hands left him as she stood. She dragged a hand through her straggling hair, revealing a small mark of crusted blood on her temple. “I should never have called you.”

  “Yes, you should’ve.” Jax thought about getting up, but it’d be embarrassing if he crashed to the floor. “I was the best choice. Though I’m surprised you never deleted my number.”

  “I put you in danger. You warned me things were getting heated.”

  “You couldn’t have done anything.” He shrugged, flinching as it tugged his side.

  “I could’ve wished.”

  “Yeah, you could’ve, but you didn’t. What we need to do is call the police and give a description of the men before they go after somebody else.”

  “They were just upset.”

  “When I’m upset, I don’t take a loaded gun and assault a woman.” His voice darkened.

  Charlie hugged her stomach, smearing blood on the white tee she wore beneath the blazer. “His little sister had died. She was eight.”

  “You swapped histories with the gunman?” Disbelief.

  “No, I—he . . .” She stopped. “His little sister had leukemia and needed a wish to live.”

  Jax had seen guilt before, and it glimmered in Charlie’s eyes like boulders that’d weigh her down.

  He shifted. “Charlie, that isn’t your fault.”

  “I know that—don’t you think I know that?” Her lips thinned. “I just feel bad, sick that I can’t even make a wish to help somebody. Even if I don’t want it, why can’t I just pass it along to somebody else?”

  “Because who wins, wishes.” His smile was empty of humor.

  “Then why can’t I wish to help? No, I can’t do that, because God forbid I become my mom.”

  Jax sat straighter. Instinct quivered. “Your mom?”

  Charlie glanced up before resuming her inspection of her carpet. “Yeah.” Breath leaked in a slow exhale.

  When she came to sit back on the bed, she seemed more distant than ever. Her eyes were far away as she traced a design on the green quilt. Along with everything else, it too was shabby.

  Jax also had the suspicion that that was why Charlie was so skinny—didn’t have enough money to spend on food. His gut pulled taut.

  “My mom,” Charlie said in a measured tone. “Well. It was us two, her and me, from the beginning. My dad was a loser who’d stumbled into a bar one night, settled for the first woman to say yes, and then stumbled right back on the open road.”

  Though he wondered why she was telling him, his curiosity held his lips shut. It, if nothing else, explained a few things about how Charlie treated charmers.

  “It wasn’t a bad life. I mean, we didn’t have a lot of money, but who does? But Mom always wanted more. We lived with her parents in Boston in a two up, two down, and I remember she used to cut photos of mansions and designer clothes out of magazines and stick them on our bedroom wall. That’s where we’re headed, baby.” Charlie shook her head. “She used to lull me to sleep at night with imaginary stories of the birthday parties she’d throw for me in our own white mansion with a Sleeping Beauty tower.”

  “She sounds great.” Jax wanted to touch her. He stretched out his foot so it rested against her hip.

  She seemed to take comfort from the connection.

  Charlie leaned more solidly against his foot and continued to stare at her aimless finger. “Mom was determined we get a place of our own, so she worked two jobs as a night waitress at a swanky bar and a cashier at a supermarket in the day. Even with my grandparents refusing to take rent, it took her a while to save any money. So, we were still living in the guest room of my grandparents’ when I turned five.” Charlie paused. “And then she bought a ticket for the lottery. And she won.”

  “You mom won the lottery?”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Her smile twisted, sad. “You should’ve seen how excited she was. She whirled me around, singing, dancing, shouting how it was going to change her life. And it did.”

  “Why do I think this has a bad ending?”

  “’Cause you’re a perceptive kind of guy?” Her eyes sparked with vitality before they dimmed again, lost in memory. “When the Genie came to our house, Mom put on her best dress. It was sunny yellow with massive cabbage roses stamped all over it and darned only at the hem. The Genie was a woman, blond, very beautiful. She smelled like cinnamon. I don’t even know why I remember that.”

  “What did your mom wish for?”

  “To be beautiful.” Charlie’s face was as pale as porcelain as she looked him squarely in the face. “Donahue women have a tendency to be plain and she figured it was her best shot of getting a better life.”

  “You’re not plain, Charlie.” His eyes traced from her tilted hazel eyes to the plump lower lip that drove him crazy.

  “I’m not fishing for compliments, Jax. I know what I look like, and I’m okay with it. My mom wasn’t.”

  He ignored her ridiculous assertion that she wasn’t beautiful—though when he’d decided that she was he couldn’t remember—and concentrated on what she was trying to say. “Why didn’t your mom wish for a house or money?”

  “Mom’s . . . not like me. She needs somebody to look after her. She wanted a man, and she figured a rich one would be more likely to marry beauty. So from that day, she became a stranger to me. She married her first husband six months after that wish.”

  “What happened?”

  “What soon became a pattern. She demanded attention, her husband got tired of her moods, left, and she started again. She began partying at all the best clubs, wearing dresses that were too tight for her, skirts that were too short. And she left me at my grandparents’ for them to raise.” Charlie shrugged. “I’m not saying they were mean to me. They tried. But they were old and stuck with a five-year-old girl who constantly cried for her mom.”

  “Charlie . . .” Jax didn’t know what to say. Her mom must have been a real bitch—figuring a rich man would want a woman without a kid in tow. Leaving a child who loved her for the allure of dollars. Something low down twisted.

  Charlie’s lips pursed. “Mom changed. Not only on the outside, but on the inside. Her wish corrupted her, you see. She wasn’t the sweet, hardworking, loving mom who’d tucked me into bed with a story. She was a snob
by, impatient, moody woman who always smelled like Chanel and Malboro—on the rare occasions when she visited.”

  To him, it sounded as though her mom had wanted her life a certain way, and a kid didn’t fit into the plan once she had her looks. His blood simmered with underlying anger. He understood it all now. Charlie needed someone to blame—who better than a Genie?

  Jax hesitated, then charged ahead with blunt honesty. “It wasn’t the wish that changed her, Charlie. It was the lifestyle. You can’t blame the wish for the consequences.”

  “You don’t understand. This change happened too fast. One day, I came down expecting waffles and a hug, and I got a pat on the head and a complaint that I’d spilled milk down her top. She left the next week.”

  “Charlie . . .” Your mom was a bitch from the beginning. But he couldn’t say that to her, not when her eyes looked shiny enough for tears to fall.

  “I didn’t tell you to start a fight. I just wanted . . .” Her shoulders lifted. “I don’t know what I wanted. To explain why, maybe? I don’t know. It seems stupid now.”

  Jax levered himself up so he could reach for her hand. It was even colder, as though reliving the memory provoked old pain that chilled her skin. He squeezed it, caressing with his thumb. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Sure. No problem. I, ah, guess I’ll leave you to get some sleep.” She tugged, hot color splashing her throat. “Jax, let me go.”

  He knew what she was doing. She’d shown him her vulnerable underbelly and she was panicking. She’d forgotten whom she was dealing with.

  “Tell me something,” he said.

  “Haven’t I confessed enough?” Embarrassment shaded her voice as she picked at a loose thread in the quilt.

  “Why didn’t you go through with it?” He stared hard at her.

  Charlie rubbed the thread between her fingers. Then her shoulders went back, her chin rose. “Because of you.”

  Three words, but they said everything.

  Jax smiled, bringing their joined hands to his mouth. He brushed a kiss across the soft skin of her palm. “I want to take you somewhere tomorrow night.”