by Angel Payne
Margaux
“We need to talk.”
Nothing good ever came from a conversation that started that way. This time was no different, even if the words emanated from the golden god of a man I was still half-peeved with. Atlanta job offer, my ass. He belonged in Atlanta as much as I belonged in a Barstow fast food joint.
“Michael.” I peered across the living room, checking the time. I hadn’t even looked when first buzzing him up but now, even looking at projected numbers on the wall that were twenty-four-inches high, I found the truth hard to believe. “It’s quarter past six.”
“I know.” He awkwardly pecked the top of my head “Sorry.”
Despite my half-conscious state, I instantly wanted more than the kiss. I hated the way things were now—and “now” was only a little more than eight hours old. I wanted to slap him and mack on him at the same time. Sounded like the stuff of a very hot fuck to me. But he wanted more than—how had he phrased it?—“supply and demand meeting at opportune moments”.
In short, he wanted what I couldn’t give. Hearts, flowers, date nights, a drawer at his place. Everything a girl dreamed of from a guy. Everything I dreamed of from a guy.
Everything I’d fuck up in major, awful ways. Especially now.
So, I’d pulled the classic Margaux. Walked out the door first—even if it had split my heart cleanly in two. And very likely, his too.
Which made his appearance, especially wearing that Agent Mulder face, even more baffling. I shoved my hair back and rubbed my eyes, trying to claim full consciousness while hiding my belch, courtesy of the cherry pie therapy I’d indulged after getting home last night. The side of vanilla bean ice cream probably hadn’t helped, either. The ensuing stomach ache had only eclipsed the heartache for about ten minutes. God, everything had hurt—to the point that I just flipped off Andre when he tried to be a shoulder to cry on. If, and that was a big giant if, there was going to be crying, it certainly wouldn’t be in public where I would be caught on film as snicker fodder for the boys at TMZ.
None of that lent a shred of enlightenment now. “You missing something?” I muttered. “Did you leave something here?” It seemed the only explanation that made sense—except that maybe he just wanted a closure fuck. I’m open to the suggestion, stud. I’d never turn down the chance to have him in my bed. The man rocked my senses like nobody else—and if required, I could park all the emotions right outside the door.
For the most part.
“I was just at the office,” he said.
“Mutant,” I countered. “You’re worse than me. If I go in on a Sunday, at least I wait until the sun is up.”
“I went in to submit my resignation letter, and get my shit packed.”
Well, now I was awake. “Oh.” What the hell?
“But something strange happened while I was there. I can’t put it all together and I’m hoping you can shed some light on it.”
Something strange. He seemed sincerely troubled by that, but I was beyond confused. A ploy for the closure fuck still made more sense. But turning in his resignation letter—if he was playing this straight up—meant he was serious about Atlanta. Shit.
This was a lot to handle before caffeine. “Look, Michael…I’m not sure what any kind of drama at your office has to do with me.” I licked my lips and tested out a little step forward, pulling at the collar of his jacket. He’d showered recently. Hell, it smelled nice. Soap and shampoo and his untamed scent…ohhh, yes. “I would’ve been happy to just meet up again. You didn’t have to make up some weird story about—”
“Stop.” He cut me off so vehemently, my teeth audibly crashed from my jaw closure. Though he didn’t push off my hands, he didn’t touch anything else, either. “Just stop and let me finish, Margaux.”
As he dragged a hand through his hair, I looked at him. Really looked. Shit. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin sallow.
“Go on,” I encouraged softly. “I’m listening now. I really am.”
He shook his head, and I tried not to notice how ridiculously sexy he still was. “I dropped my letter onto Andrea’s desk, and was in the mail room, hunting for a box for my stuff. That was when I heard voices—back in Andrea’s office.”
“Where you’d just been.” After he nodded, I pressed, “So was one of them Andrea?”
“Yeah.”
“Not shocking yet.” Or having a damn thing to do with me.
“Of course not. And I wasn’t stunned, either. I was just bummed, knowing the polite thing to do was go face her in person and explain the contents of my letter.”
“Captain America.”
My mutter didn’t detract him. “I headed straight for her office. Figured facing her would be easier with Claire’s dad there.”
“Colin’s was the other voice you heard?”
“I assumed so, since the other voice was a dude.”
Slow burn. “That man was the one good move my mother ever made. It’ll be a damn wonder if he stays around much longer, though. I can already see the dull glaze in his eyes.”
“Well, this will be another nail in her coffin.”
I scowled. “Shit.”
“About sums it up.” Now that he was relaying the details, he loosened a little. A little. “When I rounded the corner and got a good view of her office, our favorite Irishman wasn’t in the office with her. It was Trey Stone. And they were already going for some hands-on training—as in hands on ass.”
I needed to say something. But a person needed a functioning brain to do that. Mine froze solid. Everything froze. My tongue, my throat, my arms, my legs. I was suddenly sucked down a black tunnel, surrounded by echoes of one awful question.
Why was my personal Satan keeping frisky time with my cheating tramp of a mother?
Oxygen. I needed oxygen.
I whirled and dashed toward the patio but only got as far as the couch, where Michael caught me and forced me to sit. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, sugar. Easy. Put your head between your knees. Don’t argue.”
Somewhere, through my horrified haze, I heard somebody approaching hyperventilation. Dear God, it was me. I didn’t argue with Michael, letting him push my head between my kneecaps. Finally, the humming in my ears lessened. The tunnel got shorter. I wiggled my toes just to make sure I could. I liked black on my toes. I bet Michael would end up with a girl who painted her toes pink all the time.
“Better?” he finally asked. I nodded slowly and he growled, “So do you want to tell me what the hell just happened?”
I pulled upright again, to find Michael staring at me with real concern etched into his face. Damn, he was handsome. As in, whiplash-inducing handsome. His features were mesmerizing but rugged, his smile reminiscent of the boy next door—who’d take you to his room and show you his naughtiest comics. I never got bored of gazing at him.
Fuck, I was going to miss him.
Was he really going to do the damn Atlanta thing?
But if he didn’t, would it change anything?
Snap out of it, girlfriend.
“What?” I retorted at him. “Sheez-uss, Michael. This isn’t a big mystery. The two people I hate the most show up in the same place with the person I care about the most. So yeah, I freaked out a little bit.”
He canted his head. Actually tilted up one side of his mouth, but not without a price for the look. Naughty comics. “To quote a stunning blonde I know—bullshit.”
“What bullshit?” I spread my arms. “The entire world knows what Trey did to Killian and Claire last year. Hell, you were there to help clean up the mess. Why are you acting like an ass about this?”
“I’m not calling bullshit about that and you know it.” He caught my hands, encased them in his own, then brought them together between us. “Stop skirting the issue and level with me, Margaux. How is it going to hurt you at this point?”
I ducked my head. It isn’t me I’m worried about hurting. At least any further.
“Dammit, you are one stubborn woman. Talk to me. Please. Look at it
this way—soon, I’ll be out of your hair for good and you can stop worrying about anyone getting close to you ever again. Hell, if you’re lucky, maybe forever!”
Ouch.
I gaped at him. No one had ever pulled cojones like this with me, exercising the right to just call me on my shit like this. I didn’t know whether to kick him in those damn balls or just kick him out of my house.
Or weep and beg him to stay forever.
“There are days I hate you,” I whispered, “you know that?”
“Yes, ma’am.” As if on cue, there was that damn crooked grin of his again. I wanted to slap it hard off his face—and then lick the red mark I’d leave behind.
I arched a brow. “Okay, first of all, that was a low blow—even in my book. And now, just so we’re clear, I’ve wanted to tell you things about my world for a long time. But dammit, Michael, I’m trying to protect you.”
That erased the grin. “You’re trying to protect me?”
“Yes. It’s a lot of a mess, okay? I’ve dreaded the idea of you getting dragged into all of it—not because I don’t trust you, or because you’re leaving, or whatever other jackass reasons you’ve made up.” I twisted my fingers through his. “You’ve come to mean…so much to me, Michael. You probably don’t believe it, but the day you leave is going to be harder than hard. Only for you would I risk the world’s cheesiest line, okay?”
He eyed me warily. “That being…?”
Suck it up. Suck it up. Don’t go all weepy E.T.-why-can’t-you-stay on his ass. “I—I hope we’ll still be friends after you’re gone.”
Michael groaned. “You’re right. That’s awful.”
“Come on. We were before, and I can’t imagine my life without you in it somehow.” A winch twisted in my throat again. Ugh. I’d fought back more tears in the last three months than I’d shed my whole life before. “I’ve never—cared—about someone before, the way I do you. I’m going to miss this. I’m going to miss us.” When he answered my whisper by leaning in closer, I pulled a hand free and pushed at his chest. “Let’s not make it worse now.” Yes, that just happened. This was me, turning down a pass from him. “You’ve made your choice, so let’s move on. Let’s talk about the weirdness,”—understatement gold medal—“you saw at the office. And I’ll really try to give you as much truth as I can in return.”
The man didn’t miss much, and this moment was no exception. My statement jerked his brows up. “Maybe you should tell me about the scene at the office, sugar. Sounds like you’re uniquely qualified.” He jabbed his chin. “Go ahead. Take a stab. What were they talking about?”
I took a deep breath. Another. Shoved my hands between my knees now. It was so hard to decide where to start. It was so hard to be doing this, period. I’d been hiding so much of my private life for so long.
“Do you remember the night I spent at your house after Claire and Killian’s wedding?”
His lips turned up, soft and sincere. “Won’t ever forget it.”
“When I came home that morning, I was still hung over—”
“To say the least?”
I shoulder-whacked him. Then went on, “I was also flying pretty high on the memories of what happened with us that night.” Glad I hadn’t let my hand stay, I pushed at the self-satisfied turn of his smirk. “Whoa there, Mr. Modesty. The pretty’s about to get ugly.” Hands between the knees again. Helped to hide the shaking. “When I got home, the alarm wasn’t set. Should’ve panicked, but didn’t. By the time it clicked that something was wrong, it was too late. Trey Stone was sitting at my kitchen island.”
As I’d anticipated, Michael tensed. I waited through the long second it took for him to absorb all of it.
As stupid a move as waiting for a fuse to a bomb to burn down.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Michael.” The censure sounded like Di. I didn’t regret it. “Calm—”
“I will kill that loser mother fucker.”
“—down! Now.”
He lurched to his feet. Also not a surprise, given the chest beating he’d clearly gone all-in on now. I’d known he’d go ooga-booga ape man; I just hadn’t pegged to what degree. “Did he hurt you? Did he touch you? So help me God, if he laid one finger on you, I will kill him.”
It was all I could do to keep my ass on the couch. Wouldn’t do for two of us to be tearing up the carpet. “This was exactly why you didn’t know about this sooner. Until I had things taken care of—”
“Taken care of?” He started pacing. Hard. “You don’t ‘take care of’ a rich boy psychopath like Trey Stone, Margaux. People like him refuse to be ‘taken care of’ until they’ve sucked you dry. Have you forgotten everything he put us through last year—and we were a team of six people. He still had his cars, his women, and his swagger rep then. God only knows what fuckery he’s up to now—and he’s involved you?”
I kept my shoulders back and my face calm. I’d dealt with this before; it was just usually some politician or rap star caught with their pants down in the wrong place. And as alluring as the idea was of Michael Pearson with his pants down right now…
Focus.
“You need to take a breath, Pearson. The world doesn’t need saving at the moment.”
He lowered to an ottoman near the window. Braced his hands on his knees. In lethally low punches of sound, he charged, “What the hell did he do to you, Margaux?”
“Not until you’re more calm.”
“I’m not five years old, dammit.”
“And neither am I! Look at me, Michael. I’m fine. I don’t need rescuing.”
“The fuck you don’t.” Back up to his feet, stalking the room worse than before. “You already did. And I failed you. I failed you, Margaux!”
I sprang to my feet. Rushed to where he was and grabbed his hands again. “Listen to me. And look at me, dammit! You need to hear my words.” I waited, trying to catch my breath, as he swung his brilliant gaze to mine. “I’ve lived for twenty-seven years, nearly on my own, in a privileged circle of people who don’t always play nice. Contrary to what you believe or the dynamic we share—shared—in the bedroom, I don’t need rescuing. I really want to share some of this with you, but I can’t if you keep freaking out. People are creepy sometimes. Not everything is sweet and gentle and neighborly and kind like up in the land of the apple farms. You have to deal with that fact right now if you want to hear the rest of this story, because it’s not for the faint of heart.”
I ran my hands up to his elbows. Yearned to do more, to press myself to him and take away some of the torment that glittered in his eyes. And while I’d hoped my pep talk would bolster him a little, it only made matters worse. He put on a great performance of calm, but only on the surface. I saw right through him. I felt right through him. His whole body was poised and ready to pop like a cork in a shaken champagne bottle. His jaw ticked like a high energy dance beat. Yay, a self-contained party in one hot hunk of a package—only the deep jade of his eyes didn’t promise a very festive conclusion to the celebration.
“Shit,” I stammered. “You’re starting to scare me.”
His gaze darkened, intensifying his menacing appearance. “I’m just a little tense.”
“You think?”
“Just keep talking. I’ll be okay. If that piss bucket Trey was in the room right now, it’d be a different story.”
“And now you want me to tell you more?”
“I can handle it. I’m just enraged that I wasn’t here to watch over you. And yeah, I know you don’t need watching. I heard you, loud and clear.”
His bitter tone was transparent. My speech had hurt him. But he’d needed to hear it, so I wasn’t apologizing.
I sucked in a big breath and went on with the story.
“Trey confronted me with some information—okay, some dirt—about me, from an awful period in my life about two years after graduating college.” Blinding lightbulb in the brain. “Wait. Whoa.”
“What?”
�
�The secret Trey had…well, it’s a mind-blower—and was supposed to have been sealed in the records at Scripps Mercy. I’d been racking my brain trying to figure out how Trey got his paws on those files, especially because he didn’t necessarily have the flow to pay a bunch of people off. But if he and Andrea are,”—I winced and shuddered—“together, then that explains a lot of things.” Knees gone to mush again, I dropped to the couch. “Holy shit. A lot of things. He didn’t pay anyone off for the information. He got it straight from the person who originally had the records sealed.”
“Your mother.”
She’s not my mother. Thank fucking God.
I whipped a stare out the window, thoughts spinning wildly. “But why would she do this to me? Does she really hate me that much?”
My senses were a messy web, spiders of hurt and anger crawling everywhere. Andrea Asher, who’d maintained how she’d loved me exactly like a daughter, had sold me out like a gutter-level hooker—to Trey Stone.
Was there any way to even a score like this, short of pulling a trigger? There had to be. And I was damn well going to find it—and implement it. But those thoughts only reinforced my stand. These were dirty waters, not worthy of Michael even dipping his pinkie toe into.
I snapped my gaze back around, drawn by an uncanny sense of his. Sure enough, he was waiting with his I-miss-nothing scrutiny, helping me process all this with his silent, firm strength.
She’d signed my report cards.
Attended my lousy clarinet recitals.
Set up the Hello Kitty humidifier when I had a cold.
She’d been pretending.
A sob formed out of the nausea in my gut. I refused to let it take form. I refused to waste a second of my sadness on that woman. My fist clenched as I vowed it myself, over and over and over.
“Hey.”
I jerked my head up again. Wound my hand into his once more. Needing it this time. “Hey.”
“You all right?”
I nodded fast. Concentrated on the beautiful power of his fingers. “I want to tell you the rest.”
He pressed his grip tighter. “Then I want to hear it.” Well, that was fine and dandy. Pushing the words out my lips? Another story. “Need a bookmark?” he asked. “You said something about being out of college a few years…?”