by Cynthia Sax
I consider her question. Do I have anything to say to her? Yes, I do. I turn and meet her gaze. “Thank you, Dru.” She’s a total bitch, as Tara, my high school tormenter was, but the lessons I learned today might save me a future filled with heartache. That deserves some recognition.
Dru’s eyes widen and her mouth drops opens. She wasn’t expecting gratitude.
I stride along the hallway, pounding the carpet with my heels, not caring about my creaky shoes or the startled glances of the men and women passing me. My fast pace is necessary. I’m trying to outrun my emotions.
Susan’s head turns as I storm into reception. I don’t look at her, unable to see the sympathy on my friend’s face, to deal with her outrage as well as mine. I push through the doors.
My right heel snaps and I fall, catching myself with my hands. Specks of gravel dig into my palms.
“Are you okay, miss?” A man in a navy blue suit crouches, helps me to my feet.
“I’m fine,” I lie, summoning a smile, balancing on one foot, brushing the dirt off my skin. I’m not fine at all.
The man hesitates for a moment, his eyes soft with concern, and then he hurries on his way. I lean against the building, remove both of my shoes. The heel is destroyed, and taking the bus barefoot doesn’t appeal to me. Thankfully, I have the limo chits.
I won’t be requiring a ride home with Nicolas today. . .or any other day. My lips twist, my sorrow building. I can’t lose control, not yet. Pushing all of my turbulent emotions under a layer of calm, I dig through my purse, locate my phone, search my call list, and find his number.
The phone rings twice. “Nicolas Rainer.” His voice lilts with humor.
This warmth almost undoes me. I slump against the building. “I-I-I can’t make our meeting.” I try for a businesslike tone, achieve a watery whimper.
“What is it?” Nicolas’s curtness pulls me back from the edge, straightening my spine. I won’t fall apart, not now.
“I can’t make it,” I reiterate. “I didn’t get the job.” I take a deep breath, hold it, and exhale. “I’ll take the bus home. I broke my shoe, but I’ll be okay.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Nicolas doesn’t care about my shoes.
“I’m sending the car for you.” There’s a series of clicks as though he’s pressing buttons. “It’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“You don’t have to do that.” My protest is halfhearted, his pampering desperately needed.
“I don’t have to do anything. I’m an asshole, remember?” Nicolas’s laughter is strained. “You’re too nice for the business world, Bee. Jobs aren’t given. They’re taken.”
I know this but I don’t want to hear it, not now. “You’ll be receiving more articles on how to be a good friend,” I grumble. “Clearly, they’re needed.”
His second chuckle is genuine. “Think about yourself right now, not me. Successful people are always selfish.” The phone clicks. Silence follows.
I don’t want to be successful. I want to have a job with regular hours and a regular paycheck, a safe, clean home that no one can ever take away from me, a man who sends himself, not his limousine, when I hear bad news. Is that too much to ask for?
It must be. I slide my phone back into my purse and toss my shoes in a nearby garbage bin. Because I don’t have any of these things. I watch the cars creep along the busy street and struggle to control my sadness.
Chapter Three
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, the office’s front door opens. Susan pokes her head out, looks to the left, to the right, spots me and exits. “Oh, Bee.” She hugs me fiercely. “Your boss is a numbskull.”
I hug my friend back, savoring the contact. “He’s an ass.” He’s not an asshole. Only Nicolas has that distinction. “And he’s not my boss any longer.” My voice chokes. I tilt my chin upward, blinking back my tears, determined to hold it together until I reach home. “You’ll have to eat an extra cupcake for me.”
She can eat one for Cyndi also. I won’t be bringing my best friend any of the red velvet cupcakes. She’ll be disappointed with me. Again.
“I think the cupcakes will mistakenly be sent to the break room.” Susan brushes a loose strand of hair away from my face. “Dru’s a bitch. Do you think—”
“Yes,” I answer. I know she had sex with my manager. “I’ll be okay.”
“Will you?” My friend looks down at my bare feet.
“I’m getting a pickup.” I force my smile. I must look like an idiot standing on the sidewalk with no shoes.
“Ahhh. . .” Susan nods, her eyes glittering. “Is it the limo man again?”
“What?” My forehead furrows with thought lines. How does she know about the limo?
My friend’s high-pitched laugh sounds as fake as my feigned acceptance. “One of the volunteers saw you get out of the limo this morning. The gossip is floating around the office.” She leans closer to me. “What tidbit should I add? Have you won the lottery? Inherited a chain of hotels?”
Susan is trying to distract me, and I’ll allow her, needing this. “How about hinting that I’m friends with a handsome young billionaire?” Who tells everyone he’s an asshole yet sends his car for me.
Susan’s eyes widen. “Does this billionaire have a name?”
I say nothing, a response Nicolas would approve of. Mentioning my privacy-valuing billionaire’s name without his permission smacks of disloyalty, and I’d never betray his trust.
Hurt flashes across Susan’s face, and I grab her hands, troubled that I have to keep this secret from her. “I haven’t told anyone yet,” I assure her. “Our friendship is in the early stages and—”
“And you don’t want to jinx it.” Susan nods. “I understand.”
A long black limousine rolls to a stop in front of the building, and my friend stares. Isaac exits the vehicle, looking as crisp and as proper as ever in his black suit, driver’s cap. “Mr. Rainer has sent the car for you, miss.” He opens the door for me.
“Nicolas Rainer?” Susan squeaks, hugging me close, her body shaking with excitement. “Chicago’s most elusive bachelor? That Mr. Rainer?”
Tension eases from my shoulders. “That Mr. Rainer.” I embrace my friend once more, her reaction restoring some of my confidence. Chicago’s most elusive bachelor cares about unemployed me. That is something to be proud of. “Stay in touch, Susan.”
I enter the car and Isaac closes the door. A small table is pushed against the far wall. A piece of paper is set flat on the surface, beside a silver spoon and an ice bucket. I slide closer and read the jagged script.
Call me if you need more.
Your Friend,
N
I peer into the ice bucket. Nestled amidst the perfect cubes of ice is a single-serve tub of decadent chocolate ice cream. My chest warms, Nicolas’s thoughtfulness delighting me.
I wrap a paper napkin around the container, remove the lid, and shave off a sliver of the ice cream with the spoon. The chocolate is sinfully rich, the texture succulent, the treat melting in my mouth. Oh my God. This is some good shit.
I lean back as I devour Nicolas’s gift. His scent lingers in the vehicle. The backseat seems larger, colder without his presence. I wish he was here, holding me, sharing the ice cream with me.
My practical billionaire would tell me to snap out of it, to draft a plan. The seat vibrates under my ass, the car moving. Taking action would distract me from my useless sadness, my unproductive pity.
My knee-jerk plan is to wage an all-out assault on the job market. I’ll send out résumés tonight, apply for as many positions as I can, anything and everything I’m remotely qualified for.
The application-and-interview process takes time. I need a source of income while I hunt for a full-time job. Returning to Happydale to work at the same small-town diner employing my mom isn’t an option. I won’t leave Chicago, won’t relive her life. There are diners here. I slump. If that is my only means of temporary cash, I’ll suck up my pride and don the dreaded uniform.
>
I hate my mom’s cheap polyester-blend outfits, the horrible colors and the even more dreadful fit. My mom is forced to smile when she wears them, yet the smile never reaches her eyes. She doesn’t feel beautiful, doesn’t feel worthy of more than the patrons’ begrudgingly offered tips. Get me another coffee and I’ll add another 5 percent, they imply. My mom would always bring the coffee, even when she was exhausted and I waited for her.
I won’t bring the coffee. Once I complete my shift, I’ll return home. The commute will be shorter as there are restaurants in the neighborhood, some of which I could walk to, saving the bus fare.
I twist my lips. Residents of the building might frequent those restaurants. I don’t want to wait on Nicolas’s associates, on Cyndi’s friends. If Angel finds out I’m waiting tables, she’ll show up every night, tormenting me more than Tara, my high school nemesis, does.
I set the spoon and empty ice cream tub on the tiny table. Time and miles pass as I work on my plan, mentally listing the places where I could work. I’ll survive; Carter women always do, but I want this to be a temporary setback, not a permanent life change.
The limousine slows and then stops. I can’t be home already. Panic sweeps over me. I don’t want to face Cyndi, to face my new reality. The door opens and I hesitate, yearning to stay in the vehicle.
“Miss.” Isaac holds out his hand.
I can’t stay. This is Nicolas’s limo, not mine.
“Thank you, Isaac.” I grasp the driver’s fingers, allow him to assist me out of the vehicle. The sun shines and the sky is blue. Isaac hurries back to his seat, leaving me alone, without anyone to care for me.
I need to be cared for. Although I appreciate the ride home and the ice cream, company is truly what I yearn for right now. The limousine pulls away. I stand on the sidewalk, feeling abandoned, as lost as the little girl who sat by the front door, waiting for her mom to return home from work, for her dad to remember her.
A tear drips down my cheek.
“He’s a dead man,” an achingly familiar voice rumbles.
My heart leaps while my brain rejects the possibility that it’s Hawke. He left me this morning. It can’t be him. I take a ragged breath and turn to face the truth.
Hawke is my truth. He stands in the shadows, his broad shoulders propped against the brick of the building, stubble shadowing his gloriously rugged face. He’s wearing his usual black T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and black boots, his style as deplorable as ever.
I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.
Dropping my purse on the sidewalk, I hold out my arms. He takes three long strides and I’m engulfed by his big body, his strength and warmth, the scent of leather, engine grease, and man surrounding me.
He’s here. I’m safe. The protective wall around my emotions crumbles and I sob, allowing everything I feel to flow through me, the force of my disappointment shaking my shoulders. Hawke rubs his massive hands over my back, murmuring in my right ear words I’m too lost to decipher yet understand all the same. He has me. He’ll safeguard me from harm. He’ll make everything okay.
I drench his T-shirt with tears, reddening my nose and eyes, and making a horrid mess of myself. Hawke scoops me into his arms, bends down to retrieve my purse, and walks, carrying me as though I weigh nothing, his pace purposeful. I don’t know where we’re going and I don’t care, as long as I’m not alone, as long as he’s with me, the tattooed biker I shouldn’t care about, the former marine who I thought had left me forever.
Hawke lowers his large physique onto a shaded bench, sets my purse carefully beside him, and gently strokes my hair back from my face, the strands sticking to my skin. For a giant man, he has a soft touch, his quiet caresses easing my pain. My sobs slow, the tremors rolling over my torso diminishing.
“I’ll kill him, love.” Hawke drags his lips along the tear tracks on my cheeks, tasting my sadness. The stubble on his chin leaves a trail of sensation over my salty skin. “I won’t allow him to make you cry. I can’t stand it.” The tightness in his voice emphasizes his words. My sorrow hurts him.
“Wasn’t. . .Nicolas.” I hiccup. “I didn’t.” I look upward. Hawke’s rough countenance is smoothed by the sheen of moisture in my eyes. “I didn’t get the job.” Ashamed, I drop my gaze and burrow my face into his chest, unable to see his disappointment in me.
“Oh, Belinda.” Hawke rounds his shoulders, sheltering me from the outside world. “Your boss is a fool.” He strokes my back, his touch warming me.
I don’t deserve Hawke’s kindness, his understanding. “I’m the fool,” I mutter, emphasizing the point by thumping his big chest with my small fists. “I wasn’t enough, wasn’t worthy.” I’d followed all of the advice in the college magazine, striving to be the perfect employee, yet I’d somehow failed. “I’m too loyal, too nice.” I echo what Nicolas thinks, what everyone must think. “I have to be more ruthless.”
With each declaration, Hawke’s shoulders shake more and more. Is he laughing at me? I raise my head and glare at him. His body ceases moving, but his lips continue to twitch.
“I’m serious, Hawke,” I insist, pounding his cotton-covered pecs with everything I have. It is as though I’m smacking solid rock. The damn man doesn’t even flinch.
“One.” Hawke catches my wrists, stopping the futile beating. “You don’t have it in you to be ruthless. You have the strength of a pissed-off butterfly and the honor of a marine.” He says this with pride.
“Two.” Hawke kisses my reddened knuckles one by one, gliding his lips over my skin, slaying me with sensuality and soothing my self-inflicted pain. “A good soldier has to be loyal. He has to trust his commander, or the people he protects will die.” He nuzzles my wrists, his stubble rasping against my sensitive flesh, and my bare toes curl, his assault too mind melting to resist. “Your issue is your commander wasn’t fit to lead.”
“He was a spineless ass,” I admit, sagging against him, the fight zapped from my soul. “Is there a number three?” I gaze hopefully at Hawke. “Or is Nicolas right? Am I too nice?”
“Nicolas.” Hawke’s face darkens ominously. “Before listening to criticism, you should always consider the source, Belinda.”
“He had me investigated,” I mumble.
Hawke’s body stiffens against mine. “And his investigator said you were too nice?” His voice becomes scarily quiet. He’s very angry and I don’t know why.
“Yes. No.” I frown. “The investigator said I was loyal.”
“Loyal.” Hawke cups my chin, raising my gaze to his. “Not too loyal.” He brushes his rough thumbs across my cheeks. “You’re nice, not too nice.”
“Some people think I’m too nice.” I’m not brave enough to mention Nicolas’s name again.
“Some people are wrong,” Hawke baldly states, his certainty reassuring me. “If you were too nice, we’d be sitting here naked, not fully clothed.” The twinkle returns to his pale blue eyes. “Or semiclothed.” His gaze lowers to my dirty feet. “Did you lose your shoes?”
“They broke.” I sigh, leaning against Hawke once more, relieved that he’s no longer angry with me. “They were my only good pair of heels.” I rest my cheek on his big barrel of a chest, his heart beating under my ear. “Not that it matters as I no longer have a job.”
“You’ll survive this, love.” Hawke releases my hair elastic and threads his thick fingers through the strands, playing with the tendrils, caring for me. I close my eyes, savoring his petting, conscious of his body under mine, solid and hard and unyielding. A small oval-shaped object is hidden in his front right pocket. I trace the shape with my fingertips round and round, the action calming me.
“I thought you were gone,” I whisper into his chest, unable to believe my tattooed biker is here, that he didn’t leave me. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
Hawke presses his lips to my forehead, his flesh hot against my skin. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, sweetheart.”
His chest rises and falls, a
slow, steady caress against my breasts. I’m vividly aware of my braless state, my nipples aching for his calloused hands.
“I was working on your party-venue problem this morning, finding an alternative to R.” He removes a black business card from his back pocket and hands it to me. The bar’s name, the Road Gator, is written in thick silver font. There’s a picture of a motorcycle beside it. “I didn’t know we had bigger issues.”
We had bigger issues. He says this casually as though we’re a couple. “I’m a mess.” I tuck the card into the side pocket of my purse.
“You’re a hot mess.” Hawke brackets my face between his coarse palms. Our gazes meet, lust and something more flaring in his eyes, triggering a corresponding need within me, a bone-deep yearning.
He dips his head and covers my lips with his, pressing into me. I eagerly open to him, wanting, needing this escape. It’s a temporary escape, of course. He remains a tattooed biker, destined to leave me. But my madness is also fleeting, a transient weakness caused by disappointment and loneliness.
Hawke skims his tongue over my lips, back and forth, back and forth, as though he has all day, all week, to kiss me, to taste me, to make me his.
Desiring more, I murmur my distress, chasing his tongue with my own. His lips curl upward and his thumbs trace my cheekbones, escalating my passion. I clutch his shoulders, savoring the muscles rippling under my fingertips, and I wiggle closer to him, flattening my breasts against his chest.
A growl rolls up his big body, the primitive sound exciting me, and he presses forward, filling my mouth with his hot tongue. He tastes of strong black coffee, flavored with a hint of forever, and I inhale, drawing him deep into me.
His fingers slide backward, sinking into my hair, his tight grip causing pinpricks of pain to shoot over my scalp, his dominance thrilling me.
He strokes into me, and I meet him halfway, our tongues dueling, dancing, our tempo matching the beating of my heart. I am a hot mess, burning with desire, scorched by his rough touch.
All of my worries, all of my troubles disappear. Hawke, his mouth, hands, hard body, is my sole focus, the center of my thoughts. He pours his strength into me, giving me the energy to face my uncertain future, nipping my lips with his teeth, curling my hair around his fists. I’ve never felt this delicate, this womanly, yet this powerful.