Found Underneath: Finding Me Duet #2

by K. L. Kreig

  He gives me a look of pure annoyance. “I tried your cell a dozen times. You didn’t answer. You think I wanted to get my ass out of bed this early?” Noah is an early riser. The only time he stays in bed past six is if he has a naked beauty twisted in his sheets. “I didn’t.”

  I smirk. Yeah, I was right.

  I spot my cell on the end table as I walk across the room but leave it. “Then why did you?” I ask sinking into the same armchair I was in last night where Willow told me she loved me.

  Noah scans the room before he hands me a tablet. “Because you need to see this.”

  “What?” I grab the device and swipe so the screen comes to life, and in under a second, I wish I’d never answered the door. My eyes are drawn first to the grainy picture, and while it’s not crisp, there is no mistaking what is going on in it. “What the fuck?”

  I cut my eyes up to Noah’s to see they are hard as steel. “I’m sorry.” His tone is filled with repentance. The night this picture was taken flashes in clicks across my vision. I knew it. I fucking knew this would come back to bite me.

  Swallowing the bile burning like the fires of hell up my throat, I drop my attention back to the short article that came out in this morning’s 7-Day. And the kick in the balls is that it’s right below a picture of my father reading to a class of preschoolers. An intentional play, clearly.

  Motherfuckers. I am seething with fury.

  “Is monogamy overrated?” I spit, scanning the black letters that seemingly mock me. It takes me less than three minutes to finish the asinine exposé that’s nothing but suppositions and lies. “What is this?” I toss the tablet to the sofa with disgust. “A goddamn witch-hunt?”

  “Appears like it,” Noah responds, voice gravelly.

  The gist of the brief bullshit story is that I cheated on Willow. And the picture they somehow got their hands on is certainly incriminating.

  It shows Gina, the lovely waitress that served Noah and me that night, with her eyes squeezed closed and unmistakable ecstasy lining her face. Her fingers are cinched in my shirt, conveniently covering her bare breast from the side shot. Noah’s long fingers are wrapped around her hip and that’s all you see of him.

  But you can see me plain as day. And the worst part? My fingers are holding her chin still and my lips are touching hers in a tender kiss as she rode out her orgasm.

  Fuck. Me.

  I didn’t participate in anything that night other than this simple, chaste kiss, but I might believe this drivel if I didn’t know the truth.

  Willow might believe it, too, because while the picture is real, everything else in the article is a lie. And, of course, that’s likely the desired outcome, isn’t it?

  I have so many goddamn questions, but the only question that matters is, “Who is responsible for this?”

  I want to find them and crush them. This will kill Willow, seeing me with another woman this way. Especially after what happened at the party the other night with Lianna. What we have is still fragile. It needs to be nurtured. It needs time to grow and root and this…shit. This could blow what we’re building to bits if we let it and that’s even before the devastation of the other news I’ll have to eventually tell her.

  Why does it seem as though the entire universe is working against us?

  Noah plops onto the couch and throws an arm over the back. “There are a lot of candidates.”

  True.

  Restless, I push myself to stand and start pacing. My mind immediately goes to Mergen. He knows this would gut me in the worst possible way but not only will it hurt Willow, it could possibly hurt my father’s campaign. Would he do that to serve his own end game anyway? I wouldn’t put it past the bastard.

  Then there’s Lianna. What’s worse than a woman scorned? Not much, in my experience. But how would she get this? If she had been there that night, I would have seen her, right? It sure is convenient timing, to say the least.

  And of course, let’s not forget my father’s competition. Hell, anyone could have taken this and sold it to the 7-Day for a mint. It could have even been Gina herself setting us up, but why?

  Fucking fuckety fuck. My father was worried something like this would happen from the beginning and I just gave Harrington live ammunition. I may as well have hand delivered the grenade with the pin pinched between my teeth.

  Suddenly the screen on my cell lights up. I had set it to silent last night, unable to stomach the thought of talking to anyone after we left Annabelle’s friend. Noah reaches over and picks it up, eyeing me from his seated position. “Your father.”

  Of course it is. I wonder how many times he’s called already. I shake my head and he shrugs and sets it back down. “You’re going to have to deal with him sometime, Merc.”

  I ignore Captain Obvious, going straight into problem-solving mode. The picture is out there. As much as I’d like to think differently, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it now.

  “We need to do damage control.” The first step being, how am I going to break this to Willow? If I thought there was a way I could sweep it under the rug so she’d never find out, I would. I’m not that stupid, though. Mergen will be all over her like flies on shit hoping this breaks us and he can thieve her out from under me.

  “Do damage control for what?” a soft voice that does not belong to Noah asks.

  Of course.

  “Uh-oh,” Noah murmurs. I follow his gaze and stiffen when I see Willow and what she’s wearing. Her golden hair is still mussed and she has this satisfied, sleepy look on her stunning face. A fluffy white robe, cinched at the waist, is wrapped around her small frame and I just know she’s butt naked underneath.

  My mind blanks.

  “I thought you were asleep,” is all I can think to say.

  She smiles. It blows my mind the same as every other time. “I heard voices.” Then she walks toward me. She saunters slow and sexy, but in my head, she may as well be stripping for me along the way. Her arm coils around my side when she reaches me and I release a pent-up sigh at having her plastered to my side. That lasts as long as it takes for her to ask again, “What damage control needs to be done?”

  I look to Noah and simultaneously our eyes fall to the iPad. Willow being Willow doesn’t miss a thing. She steps out of my hold and tugs the lapels of her robe tight around her chin. It’s not sexy in the slightest, that stupid robe, but because it’s on her it’s a work of art.

  “What’s wrong?” she demands in that vixen tone of hers that means she’s gearing up for battle. Even her raised brows punctuate her seriousness. “And this time you’re not going to get away with not answering me.”

  “I think maybe it’s time for me to go,” Noah announces, shooting to his feet.

  “Chicken shit,” I mumble under my breath. Though I don’t blame him for wanting to hightail it out of here. I don’t want to see the devastation and censure on Willow’s face either.

  Noah strides toward the door but diverts and stops right in front of Willow instead. He throws me a strange glance, almost as if asking silent permission first, before putting his hands on her shoulders.

  The atmosphere, already tense, takes a header as Noah makes his blatant move, touching her like that in front of me… especially when I know a little flick of the fingers will part the two halves hiding her sleek perfection.

  Willow straightens and tips her head toward me. She knows it’s serious when she sees me making no move to break Noah’s fingers. Her mouth presses into a thin line and the worry forming wrinkles in her forehead slays me. I want to soothe her and tell her everything will be okay, but I’m not sure it will be. And it’s not only the picture. It’s everything.

  “Hey,” Noah says softly, commanding Willow’s attention back to him. “Don’t believe a word of it.”

  “Of what?” She’s quiet. Nervous.

  Noah doesn’t answer. He takes a few long looks at her before drawing her into his arms, and while the act bristles me all over, I understand what he’s do
ing. It’s his way of apologizing. But I don’t blame him for that night or for the picture. I blame me. I should have stopped him the second he slid his hands under Gina’s tiny skirt.

  He dips down and whispers something in Willow’s ear. Her eyes close. She squeezes him tighter. So does he. My hackles are starting to cramp when he releases her and is gone before I can throat punch him. Good move. My patience was wearing pretty thin.

  Willow takes a deep breath and faces me. She fortifies her spine and winds her arms around her slim waist, all strong and ready. She’s magnificent. Christ, how I love her.

  “Tell me. I can take whatever it is.”

  I hope so. I fucking hope so, I want to tell her. Because if you can’t take this, we don’t have a shot at surviving far worse shit that’s patiently waiting for the right time to end us.

  With tension wrapped like a vise around every muscle, I pick up the tablet Noah left and hand it to her, simultaneously throwing a plea up to any divine being listening that she’ll still look at me with love in her eyes two minutes from now instead of pure repulsion.

  Chapter 16

  I’m sick. Literally, sick to my stomach. The fruit we ate late last night sits whole and undigested and threatens to rematerialize in a very ugly manner as I stare at what is obviously a sexual escapade meant to be private but was captured and put in print for the world to see and judge.

  Like a masochist basking in the pain, I don’t read the article. The intent of it is painfully clear. Instead, I study the nuances in the crude photo, wishing beyond all wishes I could simply put it down and erase it from my memory bank. But a masochist, by definition, derives some sort of sick gratification from being humiliated, so I keep gawking.

  Shaw’s eyes are open. They are lidded but heated and intense as he keenly watches the woman’s reaction, his lips barely on hers. The woman—only her profile shown—is young and beautiful and obviously bent over a table in the throes of pleasure. She isn’t naked, but the important parts are on display for her suitors. And while it’s Shaw shown in the picture, with the five long male fingers wrapped around her bare hip there’s no question who the third is in their public tryst.

  Now Noah’s cryptic, “It was before you,” whispered shallowly in my ear makes a lot more sense.

  The grave concern on both their faces was evident when I walked into the room. The sincerity of what I now understand was remorse in Noah’s eyes spoke volumes to me. The fear I noted all over Shaw’s posture when he handed me this hot potato was palpable. So I believe Noah and I’ll believe Shaw when he tells me this didn’t happen while he was with me, regardless of what this reporter probably said otherwise.

  Yet still, every deep-seated insecurity I have about Shaw—about us—rears its ugly head once again. Without even thinking, the expensive piece of equipment in my hand falls to the carpet with a thump and I tear off to the bathroom, barely making it in time before the contents that’s been churning for the last few minutes violently explodes out of my body.

  “Jesus Christ,” Shaw’s voice, dark with concern, growls next to me. He winds my hair in his hand, holding it back from my face as I throw up twice more. I don’t want him to see me like this, but I can’t force myself to tell him to leave either.

  “Are you okay?”

  I wipe my mouth, my head now hanging limply over the toilet bowl. I’m sweating, utterly drained. I manage to reach up and flush my embarrassment away, asking hoarsely, “Can you bring me some water?”

  Shaw hesitates. I can tell he doesn’t want to leave me, but when I add, “Please,” he scrambles away and returns within seconds with a glass half filled. I drink it all. On shaky legs, I walk to the vanity and brush my teeth until the taste of regurgitated strawberries is mostly gone. Disgusting. It will be a cold day in hell before I touch another strawberry.

  Taking a few tentative sips, I fight with the cool water as it tries to find its way back from where it came. I lean over the sink and breathe slowly through the nausea, barely winning the battle, and wonder why I’m reacting so strongly to this when I already knew this about them.

  “Jesus, Willow. You’re scaring me here,” Shaw says from behind me. He’s standing close, the pull of our bodies magnetic and undeniable, yet he doesn’t make a move to touch me.

  “I’m fine,” I lie. I wasn’t feeling the greatest when I woke but now I truly feel like shit warmed over.

  “Do you still feel sick?”

  “It’s passing.” It’s not.

  He steps into me now, palms landing tentatively on my shoulders. His touch is a calming balm I desperately crave and need right now, regardless of whether he’s the one who caused my current state to begin with. I raise my head and catch his pained reflection in the mirror. He’s filled with anxiety and somehow it makes me feel a touch better.

  “You look pale.”

  I try to muster a smile. “I’ll be okay.”

  The gut-wrenching feeling of actually seeing your lips on another woman you shared with Noah will fade. Eventually. Maybe. I hope.

  His mouth tries to curl up but, like mine, falls flat.

  “I’m sorry.” He’s sincere and contrite. A man who fears he has everything to lose.

  I wet my lips while my stomach churns. I’m riding the world’s largest emotional roller coaster and I want off the mother.

  “I know,” I eventually say back. I don’t know what else to offer. It’s okay would be a lie. It’s not okay.

  His eyes fall shut slowly. When they open after what seems like forever, that trademark determination I fell in love with is firing on all cylinders, but it rubs my already raw nerves bloody when he states vehemently, “None of it is true, Willow.”

  Oh really? I can think of one goddamn thing that was true.

  The burn of hurt and humiliation still sits square and flat on my heart, squashing the nausea I’ve been fighting. “None if it?” I spin and face him, gripping the counter behind me. My legs wobble like wet noodles. “So the picture was a lie, too?”

  He has the decency to look ashamed. Good. He should be.

  “That’s the only thing that isn’t,” he confesses on a wafty breath of remorse. “It was before we started dating. Please believe that.”

  Dating.

  Laughable. What a lie we are.

  I’m shaking. God, this hurts. Bad.

  “Willow—”

  I talk over him. “When?”

  His brows pull together briefly. “When what?”

  I’m sure he thinks I’m asking him about the girl, but I don’t give two craps about her. It’s not his honor I’m questioning. It’s his proclivities. I know he said he loves me, but insecurities are a cruel bitch that sometimes becomes impossible to wrangle, and if Voodoo Eyes is to be believed, he’s shared every woman before me. So why not me?

  “When do you start sharing me with Noah?”

  His hands snap to my face in a fury. I’m held tight in his iron grip as eyes that are now hot as melted steel bore into me the same way his calloused voice does. “I would never share you with him. Never.”

  My thoughts stray to that stupid dream where Shaw wanted to share me. I know it was my overactive imagination, not real life, but that uneasy feeling it left inside me has been stirred up again.

  “Why? What makes me so different from her?” Now I am referencing the woman in the picture because God. Damn. I do give two craps. I give dozens of craps. My jealousy is a raging fire, singeing every brain cell I have.

  He squeezes and shakes me a little. “Are you fucking kidding me, Willow?” When he sees I’m not, his entire demeanor tones down. “Everything. Every single thing about you is different, Willow.”

  “That’s lame.” I blink, fully aware I am fishing for compliments just as he likes to do, but I need that selfish soothing right now. My ego is shattered. Publicly, I might add. I deserve more than generic platitudes.

  His eyes search mine forever as if he’s running through the right words to say. I love it when he takes
his time instead of blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

  “You want to know what makes you different?”

  “Yes.” I’m breathy, hanging on his every word.

  Shaw clamps my chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger, tips my head just right, and places his lips on mine. His eyes stay wide open the whole time his mouth barely touches mine. It’s soft and purposefully demonstrative.

  Just like the picture.

  “You already know what makes you different, Goldilocks, but since you need the words, you’ll get them all.”

  Slowly he turns me around until I face the mirror once again. He tugs on my robe until it hangs off both shoulders and reaches around to pull my long hair behind me, out of his way. His eyes hook mine and I’m stuck in his gravitational pull until he decides to cut me loose.

  He places his mouth at my ear and starts, “In them, I saw no depth. In you, I see a complex mystery that will take me a lifetime to solve.”

  He kisses me on the neck and I shiver, barely suppressing a moan.

  “In them, I saw bland clichés. But you—” He shakes his head. “You, Willow, are a fascinating woman who has an unquenchable thirst for life but needs the freedom to live it.”

  His hands come to the knot on my robe, his nimble fingers working it slowly as he continues, “In them, I saw a means to an end. In you, I only see the beginning. Even when I was with them, they were already the past, but since the first time I sat across from you at Randi’s, I couldn’t stop envisioning the future, and in it, all I saw was that smart mouth of yours that keeps me on my toes.”

  With the belt now undone, the two halves covering me are open, exposing a one-inch slip of flesh down my middle. His chest expands, pressing into me with his long inhale. Leaving aches in his wake, he lazily grazes a finger from my collarbone downward while he keeps talking.

  “In them, I could lose myself for a short time, but in you, Willow Blackwell, I’m not lost at all. In you, I have finally found my reason for existing. You epitomize graceful strength and quiet courage. You are different because I’m in love with every last piece of you. The scared, the scarred, and the sacred. I think I love those the most, the sacred parts you haven’t shared yet because I know when you eventually do they will mean even more to me than the extraordinary gift of your name.”