Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel)

by Leighton, M.

  “Now he’s kidding, Leese,” I interject lightly, laughing as well and using the pet name her close friends have used for years. “This is, um, Cash, Nash’s brother.”

  My heart is a jackhammer inside my chest, determined to beat ruthlessly through the wall of my ribs. We didn’t discuss what we’d tell people. I assumed we’d still go with him being Cash, but . . . not like this.

  “Yes. Nash. I remember him well. The question is: Do you? Why would you leave him at home on a night like tonight?” Left unspoken is what she really means—and bring this guy instead.

  My father never bothered to hide his fondness for Nash and his desire to make him part of the Townsend empire. We live a very public life in some ways, which means that most everyone knows we broke up, too. The thing is, not one of them probably expected me to disregard my father’s wishes. They would expect me to appear here with Nash on my arm by whatever means. Because no one defies a man with my father’s kind of influence.

  No one.

  I hear the first syllable of Nash’s rebuttal. With my eyes on Millicent, I swallow hard, fix my smile in place, and dig my nails into Nash’s arm, a silent plea for him not to say whatever he’s thinking of saying. I hear the angry huff of his breath, but he doesn’t utter another sound, not a single word. I can practically feel the cool air emanating from him, though. He doesn’t like being muzzled.

  “This was last-minute and Nash had something else planned. Technically, I’m not even supposed to be back in the country,” I say conspiratorially.

  “Then why are you?”

  “Some, um, some personal things came up that needed my attention.”

  “Personal things, huh?” I know that look in her eye. It’s the same look a shark gets when it scents blood in the water.

  Damn you, why didn’t you think of how to handle all this before you got here? I chastise myself, albeit far too late.

  “Yes, you remember what those are, right? Before we were suddenly expected to live our life in public?”

  “When was that? When we were two years old?”

  “Exactly.” I laugh again, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

  Millicent grew up in a privileged family, much as I did, with certain . . . expectations. She knows exactly what I mean. The problem is, she hasn’t realized that it’s a crappy way to live. Mainly because she hasn’t been shown how awful of a life it is, what awful people it’s made us. But I have. I have no excuse to act like that anymore, to act like her.

  “As daughters of some of the most influential men and women in this state, we have certain responsibilities and . . . appearances to uphold. Or have you forgotten that as well?”

  Is she really going to do this? Could I ever have called someone like this a friend?

  It horrifies me to think that things were even worse than I’d suspected.

  “I could never disgrace my family,” she adds scathingly.

  I can’t decide if she’s insinuating that arriving with this Nash, as Cash, is disgracing my family or if it’s just my oversensitivity. Am I making more of the undertones than what she’s intending? I’ve known Millicent most of my adult life. I can’t imagine her being this person. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe my guilty conscience is making me see things that aren’t really there.

  But then another part of me speaks up, asking if I am, in fact, being incredibly disrespectful and inconsiderate of my family by showing up like this with “Cash.” I knew Daddy wanted me to bring Nash, but I also knew he would undoubtedly rather I come alone than with someone whose . . . questionable nature might bring him shame.

  It’s ridiculous that it would even be a consideration, but it’s just part of the world in which we live. Isn’t it?

  My heart pumps with guilt, but over what? Daddy? Nash? That I’m actually having to think about what’s right here?

  But then something else kicks in. Something foreign. And scary. But something welcome. And right.

  I give Millicent my sweetest smile. “Well, I hardly think disgracing people who don’t even have the common decency to be polite is something I’ll lose sleep over.” Her mouth drops open in shock. Before she can recover enough to reply, I lean in and whisper, “Be careful that you don’t fall off that pedestal, Millicent. A tumble like that could break bones.”

  I straighten, shoot her another syrupy smile, and then promptly turn my back on her.

  My brief moment of triumph over my former self is quickly dashed when my eyes collide with my father’s. He’s standing on the other side of the room, watching me, quiet fury on his face.

  Impulsively, I raise my chin, a statement in and of itself. And Daddy will know exactly what it means.

  Slowly, he shakes his head. One sharp gesture that speaks as loudly as mine did. And I feel it like tremors of an earthquake all the way down to my soul.

  For a few terrifying seconds, I feel like crumbling. Crumbling under the pressure of who I was, of what’s expected of me and what I’ve done tonight. But before I can, Nash steps in to save me from myself.

  Fingers touch my elbow.

  “How ’bout a drink to wash down all that bitterness?” he asks.

  I have to make an effort to swallow my huge sigh of relief. When I look up at him to accept his kind offer, I see the faint light of respect in his eyes. Or do I? Could it be that I’m imagining it? Maybe because I want so badly to see it? I can’t be sure. Either way, it feels good. It feels good to finally have the respect, no matter how minute, of someone who thought so little of me. Of someone who knew what kind of person I was.

  Was.

  Maybe that’s why he’s saving me. Because that’s what he’s doing by offering me this escape route. He’s saving me. Even though it seems he’s not the saving type, he stepped up to do it. Twice now.

  The first, of course, was when he showed up with Cash to rescue me. I can still remember hearing his voice, so distinguishable from Cash’s. So stern yet so safe. Familiar, but not in the way I would’ve expected. I felt protected all the way home, even though he hardly spoke. And now, here he is doing it again, tonight.

  But why? Why now?

  The answer comes as quickly as the question.

  Maybe it’s because now he thinks I’m worth saving.

  Pushing the troubling thoughts aside, I opt for a bright smile. “Thank you. I’d love one.”

  As he leads me away, I glance back over my shoulder to see Millicent flounce off to rejoin her fiancé, Richardson “Rick” Pyle, whom she’d left behind when she spotted me. I’m sure she’ll give him an earful as soon as it’s acceptable to do so. It won’t be long before, one by one, everyone I know is given a perverted version of what just happened. And guess who the bad guy will be? Nash’s voice penetrates the chaos in my mind. “Not the cakewalk you thought it’d be, huh?” he asks quietly. I glance up at him again. He’s facing forward, but I imagine his expression is one of smugness. It’s upsetting when I realize that, despite what just happened, Nash doubts that I’m strong enough to change. That I have changed.

  The realization is a devastating blow to my fragile confidence. I say nothing to him because, on some level, I’m wondering the same thing. Can I really change? Should it be this much of a struggle? Or am I just as irrevocably damaged as these people?

  We stop in front of the elegantly appointed bar. Without asking what I’d like, Nash orders—a vodka martini, dirty, for me and a Heineken for him. I wait until the bartender is busy fixing my drink before I say anything.

  “Are you just that good? Or am I just that easy to read?”

  Nash shrugs. “You seem like a martini girl.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, his expression dark and steamy. “And, when you’re not kissing ass, I’d say you’re a dirty one.”

  I brush off the first part of his comment and focus on the latter half. I feel my face flush. It spre
ads all the way down my chest, making me feel hot and damp. I resist the urge to fan.

  I don’t know how to respond to his suggestive assessment, so I simply don’t. “You don’t seem like a beer guy. I would’ve thought something harder.”

  The words are out before I realize my response is every bit as suggestive as his was.

  Ohmigod!

  “I can get a lot harder,” he says in his low, velvety voice. “But tonight, I think drinking a beer will cement their trashy impression of me.”

  “So you want them to think you’re less than them?”

  “No, they can think whatever the hell they want. I’m definitely not less than them, regardless of my hair or my drink. I ordered a beer because, not only do I happen to like it, I also get a kick out of knowing that it bugs the shit out of these judgmental assholes having someone like me, someone with long hair and tattoos, walking around at their fancy party.”

  I can see by the twist at the corner of his mouth that he’s pleased with himself and his rebellion. I wish I could be so blasé about what they think and how they judge. But right now, I can’t. I have to fight it every step of the way. Every baby step of the way.

  Maybe one day I’ll get there. Maybe.

  So many maybes lately, and I keep piling them on. The disequilibrium of it, the uncertainty of it suddenly feels like a suffocating hand over my mouth, much like the one that I felt just before I passed out and woke up in captivity a few days ago.

  Panic sets in and a cold sweat pops out on my forehead. All I can think of is the need for air. And wide open spaces.

  Freedom.

  Frantic, I search for a way out. I spot the balcony doors directly across the room, behind Nash. The never-ending expanse of black night just beyond them looks like heaven.

  “I think I need some air,” I say before I set off in that direction, not waiting for Nash’s response.

  Thankfully, the balcony is empty when I step out onto it. I go straight to the railing and lean my hip against it. Reaching out, I lay one palm along the cool wrought iron, letting the refreshing temperature of the metal permeate the rest of my body like a soothing summer breeze.

  I remind myself I’m safe, that I’m here in this moment, not back in the most terrifying one of my life.

  I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.

  “Are you okay?”

  Nash’s voice is a barely discernible rumble in the moonlight.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Something happened. Tell me what it was.”

  He’s about as sensitive and tactful as a bull in a china shop, stating the obvious and then demanding answers. But I know that’s just the way he is. I’m not sure he’s capable of more. Or ever will be. Nash is hard, rougher around the edges than probably anyone I know. And profoundly broken, I think.

  But then again, so am I.

  I turn around, putting the rail at my back, ready to give him some semblance of an answer, but the words die on my tongue. He’s standing in front of me, taking a sip of his beer, watching me with his raven eyes. Something about the scene—the balcony, the balmy air, the beer, Nash, me—seems so familiar. It’s almost like déjà vu.

  A gush of warmth sweeps through me, stealing my breath. I have no idea where it came from or why, but I’m so aroused I feel hot all over. And moist.

  “What is it?” he asks, his eyebrows knit together in a frown.

  “I don’t know. Something about you and . . . and this balcony and you drinking beer . . . I don’t know. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Familiar almost. Weird,” I say casually, trying to blow if off, but feeling anything but nonchalant.

  Don’t tear his clothes off! Don’t tear his clothes off!

  My palm is sweaty beneath the bowl of my glass. The fingers of my other hand curl around the wrought iron at my back when he takes a step closer to me.

  He stops only inches from me. He stares down into my face for a moment, thoughtfully, before he raises his beer bottle to my mouth and rolls it across my bottom lip. “Yeah. Weird.”

  We stay like this for a couple of torturous minutes. All I can think about is how much I want him to kiss me, to touch me, to take me in his arms and drown out everything and everyone else.

  But he doesn’t. Without a word, he steps back, turns slightly to the side, and takes another swig of his beer.

  Almost like he didn’t feel a thing.

  THIRTEEN

  Nash

  “So, why have you never asked questions about me and Cash? Why weren’t you surprised, or at least confused, when I drove you to your father’s house after the kidnapping? You can’t tell me you didn’t at least wonder who I was.” I stare out into the night, careful to keep my eyes off her.

  I hope Marissa doesn’t think my abrupt change of subject is suspicious. I didn’t want her to keep thinking about the balcony. She’s getting too close. Too close to a memory I don’t want her to find. Too close to something I want to forget. But something I can’t forget.

  I force it from my mind, determined not to think on it. I see now that it was a mistake to follow her out here.

  I can’t help but be curious what she knows, though. If that’s why I catch her staring at me so often. What will she think of me if she ever puts two and two together?

  “I’ll admit it was shocking to see you, but more shocking than confusing because I already knew what was going on.”

  I turn my head slightly, just enough to see her. I arch my brow. “And you expect me to believe that? That you just figured it out?”

  She frowns. “Oh. No. That’s not how it happened. I found out while I was being held captive. I overheard two men talking.”

  “Ahhh,” I say. That makes much more sense. Marissa is astute enough to catch on, but I’m sure Cash limited the amount of time he let anyone who knew him see him as both Cash and Nash. He wouldn’t take a reckless risk like that. It would have been difficult for Marissa to realize the truth—especially when she had no reason to suspect he was playing both brothers. When I think of her answer, though, it still doesn’t make sense. No one should’ve known until after we had possession of Marissa. “Exactly what did they say?”

  “Just that one of their plants had called in the night before and said that one of you had been pretending to be both twins, but that the other one—the real one—was back.”

  “A ‘plant’?”

  She nods again. “That’s what he said. Or at least that’s what it sounded like he said. He had a very thick accent.”

  “Russian?”

  “Yes, it sounded like it.”

  I feel my frown deepen right along with my concern. “And this guy said the plant called in the night before? When was it that you overheard this?”

  “Um, the day you brought me home, I think. They kept me bound and gagged and blindfolded almost the entire time, so my sense of time is skewed. When I think back to those hours, I can’t . . . seem . . . to . . .”

  A shiver passes through her and she closes her eyes for a second. It’s plain to see she’s still shaken by the whole thing. I’m sure most people in her position would be. She just puts on such a good front that it’s easy to forget she’s been through a traumatic experience. And very recently, too. I guess with everything that’s going on, the movement of time seems, by turns, inordinately fast or inordinately slow.

  I suppose all of our lives are in a kind of holding pattern until we get this over and done with, and behind us. And, like it or not, we’re all in this together. These bastards have adversely affected and touched each of our lives.

  I think over the timeline. If she’s remembering correctly, that means someone tipped off the Russians on Sunday. Presumably after I arrived in town. That means they have eyes on the club most likely, which doesn’t surprise me. But was it merely someone in the club, a patron? Or was it someone . . . closer? Cl
oser to Cash? Someone on the inside?

  He’s been pretty cautious, so I’m inclined to think it was someone watching him and watching his life from the perspective of a clubber.

  I growl through my gritted teeth.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Cash is a godda—” I catch myself before I finish the phrase. I guess some parts of the old me never died, like the ingrained urge to watch my language around a lady. “He’s a damned idiot for trusting any of you people.”

  “Any of ‘you people,’” she says, clearly taking exception. “I know you can’t possibly mean me.”

  “And why the hell not? You might be the worst one of them all.”

  “How could you even say that? I’ve done nothing to deserve your distrust.”

  I scoff. “Maybe not, but you’ve done nothing to earn my trust, either.”

  “So not telling anyone who you really are isn’t enough to rate a little trust?”

  “Hell no! It serves your purposes just as much as mine. I can just imagine the kind of social shitstorm you’d stir up if you told anybody about the man you thought was Nash.” My laugh is bitter. “No, don’t act like you’re doing me some big favor. Your motives are selfish, just like the rest of us.”

  “You can’t go through life not trusting anyone.”

  “Watch me,” I snap.

  She looks wounded, no doubt some kind of feminine ploy practiced specifically to manipulate. Well, it won’t work on me. She’s not getting under my skin. I want her; that’s no secret. But that’s the only thing I’m interested in—sex. Nothing more. I even did the right thing and warned her about me. If she chooses to ignore that warning, that’s on her.

  “I think this was a mistake,” she says, her voice small in the heavy air.

  “Let me give you a valuable tip about people and life. Everybody wants something. Everybody. As soon as you can get that through your head, the better off you’ll be.”

  She looks down at her hands as she toys with the stem of her martini glass. “And what is it that you want?”

  “Revenge,” I bite out. “Justice.” She nods slowly but doesn’t look back up at me. Again, I think of my goal to have those long, long legs wrapped around me. I should hide it from her. Woo her instead. No doubt it’s what the high-society types expect. But that’s exactly why I won’t do either. I want to shock her. I want her to know that I change for no one. I yield to no one. “And a few hours alone with you.”