Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel)

by Leighton, M.

  I want her to be clear about my intentions. Because we will be sleeping together. And sooner rather than later. I’m the kind to take what I want. She needs to know that.

  It won’t change anything. I know when a woman is already mine. And this one is.

  Much to her detriment, probably. But again, that’s on her. She can’t say I didn’t warn her.

  * * *

  On our way out, Marissa does her best to stick to the wall and dodge virtually everyone in the room. Again, I think to myself that this isn’t easy for her, letting this life go, letting this person go. And this is just the first night. What does she think will happen after word gets out? Or when she goes back to work? When she’s shunned? I should probably warn her that she doesn’t have it in her, that she’s nowhere near strong enough. But then again, it’s not my place, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut.

  An attractively curvaceous girl stops Marissa just as she’s trying to dart toward the exit, the home stretch. She has chin-length blond hair, a nice rack, and hips to hang on to. I’m sure most of Marissa’s friends call her fat, but I’m also sure most of Marissa’s friends are anorexic bitches, so . . .

  “Marissa! Wait!”

  There’s no polite way to pretend she didn’t hear, so Marissa turns toward the girl and smiles.

  “Heather, how are you?” Marissa turns on her overly happy, public face.

  “I heard you had to pull out early from your trip to the Caymans.”

  Although I’m sure she doesn’t appreciate the reference to her cutting short the trip for personal reasons, Marissa’s smile is unwavering. She’s good under pressure. “And where did you hear that?”

  “Tim mentioned something about it.”

  “A gossipy man? That’s not very common.”

  The girl, Heather, looks stung, but she recovers quickly. “I don’t think of it as gossip. It’s just that you’re so . . . dedicated, he thought something was wrong. I just wanted to catch you before you left tonight to make sure you’re okay.”

  I feel a pang of sympathy for this girl. She seems like she’s genuinely concerned, like she’d like to be a friend to Marissa. Little does she know, she’s better off not.

  If I had to guess, I’d say this girl, Heather, is a lot less jaded than most of the icy bitches in this room. And it’s probably because she’s a nice person that she never ranked very high on Marissa’s list of important people. She hardly rates a short conversation. That much is obvious.

  I can see by Marissa’s expression that she’s relieved “Nash” wasn’t mentioned. “Well, I’m fine. And you can pass that along to Tim as well.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she says pleasantly, but she doesn’t leave well enough alone. She’s obviously a glutton for punishment. “You know if you ever need to talk, you can always call me. I’m always home. All alone in that big ol’ house.” She laughs uncomfortably, like she divulged too much or she’s embarrassed not to have more on her social calendar. I imagine that’s something shameful in these circles.

  Damn pit vipers!

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Marissa says politely before she starts to turn away. My guess is that she’s not used to such a genuine expression of kindness. But then, as if that very thing suddenly occurs to her, her expression softens and she reaches out and puts a hand on Heather’s arm. “And I appreciate the offer, Heather. Really. Thank you.”

  I watch Heather’s eyes go round and sort of glaze over. If I blew in her face, she’d fall right over. She’s that shocked. I’m pretty surprised myself, and that’s not an easy thing to accomplish. But Marissa has done it. And she’s risen a notch in my opinion, too. Maybe I underestimated her character. Maybe, just maybe, there is something more than a snobby, calculated, privileged brat beneath that beautiful skin.

  Obviously, she’s a little more complex than I’d originally thought. I can’t decide if her default mode is vicious bitch and she’s trying to fight it, or if the vicious bitch part is more like a hard candy shell, protecting the softer center. I guess only time will tell.

  “Have a good night,” Heather says simply before she steps back, allowing Marissa to leave.

  “You, too, Heather. Tell Tim . . . tell him hello for me, okay?”

  The girl smiles broadly and nods. For a second I think she might get all giddy and start crying for Marissa’s autograph, but she pulls it together and walks back the way she came.

  I wait until we’re out in the anteroom, away from the crowd, before I speak. “Bravo,” I say sarcastically. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  She whirls on me, her eyes flashing in a bit of temper I didn’t realize she had. “You’re just not going to cut me any slack, are you?” she snaps.

  “People overlooking your flaws for your whole life is what got you in the position in the first place. What you need is someone who’s honest with you. And someone to spank that ass every now and then. Do you some good.”

  “And you’re just the man for the job,” she says before turning to walk away.

  “There’s only one need I’m interested in filling,” I admit, but I don’t think she hears me.

  I follow her out. She stops at the curb and waits for the valet to scurry off after the car. When she responds, I know she actually did hear me. “I don’t need anything thing from you. Not one single thing.”

  “Maybe not, but you want something from me. You can deny it all you like, but we both know it’s true.”

  Her eyes dart over my face and she stammers like she’s flustered. “You’re . . . you’re just as delusional as you are twisted,” she replies. I’ve got her off balance. She’s not used to people treating her this way. Or being honest with her, I suspect.

  “We’ll see.”

  The valet pulls up in front of us with the car he parked only a short while ago. I tip him and open the door for the very stiff Marissa. I have the urge to laugh over her petulance. That’s another unusual occurrence tonight. Laughing isn’t something I do very often.

  I climb behind the wheel and shut the door. Marissa must’ve been holding her rebuttal until we were in private.

  “If you think I’m sleeping with you, you can think again. I’d rather be kidnapped again.”

  This time, I do laugh at her melodramatic response. “We’ll see,” I repeat, shifting into gear and speeding off down the road.

  We’ve been on the road for at least five minutes before she stops pouting long enough to realize we’re not heading toward her condo.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need a drink. And so do you.”

  FOURTEEN

  Marissa

  Even though I want to argue with Nash, just to ease my frustration, I don’t. He’s right. I need a drink. I might even need two.

  I lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, trying to forget about the last hour or so. And the disappointment of it. I don’t look up again until I hear Nash shift into park and cut the engine. When I open my eyes and turn my head toward him, he’s watching me, his expression blank. I’d love to know what he’s thinking.

  Or would I?

  I decide I probably don’t. I’d say he thinks I’m a monster. And, at the moment, I feel an awful lot like he might be right.

  Feeling ashamed of myself, I look away, through the windshield, to see where we are. I half expected to see Dual in front of me. I don’t really know why. That makes no sense. I’d say that’s the last place Nash would want to go to relax. But of all the other places I might’ve imagined him picking, this place is possibly even more surprising.

  We’re parked in the lot of a piano bar. Before I can ask any questions, Nash speaks as if he’d read my thoughts. “My mother used to play the piano. It always relaxes me to hear it.” He gets out and comes around to my side to open the door. I’m surprised when he takes my hand. It’s such a gentl
emanly gesture. And he’s no gentleman. But he sure does have a way of keeping me off balance. I’ll give him that. “Plus our fancy clothes won’t be that big of a deal here.” I wouldn’t have even thought of that, but I’m glad he did.

  “Why the calm courtesy tonight? This isn’t like you?”

  He looks at me and arches one brow. “Maybe I don’t mind pretending to be something that I’m not, either.”

  “Is that what you’re doing? Pretending?”

  “You’re complaining?”

  “No. I’m just . . .”

  “Just what? Suspicious?”

  I smile. “Maybe.”

  “Good.”

  Nash releases my hand more quickly than I would’ve liked. I remind myself that it’s for the best. The more distance I can keep from him emotionally, the better off I’ll be.

  But already a part of me is arguing that I don’t want to keep distance. I want to get closer, close enough to feel the heat. The problem is, close enough to feel the heat usually means close enough to get burned.

  His hand at the base of my spine causes chills to erupt down my arms. Self-conscious, I want to cross my arms over my chest; I know my nipples are hard. But I resist the urge. Rather, I put my focus on enjoying the touch of his hand.

  The bar is dimly lit but for the circle that spotlights the piano. The smell of expensive cigars permeates the air and creates a haze that further obscures the half-moon-shaped booths that line the walls. Nash guides me to an empty one, pushed deep into a corner.

  I slide in behind the table. Rather than sitting across from me, Nash scoots in beside me, forcing me to move around to the back of the booth, almost entirely hidden from the room, but with a great view of the piano.

  When I stop, so does Nash. He doesn’t look at me as he slings his arm over the back of the booth; he’s already watching the pianist work magic with his long fingers. But that’s not the case with me. I can’t concentrate on anything except Nash.

  His body is plastered to mine from my knee to my shoulder, which is tucked snugly under his arm. Even above the smoke, I smell his clean, manly scent. It envelops me.

  I let my eyes slide to my left. Nash fills my vision. If I were to tilt my head and lean in, I could press my lips to the pulse I see beating in his neck, just above his collar.

  As if he feels my eyes on him, he reaches up with his free hand and loosens his bow tie, expertly unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. The tie lists to one side, dangling at a sexy angle. Thoughts of undressing him run through my head, making my mouth dry.

  With perfect timing, the waitress comes to take our order. “Vodka rocks and a Grey Goose martini, dirty.” Again, I’m fine with what he orders. Not that it would matter. He’d probably order whatever he wanted, anyway.

  I wonder to myself if he does things like that because he’s that thoughtless, or if it’s because he likes total control. Maybe it’s a bit of both. One thing is for sure—the thought of giving him total control, of letting him take the reins, of letting him take me, gives me a thrill like no other.

  Nash keeps his silence and basically ignores me until the drinks come. He downs his in two large gulps and signals the waitress for another before she can even step away from the table. Reaching forward, he slides my drink closer to me and shifts in the booth until he’s slightly tilted in my direction. His body creates a barrier against the rest of the room, like I’m shielded by him.

  Or being overtaken by him. Overwhelmed. Slowly consumed.

  “Drink,” he says softly, drawing my eyes to his. They’re deep pools that look like the perfect place to get lost, to hide out from the rest of the world. “Tell me about it. Tell me what happened.”

  I don’t need him to clarify; I know exactly what he means. He’s referring to the days I was held captive. A shiver works its way through me, as it always does when I think of it, which I try purposely not to do.

  “Let’s talk about you first. I’m happy to give, but I want something in return.”

  “If I answer your questions first, that’s not ‘something in return.’ That’s bribery. What is it, Marissa?” he asks softly, his dark eyes taunting me. “Don’t you trust me to satisfy you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He reaches forward to push my hair back over my shoulder, his fingertips grazing my neck. “Well, I can promise you I won’t leave you anything but satisfied.”

  I struggle to think past his smooth words and magnetic gaze. “You know what I mean, Nash,” I say as sternly as I can manage.

  I can’t hear so much as feel his sigh. He’s so close to me, his chest brushes my arm when he inhales. “What do you want to know? That I haven’t already told you, that is.”

  You’ve got to be kidding! You’ve barely told me anything!

  I want to know everything, everything that has led to this moment, everything that has made him the man he is today. Everything that turned a promising young boy into this hardened, bitter person. It would be cruel to dredge up memories of the day his mother was killed, though, so I spare him that in hopes that maybe one day he’ll tell me voluntarily. “Tell me about your years at sea. You did say you worked on a smuggling ship, right?”

  “That’s right. What else is there? I was involved in a lot of highly illegal, extremely unethical shit. You don’t need to know anything more than that.”

  I feel the sudden chill in his attitude. This is obviously a sensitive subject and he very definitely has no interest in telling me all about it. But I’m a lawyer; it’s not in me to back down from a line of questioning just because someone doesn’t want to give me answers.

  “Surely there had to be some good days. Tell me about one of them.”

  I don’t know why I’m so desperate to know him, to know some part of him he doesn’t want anyone to see. But I am. I know it’s dangerous, but it’s beyond me to stop.

  Nash sighs again, looking toward the ceiling. He’s quiet and appears frustrated, and it seems as though he’s not going to answer me.

  But he does.

  Maybe eventually, too, I will learn to expect the unexpected with him.

  “My first year on the ship was pure hell. I was homesick, I was heartbroken, and I despised the idea of being involved in anything criminal. But I knew I had to survive. For Dad. For Cash. I knew one day I might be able to save us all with what I’d seen. And that boat was the only way. At least for a while. Dad promised he’d send for me, and I held on to that hope for a long time. Until I learned that hate could keep me alive, too. That it could save my life.” He falls quiet for a few seconds, lost in some kind of hell I can only fathom. But then he clears his throat and visibly shakes off the darkness in favor of something pleasant. “Anyway, a few months in, they brought on a Somalian. He wanted safe passage for him and his family to America, and the Russians had agreed to sneak them onto U.S. soil in exchange for his help for two years.

  “His name was Yusuf and he reminded me a lot of Dad. He was younger, but it was easy to see he’d do anything for his family, to get them to safety, even if it meant being away from them for two years. He took up with me right off the bat. He spoke pretty good English and Russian, so he taught me quite a bit of both his native Arabic and some Russian while he was with us.” Nash smiles as he remembers and talks of this Yusuf. “We played cards a lot at night. He had the shittiest poker face in the world.” His lips curve up into the closest thing I’ve seen to a genuinely tender smile. But then it’s gone. “Anyway, on one of our runs to Bajuni, the island where we made port when we had an . . . exchange, I caught him sneaking into one of the smaller boats one night. At first, he didn’t want to tell me what he was doing, but when I threatened to sound the alarm, he changed his mind.

  “See, when Yusuf agreed to help the Russians, Alexandroff, our . . . captain, had promised him he could send money to his wife and see her occasionally when we were back
in the area. Only they never allowed it. So he was sneaking off to see her, to take her some money so she and his daughter wouldn’t starve. I wouldn’t let him go without me, of course, so we paddled across to the Somali coast and put in at a little bay to travel to his village of Beernassi. We only got to spend a couple of hours there, but I got to meet his wife and his little girl. They got up like it wasn’t the middle of the night. His wife, Sharifa, made us something to eat, and his daughter wouldn’t let us out of her sight.” His smile is sad as he speaks of her. “Her name was Jamilla. It means ‘beautiful.’ And she was.”

  He gets quiet again, so I prompt him, wanting to hear more of his story. “What happened next?”

  Nash looks up at me. His eyes have gone cold, his voice even colder. “Alexandroff found us. He walked right in, put a gun to Yusuf’s head, and pulled the trigger. Killed him right in front of his family. Two of his men, two guys I hated from the second I got on board, held me, made me watch, and then beat me in the head with the butts of their guns until I passed out. I woke up on the ship two days later, stuck to my pillow in a pool of my own blood. I was gagged and tied to the bed.”

  I’m speechless. And I’m heartbroken. I ache for what Nash must have felt, what he still must feel. And this was one of his happy memories, for God’s sake! My throat is thick with emotion and my eyes burn with unshed tears.

  “Oh God, Nash. I’m so sorry.”

  Why did you have to know, Marissa? Why? Why put him through this?

  “Nothing good happened on that boat. Nothing. Ever. I learned a hard lesson that night. One I’ve never forgotten.”

  I’m almost afraid to ask. “What’s that?”

  “I learned to hate. To really hate.”