by Cassia Leo
Should she give Chloe’s name? Or flash a photograph? But some old instinct to protect had her speaking in vague terms, protecting her sister’s virtue like they were in medieval times or something. Hailey had seen the looks her mother had gotten, even in a town that wasn’t small. Reputation was a fragile thing.
He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Again, I see a lot of girls like that. Girls looking for a good time. I can tell by the dreamy look on your face that someone’s already got to you. But you should know, we share. You get bored tonight, come find me. The name’s Krist.”
She stared at him, unable to move past the two words: we share. With a knowing grin, he stood and strolled out of the lobby, whistling something that sounded vaguely familiar.
Hmm. That had gone okay. Not great, though. How was she supposed to figure this out, anyway? Too bad there wasn’t a polite way to ask, So is your life in a weird place right now? Any pressing commitment you can’t deal with? Or maybe just, Did you have unprotected sex with my sister and then leave her to deal with the consequences, you dirtbag? But all that was the opposite of subtle.
She didn’t have a plan for finding this guy. Nada. Zip. Which sucked, but she couldn’t walk away.
She refused to let her sister be publicly shamed any more than was necessary. They’d already had a taste of that in school, when knowledge of their mother’s paid “dates” made the cafeteria rounds. The fact that Hailey and Chloe had different fathers, neither of whom they’d ever met, didn’t help. Hailey wanted better than that for Chloe and her baby, so here she was. Ready to give the father of her niece or nephew a verbal butt kicking. If only she could identify him.
With Krist gone, the lobby was pretty much empty. She doubted the woman with the perfect up-do behind the desk would be interested in spilling band secrets. Wandering through the wide, carpeted halls, she found the bar had opened. Inside, a bartender was wiping glasses as he lined them up, prepping for the day and night to come. He had a metallic blue shirt and an earring, and shadows under his eyes that hinted at late nights. His smile, though, was warm when she sat down.
“What can I get you?” he asked easily.
She immediately liked this guy, immediately felt more comfortable than she’d been recently. “What do you have that’s nonalcoholic? And comforting. Like chicken soup. I guess you don't have that.”
“Unfortunately not. But I have orange juice, and I can get the kitchen to fix you pancakes. Carbs always make me feel better. What do you say?”
“I'd say you're my new best friend…Sorry, what's your name?”
“Michael. And it's coming right up.”
“Bless you.”
*
He woke with the top sheet tangled around his neck. Alone. Disoriented. Not as disoriented as when he'd spent his nights in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, but close. The room, unnaturally dark and frigid, hummed with silence. He ran his hand over the empty space beside him. Cool to the touch. She'd been gone for a while, long enough for all that delicious body heat to fade from the soft white sheets. He could have curled around her body and slept for days. Where the fuck was she?
He sat up, fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, and punched the buttons for room service. Before the second ring he hung up. He wasn't hungry, not for food. Maybe she'd been hungry and wandered downstairs looking for a waffle bar, like this was some highway travel lodge.
Lock had figured out young that his parents were icons. What exactly they iconicized had taken longer to figure out—and had alternately shamed and frustrated him after. Krist had been in the same tabloid-frenzied boat. When they’d first formed their band, they had stayed at shit motels, desperate to prove they were more than rock royalty. Struggling to starve so they could be artists. But when they’d signed their first big deal, hiding their parentage had been impossible. He missed the anonymity sometimes, and the waffles. He almost missed sharing a room with his “brother.” He'd never been alone back then.
Never had time to think.
A muffled buzz emitted from the nightstand drawer, the one with lube and clean contracts and a freshly inked agreement with Hailey's bubbly signature. He fished the phone out and groaned when he saw a hairy ass on the screen. Fucking Moe. He couldn't change his pass code fast enough. “You have my pick. What do you want now?”
“You got a sweet little blonde on your payroll?” The smart-ass was damn near giddy and more gossipy than an old lady at the beauty parlor.
“I don't pay them, Moe. That's your deal.”
“You know what I mean.” And he did. They all did. He didn't discuss his contractual relationships with the guys, but they knew his situations were pretty regimented. Especially after that last nuclear disaster had gone viral. And not the kind of viral that required blood work. The kind that couldn't be scrubbed from RedTube no matter how slick the record label's lawyer. He couldn't blame them for thinking he used pros, though no one could confuse Hailey with a professional.
“She causing trouble?” He couldn't imagine what that would even look like. He pictured her trying to lace Krist's combat boots so he wouldn't trip. She'd be crouched on one knee, that too-short skirt riding up, head bent―he coughed. He didn't need a hard-on while he was talking to Moe.
“No, but she's causing a little scene in the bar trying to pay for her breakfast. Won't give ’em a room number.”
Shit. All she had to do was give his name. Was his little mouse ashamed? “Are you there? Hand her the phone.”
He heard some muffled footsteps and voices as Moe pushed his phone on Hailey.
“Yes?” The sweet tickle of her uncertain voice had him shifting again.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Paying for my breakfast. Trying, anyway.”
“You're mine for three days, Hailey. I take care of what's mine.”
“I didn't know your room number.” She said it in a fast whisper. “Do penthouses have room numbers?”
He shouldn't have let her leave on her own. He should've tied her to the bed and fucked her right back into oblivion. Then ordered room service so they could do it all over again after they ate. He'd just been so sleepy, so comfortable wrapped around her. He hadn't slept that well in years. “Just show them your VIP pass and they’ll know you’re with me. They’ll know you’re mine. Then get your ass up here so I can take it out in trade.”
“Is that how this works? Trade?” She was still whispering, but he could almost hear her smile.
“No. Not really. There is no trade. There's only you giving me your ass.”
“Bodily available.” It wasn't a question. It was an affirmation. Those two words on her lips, buzzing in his ear, sent all the blood in his head rushing toward his dick.
“Don't make me wait.”
“Will there be…consequences?” The quiver in her voice, the hesitation, all thready and breathless, sounded more like anticipation than fear. She just kept surprising him.
“Would you like that?”
She didn't answer with words, only a gasp. A sharp intake that sounded so much like the noise she made when he thrust inside her—he pressed the heel of his palm to his throbbing erection and growled into the phone. “Be here in five minutes, or I'm putting you over my knee.”
He hoped she took her time.
***
Chapter Eight
Tim took the steps up to Chloe's apartment two at a time. If he slowed down, he might start thinking again, and if he started thinking, he'd never do what he needed to do. It was early, the sun just peeking over the treetops, but he knew she’d be awake. She was a morning person, and he…had not been able to sleep at all.
He'd never been to her apartment before. The one she shared with Hailey. But he knew where they lived; basically the whole congregation did. They were like pets, the two of them, especially after their mother had skipped town. Food baskets and bags of cast-off sweaters, a few dollars toward a gas bill during a particularly brutal winter.
They'd st
ruggled in ways he could only imagine. He wouldn't add to that. Not any more than he already had. They were going to have a baby. A child who would need food and sweaters and heat and two parents that loved him. Or her. As long as it's healthy. That's what people said. The gender didn't matter as long as it was healthy.
He knew what that meant now.
He rapped his knuckles against the door. Would Hailey be home? Did she already know? What would she say? His heart pounded in his chest. That didn't matter either. Done is done. It was time to soak up the spilled milk.
Chloe cracked the door, pulling the security chain taut, and peeked out.
He cleared his throat. “You didn't come over.”
“Yeah, I thought that was a bad idea. There's nothing left to talk about. We'd only end up hurting each other.”
He'd only end up hurting her, is what she meant. But he wouldn't do that. Not again.
“Let me in, Chloe. Just—” He pressed his forehead to the door frame. This wasn't something you did in the communal hallway of an apartment building. Chloe deserved better, romance and flower petals and poetry. He didn't have any of that. All he had were his empty hands and promises. Not good enough. Not nearly.
He was thinking again. Thinking was the enemy. “I have something to say, and you need to hear it.”
She nodded and pushed the door closed to release the chain.
The apartment was small but clean and cheerful. Hailey had done a good job of making a home for them.
“All right, you're inside. What is it?” She crossed her arms over her chest, and it tented the T-shirt she wore. It reminded him of a baby bump, and he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to touch her there. It steeled his resolve.
“Chloe, I don't ever want you to be uncertain or scared or hurt. I know that's how you've felt, and I am so sorry.” He reached for her hand, and she didn't pull away. It was tiny compared to his, but strong. He remembered guiding her through the scale on his old acoustic; she'd pushed the pads of her fingers into the strings until they left angry red marks. You'll callus up if you keep practicing.
“It's not that—”
“No. Let me talk.”
She blew out a breath. “Okay.”
“We can fix this. We can make this right. I want to keep you safe, keep our baby safe. Security and family and forever, all of it.”
Tears glistened in her eyelashes. “What are you saying?”
He dropped to one knee, still holding her hand. “Marry me, Chloe Miller.”
She tugged him up, pulling him into an embrace. “Is that really what you want?”
Cupping her jaw, he skimmed the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “Absolutely.”
She leaned into his touch, lips just skimming his as she spoke. “I love you.”
Love. This wasn't about love. This was bigger than love. She was confusing lust with love anyway. He'd done the same thing, let his judgment be clouded by base emotions. She'd learn eventually. He'd be what she needed, and what she needed was a rock.
“I'll take care of you.”
She stumbled back as if his words repelled her. “What did you say?”
“I’ll take care of you. And the…baby. You won’t have to be alone.”
Hurt flashed through her eyes. “No.”
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“I’m not going to marry you.”
*
He looked so adorably confused that Chloe almost lost her resolve. Almost gave in to the plea in his eyes. Almost said yes. And wouldn’t that be sweet? A husband to take care of her and the baby. She wouldn’t have to be alone. A fist clenched her heart.
“Is that what I am to you?” she asked quietly. “Someone to take care of? A charity case who showed up on the back step of the church?”
“Chloe—”
“I see what you’re doing. You think I’m young. You think I’m stupid.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid.”
She laughed. He hadn’t denied thinking she was young. Well, she was. But neither was she going to be steamrolled by his kindness. It was a form of bondage, that kindness. It would bind their hands together with chains instead of gold bands. That wasn’t marriage. It was pity.
“I’m not getting an abortion, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not,” he said, but something flickered in his eyes. He had been worried.
“And you’ll be able to see the child. I won’t keep you from him. Or her.”
His gaze darkened. “So you’re making this decision for both of us?”
“I’m making this decision for myself. I deserve more than a husband who wants to take care of me.” She spat the final words, hating how he’d thrown them in her face. Right after she confessed she loved him. “I never had a father growing up. I’m not looking for a replacement.”
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “Is that how you see me?”
She ignored the hurt in his eyes. “Tell me it’s not like that,” she challenged, stepping closer. Her voice dropped as she reached for him. As she backed him against the wall. “Prove it to me.”
The hair curling over his collar was silky soft, at odds with the unruly spikes it always formed. She let her fingers slide down his chest. There was so much of him. It wasn’t always obvious because he had a way of putting people at ease. Accommodating, that was the word. So damn accommodating he froze when she swiped her thumb over his chest, right where his nipple would be. Ah, there it was, hardening so she could swipe it again.
She smiled. “You like that?”
“You know I do,” he groaned as his head fell back. “Chloe.”
He was always like this, so pliant. Holding back and letting her take the reins. Like when she put her hand on his jeans, and he bucked into her palm. Yeah, he liked that. She knew he did.
“Stop,” he gasped.
But she couldn’t quite believe him, not with him thrusting in a rhythm she remembered. “You don’t want me to stroke your cock?” When he didn’t answer, she squeezed. “You don’t want me to get on my knees?”
“Jesus. Chloe, we can’t.”
A smile curved her lips. Because okay, this part had always been fun. The denials, the restraint. All the way up until he let everything go. He resisted all the way up until climax—and then he roared with release. His fingers left bruises on her hips, and that was how she knew he’d surrendered.
Not only to her, but to his own lust.
He kept himself back from what he wanted. She couldn’t live like that. Not even if she got safety. Not even if she got him in return.
She pressed her breasts against him, and God, that was so good. They’d been sensitive lately. She worried it would hurt if they did this again—but no, it felt better. Every nerve ending awake and sparking, a conduit for his heat. Her body slid all the way down his, unbearable friction that drew a grunt from him.
His buckle came apart; his zipper came undone. The hem of his boxers tucked down. It was like tugging on a loose string and watching the whole thing unravel. Him. He was unraveling, leaning back against the wall and letting her take out his cock.
“Prove it,” she whispered. Prove he was more than her caretaker. Prove he was more than a youth leader. She needed him to prove she meant more to him than a mistake, something to fix.
She wanted him to love her. But maybe lust would be enough.
His eyes flared as he looked down at her, stroking him in her hands. “Oh God. Jesus.”
“What do you want, Pastor Tim?”
“We can’t do this. You’re…you’re pregnant.”
“So what? We'll be married but never have sex, is that it?” One stroke. Two. “Do you want me?”
His cheeks were stained pink with arousal. “Yes. Damn it. Yes.”
She leaned forward, lips parted, ready to kiss the tip. To suck him deep. He jerked away and nudged her back at the same time. She fell with an oof onto her ass, legs splayed. He
was turned away, righting himself, straightening his clothes.
When he turned around, the bulge was still clearly visible. Lust strained his expression. But his eyes were veiled. “Marry me.”
Too cold to be a question. Too hollow to be a command. What did those two words mean when spoken like that? They meant duty.
And she’d already been the albatross around her sister’s neck. She wouldn’t also be his. Wouldn’t use his money. Wouldn’t risk his career plans to become a pastor. Wouldn’t face that dead look in his eyes every night when he came home.
She stood, narrowing her eyes and pretending he hadn’t hurt her. “Take whatever white horse you rode in on and get the hell out.”
***
Chapter Nine
Hailey handed the phone back to a grinning Moe. He reminded her of Animal from the Muppets, the crazy hair and the whirlwind of energy that surrounded him. It should have been creepy, the way he was sizing her up, like he was actually taking measurements of her body and trying to peer inside her eyes. But somehow it was just sort of inviting, like he saw her, and no less flattering because he probably did that for everyone.
“You look familiar,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“No, wait. It’s coming to me.”
She waited, not sure what else to do, especially when he was blocking her way. “Right, well…”
“Judy Garland.” He snapped his fingers. “I knew I’d figure it out. You have the bedroom eyes and the husky voice. I’d recognize that voice in my sleep.”
She sighed, her fifth-grade Halloween costume coming back to haunt her. With the braids and the blue dress, it was an undeniable likeness. Even grown-up, that hadn’t changed. Tripping down the yellow brick road with a tin man on her arm, that was her. She would have preferred to be like someone a little more glamorous. Ginger Rogers, maybe. Hailey doubted Fred Astaire had asked her to sign a sex contract.