Yep. J. Pratt was a disc jockey. A search on his phone showed him that.
And down at the bottom of his website, he saw the discreet little line indicating who’d designed the guy’s site.
Glory Daze Designs.
He put the crate into his trunk, although that strip of pictures he slid into his shirt pocket. Once he was in the car, he called his assistant. “I need an address…a local disc jockey. J. Pratt.”
Ilona was quiet for a minute and then asked, “J. Pratt. As in Jumping Jack Pratt? Big radio hotshot?”
“Hell if I know. All I know is the guy is a disc jockey and I think he’s having a party today. I need to know where he lives.”
“He lives about a mile away from us. And yes, he’s a disc jockey. He’s also one of the biggest assholes known to man and yes…he’s having a party. I know this because he’s made sure to call the house about three times this week to invite Miguel.”
Miguel… Marc ran his tongue along his teeth. “So…what’s my favorite drummer up to?”
“Don’t, Marc. He’ll kick your ass if you even ask him. We can’t stand that guy.” Ilona snorted, her voice thick with disgust. “He can’t look at a woman without checking out her tits. He can’t talk to a woman without checking out her tits. The only reason he even invites us over there to check out my rack and grill us about you, anyway.”
“What do I have to do with your rack? I never even noticed you have one.”
“Gee, thanks.” Ilona sighed.
In the background, Marc heard Miguel’s voice. “Are you talking to Marc about your rack?”
“Now you’re going to get me in trouble,” Marc muttered.
“Relax. You’re more interested in my brains than my boobs. That’s a good thing. Hold on. If you’re serious, you can talk to your favorite drummer. But leave me out of it. Completely.”
Marc drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, staring off down the street. A car rolled by and he automatically turned his head, staring toward Shera’s house.
“What’s this about your favorite drummer? I’m the only drummer who’s ever been dumb enough to work with your dumb ass,” Miguel said, his voice amused. “And why were you talking about my girl’s boobs?”
“She was talking about them. Not me. I heard you were invited to a party.”
Miguel’s sneer was evident in his voice. “Jumping Jackhole’s thing? Not my idea of a party. All he does is kiss ass and wheedle.”
“We deal with that on a daily basis.”
“Not when we’re on break.” Miguel muttered under his breath and finally asked, “What’s up, buddy?”
“I need to go to that party.”
“And you want me to take you. You got any idea how annoying that fucker is?”
Another car drove by and this one slowed down, took a longer look. Marc could feel the guy’s gaze resting on him, despite the fact that Marc had his head turned, a pair of sunglasses on and a hat. Shit. Time to go. Starting the car, he tossed the phone down and switched it to speaker. He hated headsets. “I don’t care about the DJ. There’s a…” He blew out a breath and tried to figure out what to say. His closest friends had developed this insane protective streak over him and although part of him understood, he wasn’t some idiot kid.
Okay, so he did idiot stuff, but that was his own problem.
And this wasn’t idiot stuff.
This was Chaili.
He’d been waiting a week to finally talk to her and he knew she was home, because the sweet Mrs. Hornby across the way had promised to call as soon as she saw Chaili’s car. Because of course, Marc’s sister wasn’t telling him a damn thing. But Mrs. Hornby had. It was just Marc’s dumb luck he’d been down in his gym, without his phone, when she’d called, and by the time he’d emerged an hour later and then showered and made the drive to her place…Chaili was gone.
But he also knew sometimes Chaili left notes for Shera in the house, an old habit. And hot damn, he’d found the note, along with the bits and pieces of their life together…bits and pieces she was throwing away.
It made him hurt to see it and he couldn’t even explain why. Had he fucked up that bad?
He’d spent the whole damn week rehearsing what he’d say to her, but then he’d seen the evidence that maybe it wouldn’t matter… No. He wasn’t going to think that way. It would matter. It had to, because he was thinking maybe the reason he always felt that vague emptiness inside him, why no woman seemed to click with him, was because she wasn’t the right one.
Chaili had always felt right.
Always.
And he wasn’t going to let her cut him out just because he was an absolute fuckhead from time to time.
“There’s a woman there. Don’t go freaking out—this isn’t Selene, it’s not Lily or anybody else like them. I’ve known her most of my life and this…shit.” Did he tell him it was Chaili? Miguel knew her…and Marc didn’t know if that would make things better or worse. Okay. So he didn’t tell his friend. Yet. He’d figure it out soon. “It doesn’t matter. She’s going to be there, I think, and I need to see her.”
For a long moment, Miguel said nothing. Then finally, he sighed and said, “Okay, man. Pick me up. But don’t be surprised when that bloodsucking tick attaches himself to your ass.”
Chapter Seven
Jumping Jack Pratt was one of her biggest accounts.
Next to the website she designed and maintained for Escortè, this was her biggest account and Chaili kept that in mind as she felt his gaze crawling over her. Waste of time, pal.
The top she wore had a draped neck, fitting her lean torso and camouflaging the fact that she’d never be filling out a bikini the right way again. Well, she’d never really filled one out very well to begin with, but now?
That didn’t keep Jumping Jack from trying to sneak a peek. He angled in a little closer under the pretense of whispering in her ear. “Would you like me to introduce you around?”
“I’ve got it, thanks,” she said easily. “I don’t want to look like I’m trying to hog the host’s attention.”
He didn’t get the point. Most of the women there were ignoring him. Apparently, he’d worn out his welcome at their elbow. Suppressing a sigh, she headed over to the punch bowl and refilled her glass, wondered how much longer she should bother trying to stay. She wasn’t making contacts here. She wasn’t doing anything but getting annoyed and—
“Son of a bitch, he came,” Jack muttered. He went rigid next to her and he gripped her arm, squeezing excitedly. “And…oh. Shit. I think I just creamed my pants. Babe, I gotta go. Have fun, okay.” He swatted her on the ass and while she stood there, her jaw hanging open, he lost himself in the crowd.
“That’s probably the most action you’ve seen in years,” a low, familiar voice said.
The sound of it was enough to make her skin crawl.
Slowly, she looked up and found herself staring into a pair of eyes that had once made her feel…well, mostly happy. She’d never been ready to dance around on a mountain side when she’d been married to Tim, but she’d been happy enough. She’d thought they suited each other.
And then her life came apart at the seams.
She touched the ring she wore—a ring Shera had given her the day her divorce was final. As she stood there staring at her ex-husband, Chaili remembered what Shera had told her the day her divorce was final. The ring—a twisted band of oxidized silver—was designed around the ruby that had once been part of her wedding set. It’s a reminder of you…it’s remade. Like you. Only better…silver is stronger than gold, right?
Chaili had worn it every day for the past three years. Remade. Stronger than gold. And maybe a little tarnished.
With a cool smile, she met Tim’s bland gray eyes. “Action…I barely even know what it is,” she drawled. “You did a lousy job teaching me, after all.”
A faint smiled curled his lips and he tipped his glass. “I kind of miss those claws of yours.” Then he glanced over and lifted a hand.
&
nbsp; A woman came over, placed her hand in Tim’s and stood there, silently, head bowed. All nice, demure and submissive. The way Tim had wanted her to be.
It wouldn’t have ever happened. Things had started getting dicey between them even before Chaili’s…problem. All because she wouldn’t be his little submissive in all things.
Oh fucking well. Looked like he’d found one. Judging from the look in his eyes, he was waiting for a reaction too. But if he thought the sight of the big-breasted, blonde doll-baby was going to bother her, he needed to get his head examined.
Maybe they were happy together. Not that she cared about Tim being happy, but Tim’s asshole tendencies weren’t this kid’s fault. Holding a hand, she said, “Hi. I’m Chaili. Tim and I were once married. It’s one of the less pleasant facts of my past.”
“Ouch,” Tim joked, resting a hand on his chest. “But there are so many pleasant things we shared before…”
His gaze dropped.
Chaili lifted her glass to her lips, studied him over the rim for a long moment. “You need to watch it, man. You’d hate for me to make a scene, after all.”
“Now, you won’t do that.” He winked at her. “You never were much for public displays, right?”
“You’d be amazed at how things have changed.”
“Chaili.”
The low rasp of that voice made her shiver. Oh, now this was just wrong, she thought wearily. Wrong on so many levels. Although she understood now why in the hell Jumping Jack had been yapping about creaming his pants. And eeewww, what an image. Chaili tossed back the rest of the punch, put the glass down and turned to stare into golden eyes.
“Marc.”
He flicked a look past her shoulder and then looked back at her. “Maybe we can have that talk now,” he said.
“What talk?” She gave him a brilliant smile.
“The one you’ve been avoiding for a week.” Holding out a hand, Marc stood there. Waiting.
“Um, is that…?”
“Be quiet, Nina,” Tim said, his voice sour. “Marc. How nice to see you again.”
A scowl darkened Marc’s face and he took another, longer look at Tim. She saw the moment he recognized her ex. The two men hadn’t ever spent much time around each other and she had the impression Marc hadn’t liked her choice in husbands. Looking back, she realized sometimes he showed moments of true wisdom.
“Tim,” he bit off, his voice curt. Then he looked back at her and the hard glint in his eyes softened. “Chaili, please.”
Her heart just wanted to shatter. Or maybe it wanted to melt. She didn’t know. But then she reminded herself. She was done with this. With dreaming about him and—
“Hell, Marc. Why you wasting time on a bitch like her?” Tim said, his voice thick and scathing. “Dude like you, you ought to be dating one of those Kardashian babes or some starlet or something. Chaili’s damaged goods, you know.”
Shame hit her hard. Fast. But even as it came on, she shoved it down. Anger bit into her. Damaged? Staring at her ex-husband, she could have kicked herself for even letting herself feel ashamed. Damaged?
She didn’t even realize she was moving until she’d already snatched the glass from Marc’s hand and tossed the contents into Tim’s face.
His face went red. She curled her lip at him and saw him moving, braced herself to block the punch she saw coming, but she was pushed out of the way and two seconds later, Tim was on the ground, one big, angry man crouched over him.
Damaged goods—
Blood roared in his ears and he didn’t know what had him more enraged. The fact that this son of a mother-fucking bitch had been that close to hitting Chaili, or what he’d just said about her.
“I ever see you lift a hand to her,” he whispered, bending down until he was speaking directly into Tim’s ear. “I’m going to gut you. And I’ll do it slow, my man. You hear me?”
Tim panted, his face still red, eyes snapping with fury. “Hell, she likes it when a man raises his hand to her, don’t you know that?” He tried to smile, but it fell apart. “Come on, buddy. I’ve seen where you go. I’ve been to Blue’s too. I know what you like…haven’t you figured out what she’s into yet? She likes it.”
“Oh, now that was the completely wrong thing to say,” Marc purred, his hand curling into a fist, muscles bunching. He could see the color red—splashing in his mind as he plowed a fist into Tim’s face. Red, one of the colors he saw pretty well, and just then he wanted to see it damn bad, spreading out in a fountain over Tim’s face. “I’m not going to wait to hurt you. I’m just going to do it now.”
“Stop it, Marc.”
It was probably the only voice that could have gotten through to him.
Slowly, he dragged his eyes away from the man he really wanted to beat bloody and stared into Chaili’s face. She was crouched by Tim’s head, her elbows resting on her knees. As he stared at her, she shook her head. “Don’t. If you do, it’s just going to cause you more trouble and you get enough of that on your own. You don’t need to pick up my trouble.”
Her vivid eyes rested on his, steadily. And she wasn’t trying to get away from him.
Okay.
Blinking, he blew out a breath and looked back into Tim’s face. Damn it, he wanted to see him bleed.
“You don’t want me to hit him,” he said slowly.
“No.”
“Shit.” Letting go of Tim’s shirt, he remained crouched over him for a minute. “You want to watch what you say, what you do. Shut the hell up, don’t look at her…don’t speak to her. Don’t speak about her.” Then he made himself look away from Tim before he did what he so badly wanted to do. As he straightened, he kept his eyes focused on Chaili, staring at her, only at her. “Leave with me. Talk to me.”
“Ahh…” She backed away a step.
He narrowed his eyes and glanced down at Tim who was scrambling his way to his feet. “Well, I can always finish what I started, I guess.”
Chaili rolled her eyes. “Now that’s just juvenile.”
“Fine. I’m juvenile. It will feel damn good.”
“Damn it, people are watching,” Chaili hissed, stepping in closer.
“Like I give a flying fuck.” He tossed her a reckless grin.
“You stupid son of a bitch.” She continued to glare at him.
But as he took a step away, she caught his hand. “Fine.” She glanced around and gave her ex-husband a mock look of concern. “Damn it, Tim, you should be more careful. You didn’t hurt anything when you slipped, did you?”
“You crazy bitch, I—”
Nina—that was her name, Marc thought, leaned in, caught Tim’s arm, giving him a wide-eyed look, shaking her head.
“Tim, dude, you always were a clumsy freak,” Miguel said from behind. “You shouldn’t go hitting the punch so hard. It’s got a kick to it, ya know.”
Hell, Marc had forgotten about him.
Shooting his friend a look, Marc tried to figure out what to do about getting him home when he had to get Chaili out of here before she changed her mind.
“I’m going to go call my lady,” Miguel said, sighing. “I think I ate too much.” He patted his belly and turned away, heading into the crowd.
As people started to press in closer, Marc pushed his way through, gripping Chaili’s hand. “Let’s go.”
“Go?” Jumping Jack demanded. “But you just got here?”
“And I got who I came for,” Marc said, still holding on to her hand, praying she wouldn’t slip away. He could make this right, damn it. He could do it. Of course, it would be easier if he could do it without talking.
Chapter Eight
“Your ex is a bigger asshole than I remember,” Marc said after thirty minutes of silence.
“Yes.” She stared out the window, her gaze focused on the lake. “Where are we going?”
He drummed a hand on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”
Sighing, she rested her head on the back of the sea
t. “Home. I’m tired.”
“If I take you home, are you going to talk to me?”
“I’m talking now, aren’t I?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw him gripping the staring wheel so tight his hands were almost bloodless. “You’re not talking to me,” he said quietly. “You’re talking through me. Looking through me. Around me. I was an asshole and I’m sorry and I’m trying to make it right and you won’t let me and it’s killing me.”
She was pretty certain her heart cracked. Right down the middle. Damn it. She was ready to be done with him. She wanted to do be done with him. But how could she do that when he kept pushing himself inside her like that? And why now? When she was determined to excise him?
Part of her, the angry part of her that had waited and yearned for so long before giving up hope, wanted to tell him to fuck off. Another part of her still hoped. But the part of her that took control was the part that just couldn’t stand to see him hurting. She’d loved him for too long. And hell, he was a friend.
They had to find a way to make this right. Get things level, and then they could move past it.
“We can talk, Marc,” she said, rubbing her thumb over the bumpy surface of her ring. Remade, she told herself. She could remake herself again, remake the shattered pieces of her heart, but not until she handled this part first.
Damaged goods.
It bumped around in his head, didn’t want to settle.
What the fuck…
No. Not now. Not now, he told himself as he followed her up the stairs and into to her apartment. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he rubbed his thumb over the ticket stub to the Springsteen concert, felt the worn, smooth surface. He had both the stub and one picture from the pier with him, holding them like good luck charms.
He needed to do this and get it done first, see if he could get her to believe him, get her to accept him and give him another chance.
That was what he needed to focus on.
And yet, as Chaili turned around to face him, without him even realizing what he was going to say, he blurted out, “You were raped, weren’t you?”
She blinked, looked a little thrown off. Then she sighed, passed a hand over her face. “No, Marc. I wasn’t raped.”
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