Conspire

by SE Hall

  Jerking out of his grasp, I nearly knock over the drinks on the bar as I reel around to look at Alyssa, silently asking, What the fuck is he doing here? She shrugs and shakes her head in response, telling me she had nothing to do with it. Good thing, because I would’ve torn her a new one had she invited Hunter, knowing Bryce would be here too.

  “I could say the same thing, Hunter, and for the last time, I’m not your dollface,” I grit through my teeth. I can’t bring myself to look over at Bryce; I can feel his stare locked on me, watching the scene unravel in front of him.

  “Don’t be such a bitch, Jocelyn, and order me a beer,” he demands, not budging from behind my chair.

  “Order your own fucking beer, dickface,” Alyssa chimes in, “and while you’re at it, go find somewhere else to hang out. Nobody here wants your smug ass around.”

  “Oh, your words wound me, dear sister,” he mocks her, “but seriously, you must know your BFF here will come crawling back to me sooner or later. She’ll give her daddy exactly what he wants, and her daddy wants her with me. In the meantime, I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know another one of your friends. After last night, Cassie may think I’m the nicer of the Pierce siblings.”

  As they continue their bickering, the nausea grows in the pit of my stomach and I gulp down every drink in front of me in no time flat, still unable to look at the man sitting to my right. “I gotta get outta here,” I mutter to myself after the final swallow of vodka.

  Fingertips gently graze my right knee under the bar top, and seconds later, Bryce stands up, tossing a couple of twenties down for our drinks. “Outside, five minutes,” he whispers as he walks away, completely unnoticed by both Hunter and Alyssa, who are now screaming profanities at each other…in public. Yes, I can see why my father so desperately wants me with such a refined, classy guy. I impatiently wait a couple of minutes before I make a beeline for the door.

  The humid June air slaps me in the face the moment I step outside, only amplifying the already muddled chaos taking place in my brain. I stand there on the sidewalk, unsure of where to go or exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. Apparently, my mind was successfully erased, because the only sensible thought I can muster together is, Where is Bryce?

  As if he heard me, a truck pulls up directly in front of me and Bryce hops out of the driver’s side, hurrying around to open the passenger door and help me climb in. He slides back in behind the wheel and we take off out of the parking lot without a word. I don’t care I’m leaving my car there. I don’t care where we’re going. All I care about is I’m escaping that terribly uncomfortable confrontation and…I’m with him.

  “Where are we going?” I ask several silent minutes into the drive, undecided if he’s pissed at me or simply lost in thought.

  “I’m not really sure,” he admits. “I’m just driving to try and cool down. I was about to lose my shit back there, but when he said something about being a Pierce and you’d called him Hunter, I realized who he was and who he is at JCC. I can’t afford to lose my job, so my next thought was just to get you out of there.”

  I nod understandingly and whisper a hushed thanks.

  Finally, he turns to look at me, his gaze filled with angst. “I can take you home, if that’s okay. I’m not sure what to do about your car, but the way you pounded down those drinks in less than five minutes, there’s no way I’m letting you drive tonight. Also, I’m damn sure not letting you anywhere near that asshole.”

  Maybe it’s a combination of the whole night—Hunter, humiliated, intoxicated, and now this gorgeous gentleman taking care of me in the ideal blend of chivalry and domineering—I’m not sure which part triggers it, but before I know it or can possibly stop it, streams of hot tears are flowing down my cheeks in an endless cascade and I’ve transformed into a blubbering mess. “I’m so sorry you had to see that. This whole thing turned into a disaster. You must think I’m crazy,” I choke out with a hiccupped sob.

  The truck stops abruptly as it’s pulled to the side of the road, and instantly, his robust, masculine arms are wrapped tightly around me, clutching me to his chest. “You don’t need to say you’re sorry, J. It’s all right. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he assures me as sturdy hands stroke the back of my head soothingly, allowing me to sob into his chest. “Let me take you home, get you some water and calmed down. Then we can talk about it, if you want to.”

  A few minutes later, I’m able to pull myself together and unbury my face from his shirt, the latter a larger feat considering how cozy it was there. “Okay, that sounds good. At least let me explain what’s going on.”

  After I give him directions to my townhome, he steers the truck back out onto the road, but leaves his arm around me, keeping me close to him. We ride quietly to my place, both of us adrift in our own plethora of thoughts.

  As promised, once inside my house, I grab us both a bottle of water from the fridge and sit beside him on the couch. I take a fortifying breath and begin, giving him a modified yet never-ending-feeling history of mine and the Pierce families, as well as my recently ended relationship with Hunter. He listens attentively, his hand always in contact with either my own or my leg, and allows me to finish completely before speaking.

  “I appreciate your openness and honesty, and I want you to know I don’t think you’re crazy. It’s completely understandable, commendable even, that you’ve always done what was expected of you from your family. I can relate to that,” he says with compassion in his eyes. Then, lifting his hand up to my face, the pad of his thumb tenderly caresses the apple of my cheek. “I’m happiest to hear you’ve made the decision to take control of your life. Your parents will soon realize they’ve raised you to be a smart, beautiful young woman who’s more than capable of making her own intelligent decisions.”

  Leaning into his touch, I close my eyes and revel in his closeness. I don’t know much about this man, but I know I want to. I want to know about his family, what he was like when he was little, why he chose the career he has, if he has any pets, if black is really his favorite color, how his kisses taste, how his skin feels pressed against mine…all of it, plus every other thing he wants to tell me.

  Every time I’m around him, I want it more and more.

  “Go to the beach with me this weekend,” I blurt out. The words surprise me as much as they do him I think, his brow rising in sync with my gasp.

  He draws away slightly and tilts his head at me curiously. “What did you say?”

  “I need to get away for the weekend to clear my head, get some fresh air. I want you to come with me. My family owns a beach house in Stone Harbor; we can stay there and just relax,” I explain, my voice growing in strength and conviction the more excited I get about the possibility. “I want to spend some time with you, time where I’m not concerned about who’s watching or about to disturb us.”

  “I’d like to, but I’m not sure if I ca—”

  Without another thought, I bring my mouth to his, softly sweeping the rest of his sentence away with my lips. Drawing back only an inch or two, I can still feel his warm breath on my face as I gaze up into his beautiful baby blues through my lashes.

  “Please.”

  I HAD MORE QUESTIONS, things to sort out in my head and come to terms with; I know I did…but she threw me completely off-kilter with that spontaneous, uninhibited touch of her supple, decadent lips to mine.

  I’ll reassess on the drive home, when I don’t have her peering at me with the vulnerable, seeking eyes of an angel, when the faint scent of feminine desire and lavender aren’t infiltrating my every sense, and my cock’s not painfully becoming one with the inside of my zipper.

  Yes, that will be the ideal time for classic, over-analytical Bryce to talk himself into a good ol’ self-inflicted cockblock.

  But for now, autopilot’s steering.

  “Okay, sounds fun…and highly needed. Thanks.” I grin, keeping my eyes on hers so they don’t wander off on their own and start envisioning the many tempting
possibilities in which I definitely can’t afford to indulge.

  Let’s be real though—as vital as it is I stay razor-sharp, focusing solely on my agenda—I had walked into that bar tonight, feeling feisty for some unknown reason, locked and loaded. It’d been I, and I alone, who sent out the first insinuation, followed up with buying her one of the strongest drinks made.

  It’d felt good being just a twenty-five-year-old flirting blatantly with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, fun even, until that prick showed up. He’d be at a ‘call the twenty-four hour answering service’ emergency dental appointment right now, holding half his teeth in his pussy-ass palm if he wasn’t Hunter Pierce.

  AKA Doughboy—oh yeah, he’s the one.

  My white-steed rescue probably sent her certain signals as well, and you know what? That’s okay, because…

  Goddammit, I’m just not sorry.

  He’ll never touch her again…but I just might.

  It’s only with her sweet whisper I’m pulled back to conversations where other people can actually hear me. “Bryce, are you sure? You’re awfully quiet; please don’t sit there and flounder over the best sounding excuse. I know with work, and Hunter,” her face shrivels up like she smelled something rancid, “I’ll understand if you’re having second thoughts.”

  How about third, fourth, and fifth thoughts, none of which include reverse motion?

  “Not at all,” I grasp her knee and forcefully tug her closer. “I’m in, but I do have a lot to tie up to make it feasible. So here’s the plan.” I pull out my phone and hand it to her. “Type in your number and I’ll call you when I’m ready. You thinking after work tomorrow, or—”

  “Whenever you want,” she interrupts and bats those long eyelashes at me, the dazzling, anticipatory twinkle in her eyes infinitely tempting.

  “Jocelyn C. Craig,” I warn.

  “Camille, the C is for Camille.”

  “Huh,” I fail at containing the blurt, attempting a slick recovery, “very pretty.”

  I haven’t the foggiest why I know this, but I do; Camille means ‘servant’, and it pisses me off for her all over again. Feeling surly, yet consistently, unavoidably captivated, I throw both fucks I still gave out the window and lean in, pressing my forehead to hers. “Gonna leave now. Lock your door, pack, and get some sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I pick up my phone where she’d typed in her number and laid it down, and then shove it in my pocket. “Be ready after work. Don’t tell Alyssa, or anyone.”

  “‘Kay,” she whispers, her soft breath laving over me.

  “Now I’m gonna kiss ya goodbye like a man who’s known you forever.” Which is exactly what I do. Fast, hot, and ravenous, my guttural moan resonating of raw maleness all but drowns out her needy, pleased hum. Her tongue complies with all mine insists, her nipples poke my chest, and she compresses herself there.

  Having to, I fracture our seal, a wave of desperation being traded back and forth between us as we sit and recover a mere inch apart.

  “Will you still be thinking of that, tasting it tomorrow?” I ask. She simply nods feebly, chestnut eyes glazed over, focused on nothing in particular. “Then I did it right.” I wink, taking one more chaste sample of her mouth and quickly standing before heading for the door. “Lock it, J. Talk to you in the morning.”

  Walking into my shitditch apartment, I immediately feel the absence of Reagan’s uplifting presence. She left early for a weekend visit home since the clinic’s closed tomorrow—both of us still unclear why—so I dig out my phone to call her, hoping it’s not too late.

  11:56 pm. She has blue hair; surely, I’m good.

  “Hello?” she answers, wide awake.

  “Hey, just wanted to make sure you made it there all right.”

  “I made it. The ‘all right’ part is debatable.”

  “Why is that?” I kick off my shoes and start to undress with the phone cradled between my neck and chin.

  “I’m. With. My. Parents,” she deadpans. “My bedroom’s been unchanged since I hit puberty, my mattress is still pint-sized and stiff, and Jon Bon Jovi is staring down at me from the ceiling.”

  I laugh, making my way to the bedroom—hers, where she won’t be tonight—a blessed break from sofa city. “So take down the poster…and be grateful for your family, Reagan. It’s only for a weekend, but what if it was only for a weekend?”

  Right away I feel guilty for projecting my personal loss and tragedy onto her, but it doesn’t make it any less true, so I don’t apologize. Her mother’s no doubt thrilled to have her home, and she needs to ‘brat up’ and enjoy it.

  “Damn, I feel ya. Okay, shits and giggles from here on out, I promise,” she snickers. “How was your night? Get any?”

  “I got some entertainment, a few drinks. Is that what you meant?” I goad jovially as I climb under her covers, sighing loudly at the comfort of an actual bed…no hair band lead singers looking down upon me.

  “You’re in my bed, aren’t you?” she shrieks in accusation.

  “Yes, ma’am, and not only am I loving it, but there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, so zip it!” I cackle diabolically in her ear. “Anyway, since you’re safe for the weekend, I’m going away. I’ll meet you back here Sunday night, say, eight o’clock?”

  “Where ya going?” she asks, her tone now perky and full-on intrigued.

  “Stone Harbor, Jocelyn’s family has a place there. We both need a break.”

  “Bryce,” the flame in her voice dulls, “be careful. I get it; she’s amazing, but—”

  I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face. “I know. I do, but Reagan, I can’t. I just…fuck,” I growl with my aggravation. “I can’t explain it yet.”

  “No need, I told you I get it. Just. Be. Careful.”

  “Promise. Now have a great weekend, play Canasta with your folks, smile, and I’ll see you Sunday night. Not before eight, Reg.”

  “See ya.”

  Friday moves about as fast as a three-toed sloth, who had a tragic accident, leaving him with only two. The only things keeping my head from blowing right off my shoulders are: 1. Jocelyn somehow managed to sneak a midday treat onto my desk—an obviously Photoshop-made ticket to ‘SH’ with 5 hours and counting! And yes, I still feel and taste it today written on the back. And 2. Reagan had apparently lost interest in Canasta, instead surfing the web for videos and sent me a few, each more asinine than the next. No, I’m not impressed with the baby monkey riding the pig to a three lyric song, nor did the self-videoed twerker extraordinaire captivate me, but at least I know Reg’s safe for the time I’ll be away.

  I’m going to enjoy my weekend and let Reagan do the same, but on Monday, game on.

  The minute five o’clock strikes, I rush to my truck on an immeasurable high…in a mannish and stud-like manner, of course. Sensing her, I turn and find Jocelyn across the lot. We commence in a silent conversation spoken in a language shared only by the two of us.

  Why don’t we just text? Because this is way cooler.

  With our eyes, a few quickly pointed fingers motioned between ourselves, and finally me being all covert and super DL yelling, “One hour,” we arrange for me to pick her up at her place…in one hour.

  Bring on the weekend, maybe a hammock if I dare dream, and the water. If you’re there God, it’s me, Graham…Bryce, you know—please let the beach’s temperature warrant Jocelyn Craig in a bikini.

  A WATCHED POT NEVER BOILS.

  If that isn’t the truth, I don’t know what is. I stare at the clock on the bottom corner of my computer all day long, and when I’m convinced that it’s broken, I check my phone—only to find it displays the same wrong damn numbers! It’s as if Father Time himself is torturing me, knowing how badly I want the workday to end.

  Unconsciously, I bring my hand to my mouth, dragging my fingers across my lips—the lips that Bryce unapologetically kissed like a man who’s known me forever last night. I can’t stop thinking about the way his tongue spicily stroked against mine
, his mouth tasting of mint, man and a faint hint of liquor, or how much I want to experience it again.

  Over and over and over again.

  I hope the faux ticket and little note I left earlier on his desk wasn’t too corny, but I wanted him to know I was still thinking about it, about him. I’m not sure what this weekend has in store for the two of us, but if we just get to kiss a hundred times, I’ll be a happy girl.

  As the witching hour draws near, I start shutting down my computer and packing up my things right as Alyssa barges into my office, obviously brooding over something.

  “I swear to God, Jocelyn, I may end up doing time upstate for killing my own flesh and blood,” she announces, hands on her hips. I laugh softly; this is the third time, today alone, that she’s stormed into my office complaining about Hunter. “Seriously! I used to keep this shit under control for your sake; I didn’t want you to feel stuck in the middle, but now, I don’t care if you know what a fucking piece of shit he is!”

  “Calm down, Lys. Most of the stuff he does is just to get you all riled up; he wants a reaction, which you’re handing him, gift wrapped. And he knows you’re going to complain to me about him,” I say pragmatically as I stand up to leave. “I would ask what he’s done now, but the truth is… I don’t care. Unless it pertains to JCC, he can do whatever the hell he wants.”

  “But it does have to do with the company,” she argues. “You know those old trial reports you had me matching with current records? Well, he came up from behind me and asked what I was doing. And when I told him it wasn’t any of his business, he snatched up all the handwritten journal entries off my desk and told me I didn’t need to have those.”

  “He what??? When?”

  She throws her hands up in the air in exasperation. “About an hour ago, took em’ all! I waited for him to leave for the day to come and tell you so he wouldn’t know it was you that asked me to do it. I don’t know what the deal is Jocie, but I can tell you, based solely on the few I was able to look through, they didn’t come close to corresponding.”