by Gemma James
“Everything okay?” I ask, wondering what she could possibly want.
“How long are you going to be gone?” she asks, wandering into the room.
“About a week, give or take.”
Gripping the handle of my luggage, I lift it off the bed and set it upright on the floor next to my computer bag. But when I turn around, Monica is standing less than two feet away. She settles a palm on my chest, and for once her eyes aren’t so empty when she gazes up at me. In fact, they appear brighter than usual.
“Don’t go.”
They’re just two little words, nothing significant about them, and yet they manage to knock me on my ass. Literally. I sink to the bed, eyes going wide. “We don’t talk anymore. And we sure as hell don’t have any intimacy left between us, so call me confused as fuck right now. I figured you’d be glad to be rid of me for a while.”
Her lower lip trembles. “I don’t want you to go.”
I blink, rendered speechless for a second. “I can’t keep up with your mood swings.”
“I know things have been bad. Let me make it up to you.” She invades the space between my legs, and I clench my jaw as she drops to her knees. She’s working at the button of my pants with clumsy fingers, and my dick goes rock hard. Even though I’ve had enough of her mind games, my body is throbbing for the release I know her mouth can give me.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I miss you,” she says, lowering my zipper. My mind blanks out completely as she takes my shaft into her mouth.
I tilt my head back, nothing but flashes of torment going off behind my closed lids. An internal war rages in my mind, and I grip her head, fingers tangling in her locks. But all I see is hair as golden as wheat. Eyes as decadent and seductive as chocolate. Damn me to hell, because I want to lose myself in her touch, shoot all my pent-up frustration into the sweetness of her mouth.
Except the woman sucking me off isn’t Jules. She’ll never be Jules.
One blowjob from my wife isn’t going to fix our marriage. We are broken, our relationship braindead and on life support. Gently, I push her off me.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, gazing up at me. Her parted lips are damp and trembling, and for once, her blue eyes aren’t spitting ice. But something is definitely wrong with this picture. I yank up my zipper then rise to my feet, pulling her with me, and that’s when I catch a whiff of vodka on her breath.
“You’ve been drinking?” For fuck’s sake. It’s not even noon yet.
“So?”
“So every time I see you lately, you’ve got a glass of wine in your hand. And now this?” I grab her by the chin and study her glazed over eyes. “I’m worried about you.”
“If you’re so worried, then don’t go on this trip.”
“It’s work, Monica. I can’t just up and back out.”
“Well maybe that’s the problem with us.” She jerks out of reach. “You work too much. You leave too much. You put everything else before me.”
Her outburst stuns me, and not because of the words she tossed in my face, but she hasn’t displayed this much passion—anger or otherwise—in what seems like forever.
“If I put work first, it’s because that’s all you’ve left me with. You won’t talk to me, you won’t let me touch you. And this”—I gesture to the bed, where she had her lips wrapped around my cock only minutes ago—“is completely out of left field. What is going on with you?”
Folding her arms, she glares at me, and the Monica I’ve come to know these past few months is back. “Fine,” she says, pivoting before stalking to the door. “Go on and leave me here alone again. That’s what you do best.”
I watch her go, at a loss at what to do or say. And I don’t have time to deal with her bullshit now anyway, because I’m due to leave for the airport soon. I grab my luggage and leave the spare bedroom, shutting the light off as I go. As I approach the room I used to share with her, I’m surprised to find the door wide open. I can count on one hand the times she hasn’t locked herself inside during the last few weeks.
Stalling in the open doorway, I peek in, but she’s nowhere in sight. The bed is a mess, unmade with throw pillows scattered on the purple comforter. We haven’t shared that bed in so long that it makes what happened in the guest room even more unsettling.
The water turns on in the master bath, and I hear her moving around in there. I consider leaving without saying goodbye, but I can’t bring myself to do it, especially after the stunt she just pulled. Her weird behavior is whittling away at the walls I’ve built around my heart, making way for worry to settle in.
Leaving my stuff in the hall, I cross the threshold into a room in which I’m no longer welcome. As I falter in the doorway of the bathroom, her gaze meets mine in the mirror. Tears hang on her lashes, threatening to spill from icy blue eyes. If not for the stubborn line of her mouth, I’d think she was finally about to crack and let me in.
No such luck. Ignoring my presence, she takes a pill bottle from the medicine cabinet and shakes two tiny blue tablets into her waiting palm. Her gaze flashes to mine again as she chases those pills down with a sip of water.
Other than birth control, Monica doesn’t take medicine. She’s the type of person that won’t even take aspirin unless absolutely necessary. I step all the way into the bathroom, dread diving to the bottom of my gut as I lay my hands on her shoulders.
“What are the pills for?”
“None of your business.”
“It’s absolutely my fucking business. Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell is this?” I try to pry the pill bottle from her grasp, but she whirls around to face me, fisting it behind her back.
“Don’t you have a plane to catch?”
I draw in a deep, calming breath. “You said I put everything before you. Well here’s me putting you first. What’s going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“But I am worried. First the drinking, and now popping pills? For fuck’s sake, Monica! Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just go already.”
“You begged me to stay ten minutes ago. Now you’re pushing me away? Again?” Dragging an agitated hand through my hair, I try not to lose my shit. But her continued silence isn’t making it easy. “I’m finding less and less reasons for us to stay together.”
Monica darts around me and leaves the bathroom, and I follow, quick on her heels. She stalks into the hall and grabs the handle of my luggage.
“Wouldn’t want you to be late.”
I take the suitcase from her, no doubt gaping at her like an idiot. Because I sure as hell feel like an idiot. “What happened to us?”
Still clutching the pill bottle, she won’t meet my eyes. Her vacant mask is back in place, any hint of tears dried up. “I don’t know.”
That makes two of us. Part of me hopes that a week apart to think things through will offer some clarity. But I’m not a total fool. Until she’s willing to let me in, my hands are tied.
20. A Frank Talk
Jules
Monday morning, I bring the sunflower bouquet Cash bought me to work because I know Mont Center will feel empty with him gone. Every time I glance at the flowers, a sharp pang tears through my heart.
I never thought I could miss someone so much. I miss those precious minutes each morning when we go over his schedule, and I miss the way his smile warms me all the way to my toes on days when I have the foresight to bring him coffee. It’s a small gesture he seems to appreciate. Maybe because he isn’t the type of boss to ask for such small errands.
But I have no one to bring coffee to this week.
No reason to feel giddy in the elevator on the ride up to the thirty-eighth floor.
At least work is keeping me busy. That’s an understatement. With Cash in Oklahoma, my workload has doubled. I’m finding mid-week especially chaotic, and as the end of the day arrives, I’m more than anxious to meet L
es. She’s probably tapping her fingers waiting for me right now, since I was supposed to meet her for dinner twenty minutes ago.
Purse in hand, I’m passing the conference room on my way to the elevator, but the sound of Cash’s voice halts me in my tracks. His sexy tenor is coming from beyond the ajar door.
When did he get back? He isn’t due home for a few more days. A flutter of excitement goes off in my belly, and I raise my hand to knock. That’s when another voice freezes me before my fist reaches the door. A woman’s voice. No, not just any woman, but his wife’s.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize how odd it is that I know her voice that well. I’ve grown familiar with all things Cash, including Monica Montgomery.
I should walk away. Should mind my own damn business. I already know I won’t. Peeking through the space between the door and the frame, I see Cash standing with his arms crossed, facing his wife.
And me.
It’s too late to duck and evade. His gaze catches mine, and realization jolts through me because that’s not Cash. I’m stunned as usual that I can tell by a single glance the difference between him and his brother.
I don’t know what I just stumbled upon, since I didn’t catch what they were saying. Before Kaden can call me out on eavesdropping, I hurry toward the elevator and press the down button. The floor is empty. The day late.
And that fucking elevator decides now is the time to climb all thirty-eight floors before reaching me. Flicking my gaze toward the conference room, I find Kaden watching me. The door is wide open now, and I spy Monica standing behind him, eyes downcast. The strong, commanding woman I equate with Cash’s wife is absent. Folding herself in her arms, she gnaws on her lower lip.
The ding of the lift saves me, and I rush inside and jab the button for the atrium level. My heart thumps hard against my chest the whole way down, refusing to calm until I’m out the doors of Mont Center and on my way to the restaurant.
I can’t help but look over my shoulder at least once every block as I stride down the sidewalk. Part of me is certain Kaden will come after me and demand to know why I was listening to what was obviously a private conversation. Even though I didn’t catch a word of it, the tension in the air was palpable.
And odd.
Still processing what just happened in the dregs of my mind, I find Lesley waiting at our favorite table. Sure enough, she’s tapping her black-painted nails on the wood surface.
“He’s working you too much,” she says, grumbling.
I slide into the seat across from her. “He’s out of town this week, so things are especially busy.” Picking up the menu, I eye her over the top. “Is something wrong? You seem cranky.”
“Just band stuff. Tensions are fucking high right now. All Zan and Garen seem to do lately is argue.” She brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “Actually, forget arguing. They’re playing tug-of-war like two toddlers in diapers.”
“Aren’t they best friends?”
“They’ll go back to being best buds after the gig, I’m sure. There’s just too much pressure right now to get our sound out there.”
My cell dings, and I fish it from my purse as Les peruses her menu, even though she always orders the French dip.
Cash: I miss you like hell. What are you up to?
I bite back a sad smile. He hasn’t texted me once since he left. Any correspondence we’ve had has been related to business. I’m not sure how to feel about his text.
Me: I’m having dinner with Les.
Cash: Your friend in the band?
Me: Yeah.
Cash: Can I text you later?
Frowning, I hover my thumbs over the screen, remembering the last time we exchanged texts. The last time we spoke over the phone, when I came with his voice ringing through my ears.
Me: I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can’t keep doing this.
A full minute passes, but he doesn’t text back. I despise myself for the flood of disappointment rushing through me. Putting an end to this—whatever this is—is for the best. I lift my head and find Lesley watching me.
“You been holding out on me?” Her question lifts her dark brows.
My cell dings again, and I’m dying to glance down and read his message, but I don’t—not with Les giving me the eye the way she is.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean who’s the guy?”
The urge is too strong, and I lower my head and take in his words.
Cash: I know we shouldn’t be doing this.
And it’s as simple as that. He knows it, and I know it, yet here we are, continuously playing with fire. We might as well douse ourselves with lighter fluid at this rate.
“All right, Jules. Spill.”
Shit. She’s not going to let this drop. As I slip my cell into my purse, I consider confiding in her. It’s not that I don’t trust her. She’ll listen without judgment, and she won’t tell a soul. The problem is I’m ashamed of myself for being so weak. For jumping back onto the same dangerous ride I just got off of in Oklahoma.
The waitress stops at our table to take our orders, and I don’t know whether to thank her, or curse her timing. I order shrimp scampi, and Les goes for her usual.
“So, are you gonna make me play the guessing game?” Les asks after the waitress leaves with our menus and dinner orders.
“I’m not seeing anyone.” That much is true. The sexual tension between Cash and me is all-consuming, but we’ve never even kissed.
“Is it the hottie who owns the club?” she says, completely ignoring my denial.
I swallow hard, almost squirming at how close she is to the truth.
“It is him. I knew it.”
I’m already shaking my head, the truth sticking in my throat. Another swallow dislodges it, because she’s my best friend, and I need to tell someone. “It’s my boss.”
And just like that, the playfulness melts from her face. “Isn’t he married?”
It takes me five long seconds to answer. “Yes.”
“Jesus, Jules.” Her tone might be harsh, but sympathy underlies her expression. Because that’s who Les is. The most non-judgmental and caring person I know.
“I met him on the plane here. We had a…connection. But I didn’t know he was married.”
“You know I love you,” she says, leaning forward, “and I know you’re still hurting after what happened with Chris, but rebounding with your boss is the absolute worst thing you can do. There are so many other rebound-guys out there. Hell, I know Garen would help you take your mind off Chris, if you wanted him to. He’s a manwhore, sure, but he’s the most caring guy I’ve—”
“Les, it’s not rebound.”
In order to rebound, you still have to want your ex. The harsh truth is I barely think about Chris at all anymore.
“Then what is it? I mean, you’re not in love with the guy, right?”
I can’t answer. Because I can’t speak. Even worse, I can’t mask the truth washing over my face, turning my cheeks a deep shade of pink. A few rapid blinks of my eyes stave off the threat of shameful tears.
“Holy shit, Jules. You’re in love with him?”
“I’ve never felt this way before,” I say, shuddering out a breath. “Not even with Chris.”
“Does he feel the same?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” Lowering my attention to the napkin I’m shredding in my fingers, I add, “There are issues in his marriage that I can’t go into.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
I shake my head. “We haven’t done anything.”
Yet. The word echoes through my mind.
“Jules, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but you’re my best friend and I care about you too much to not give it to you straight. You need to get out of this situation pronto.”
“He’s my boss, Les. Neither one of us expected this.”
“Then find a new job. Walking away now might hurt like hell, but imagine how much worse it’ll hu
rt when shit hits the fan.”
She’s right. And it’s nothing I haven’t already told myself a hundred times.
“I’m not sure I can walk away.”
“I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but you need to. Just rip it off like a Band-Aid.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Because married men don’t leave their wives.”
And that right there is the biggest truth of all. The last thing I want is to become a cliché; the mistress sleeping with her boss, forever waiting for him to leave his wife.
21. In the Shadows
Cash
We can’t keep doing this.
I’ve ran that statement through my head too many times to count, but my heart refuses to accept it, otherwise, I wouldn’t be sitting in a dim corner of Kaden’s club stalking Jules as she hangs out with her friends. A dark-haired guy with tattoos sleeving his arms is sitting next to her, and I want to throttle him every time he lays a hand on her shoulder.
It doesn’t matter that he’s closer to her age.
And probably free to be with her.
I still want to kill him.
As I take another drink of my whiskey, someone steps between me and my view of Jules, casting a shadow on my already shitty mood. I look up and find my brother eyeing the drink in my hands.
“You’re back early,” he says.
“Wrapped things up quicker than planned.”
He hops onto the other barstool at my small table for two. “You look like shit.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Something bugging you?”
I cock a brow. “Why would anything be bugging me?”
“Dude, you’re sitting here looking ragged as hell and drinking.”
“Monica and I haven’t been getting along lately.” It’s true enough, even if it’s a massive understatement. The real reason I look like hell is sitting across the club laughing at something Tattoo Guy said to her.
Kaden turns his attention on the object of my obsession, and it’s too late to avert my gaze. Besides, he knows me better than anyone on this planet, and I’m sure he’s sniffed out the truth by now. I’ve always had a hard time hiding things from him.