Make Me Yours (Bayshore Book 3)

by Ember Leigh

  And isn’t that just how it fucking goes for me? My throat clamps with anger, and tears blur my vision. I move around the room, collecting my things on the bed in my sad rage.

  “I don’t know what he told you. But I can guarantee it wasn’t the truth. I wasn’t blacklisted for fraternizing. I was blacklisted because I whistle blew Carl’s ass for encouraging me to sleep with a high-dollar client just to keep him on the roster. And when I outed him, he turned everyone against me so that he could keep his status and position. But no, I’d much rather you listen to and accept his version, without even trying to hear my side.”

  Dom is a statue at the window. For all I know, he’s not even hearing me.

  “Because if you do that, you’re doing me a favor, actually.” I have no idea what’s coming out of my mouth now, just that it’s propelled by exasperation and fury and powerlessness. “Better to not waste my time on someone who’s just going to blindly accept the first story he hears. Apparently you have no sense of due process. Jesus, at least have a conversation with me before you convict me.”

  “He’s one of my oldest friends,” Dom says, turning to face me. And now I can see the anger creasing his face. The hurt. He finally meets my gaze, and I almost wish he hadn’t. It makes all the thoughts in my head evaporate. “I have more to consider than just whether or not you make it a habit of sexing up your colleagues or behaving inappropriately with clients. This is about my life too. My reputation. And there’s no way in hell I can show up in Chicago next month with you on my arm, when they’re going to dig so deep they find out every last sorry detail about this fucking affair you couldn’t restrain yourself from having.”

  His words land like a machete. It slices through the remaining wisps of composure I’ve been feigning. A sob launches out of me. The ugly crying has begun.

  “Jesus, Dom. I was fucking groped against my will—you think that’s an affair?” My voice cracks, and I realize this is it—I’m done defending myself. I came to Cleveland to escape the persecution that I and so many other women don’t deserve, just for possessing a vagina and any semblance of curves. After the past few days, I thought I’d finally found my Prince Charming.

  But it turns out he’s actually King Asshole.

  “Fuck you,” I continue. “You are a 258-point asshole.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  I can’t explain to him the asshole scorecard. I can’t even remember how to breathe. “It means fuck you for believing him, fuck you for not believing me, and fuck you for treating me like I’m some piece of trash.”

  I throw the last of my things into the overnight bag I brought along and zip it so forcefully that the tie breaks off. I toss it and scoop the bag into my arms, heading for the door. Dom doesn’t try to stop me.

  I struggle to open the door around the huge bag in my arms. The tears are flowing so fast, I can’t even see straight.

  “Never contact me again,” I warn him in a low, trembling voice.

  I storm down the hallway, unable to slam the door behind me the way I want to. Even if I didn’t have my broken bag in my arms, I don’t think I could muster it. Every inch of my body feels like Jell-O from the shock and rage. I sob into the contents of my duffel bag as I wait for the elevator. His words lash through me over and over again.

  I know I should be thankful that I weeded out the bad seed before I did something as stupid as marry King Asshole. But the only thing inside me right now?

  Heartbreak.

  Chapter 31

  DOM

  It doesn’t take me long to realize I made a huge fucking mistake. No—bigger than huge. Cosmic. This mistake is the asteroid that murdered the dinosaurs, and I lobbed it willingly at London like the asshole sadist I am. The acid that spewed from my mouth shocked even me, and I sit with my head in my hands on the side of the bed for what feels like hours.

  Once the fog of my past heartbreak stops choking me, I realize that I should have taken a walk after that lunch. Should have spent some time at my Mom’s house before coming back to the hotel room, angry and bewildered and ready to pounce.

  So I call Carl. He picks up on the third ring.

  “D-Day! You get everything sorted out?”

  “I forgot to ask you one thing,” I say, something hot and lurid pumping through my veins. I squeeze my hand into a fist over and over again, wishing that Carl were in front of me instead of wherever he is. I got fucking groped. London’s words won’t stop ringing in my head. “You remember London’s sister, right?”

  A pause on the other end. “Uh, yeah, why?”

  “Willow?” I prompt.

  “Yeah, of course. I met her a few times. Nice enough. Why?”

  I nod, pinching the bridge of my nose as the realization sweeps through me in choking waves. Dom, you fucked up. Big time. “She just always talks about her sister. I wondered if you’d met her. Hey, you still in town?”

  “Yeah, actually, I’m at E. Lago still.”

  “Let’s meet up on the beach.” I swallow a thick knot of emotion. I want to hug London for the next three days straight, or I need to beat Carl to a pulp. Only one of those will satisfy me. And since London very well might never speak to me again…well, the choice makes itself. “Maybe we can talk over this a little bit more. I have some questions.”

  Truth is, I have no questions. London’s reaction alone was enough to dissolve the carefully-seeded doubts that Carl planted. But still, I chose the reaction I always do. Snark. Acid. Asshole.

  Maybe Grayson was right. There is something wrong with me.

  A tear escapes as I hurry to leave the hotel room. I refuse to entertain the notion that I’ve ruined things forever with London, but I can’t think about my next steps with her until I meet Carl. I’m methodical, even in revenge and reconciliation.

  He’s just stepping onto the boardwalk when I reach the lakefront. He waves, smiling over at me like he didn’t just drop a huge bomb in both of our lives. In fact, he seems completely unfazed that the woman he’s supposedly winning back has been seeing someone else.

  If Carl were normal, he’d be dipping out too. But no. He told me he’s sticking around so he can meet with London later. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

  The confusion piles up, egging on the rage, outlined by the distant sense of loss I refuse to accept. Carl’s smile slowly fades the closer I get. He stumbles backward, apparently realizing the fire in my eyes means I’ve come for him. But I’m faster. I catch him by the dumb collar of his ugly windbreaker and haul him up onto the grassy knoll in front of E. Lago.

  “You’re a fucking liar!” When he falls, I pin him to the ground. He’s got poundage on me, but I’ve got muscle mass.

  “Jesus, Dom, what the hell is wrong with you?”

  I cut him off with a punch to the mouth. That one is for telling London she should sleep with someone who assaulted her. And then another punch—that one’s for him lying about literally everything.

  My knuckles are bleeding. He might be missing a tooth—or two. He struggles beneath me, swinging haphazardly at me. I pin his left arm with my knee—I know it’s his dominant side from being the victim of his hazing back in college—and I punch him as much as I can stand. It’s not as much as the theatrical side of me likes—I am a medical professional, after all, and not an MMA god.

  But my medical knowledge helps me here. I know where to punch him to steal his breath the worst. I know which rib to break so that he’ll be fucked up just enough, but not bad enough to puncture a lung.

  “Fuck you,” I wheeze before hauling myself off him. He immediately rolls over onto his side into the fetal position, moaning and groaning and whisper-screaming curse words at me. “And stay away from London.”

  Fuck him for lying. Fuck him for trying to ruin what I have. What I had.

  I leave the scene quickly, avoiding the bewildered looks of passers-by as I hurry down the boardwalk and back to the hotel. I get in my car, and while I’m heaving in the driver’s
seat, I write London a text.

  DOM: I fucked up I fucked up I fucked up I fucked up I fucked up

  DOM: I’m so fucking sorry I cannot even begin to convey

  I toss the phone. I doubt she’ll write back. Definitely not today, and probably not ever. I peel out of the hotel parking lot, heading for Mom and Dad’s house. My heart is throbbing, and I don’t know why I’m going home. I just know I need them. My family. Something to ground me and stabilize me.

  I pass Gray’s house first. He and Hazel are standing at the front door, tons of bags in their hands.

  I slam on the brakes and roll down the passenger-side window. “Grayson!”

  He squints over at me, confusion creasing his face. “Dom? What’s up?”

  “Hey, Dom!” Hazel waves with her index finger through the labyrinth of bag handles.

  I ease closer to the curb and park. I head over to them, my sneakers scuffing along the uneven brick pathway just as Hazel manages to unlock the door. “Ha! Black Friday won’t keep me from getting all the bags in one trip.”

  Grayson’s confusion turns to horror as his gaze washes over me. “Dude, what happened to you? You’ve got blood everywhere.”

  I look down, noticing for the first time that I do, in fact, have blood everywhere. Spatters have created a red artistic rainbow across my gray T-shirt. I hold my hand out—it’s shaking—and my knuckles are blood caked.

  “Dom. Is everything okay?” Grayson sounds serious now. He guides me by the shoulders into the house. Hazel drops all the bags inside the front door and heads to the kitchen. Water runs in the sink as Grayson leads me to the sofa near the front door.

  “I guess I wanted to talk,” I say, the words sticking to my throat. Why did I stop? But right now, I can’t think of anywhere else I should be. “Gray, I think you’re right.”

  “About what?”

  Hazel shows up then with a damp washcloth. She hands it to me and then says she’s going to grab the first aid kit. While her steps thunder up the staircase, I say, “I’m an asshole.”

  He laughs a little, but the smile fades fast. “I know. We all are.”

  “No, I mean…I fucked up.” My head drops to my hands. Hazel returns a moment later and sits in front of me, opening the first aid kit. “Hazel, you don’t have to do this.”

  “You’re shaking. I’ve got it,” she insists.

  I swallow hard, watching as she puts peroxide on a cotton ball. “I have a secret. London and I have been dating.”

  Hazel pauses mid-cotton ball application, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Excuse me?”

  “You serious?” Grayson laughs incredulously.

  “Were dating. I ruined everything today. It’s why I look like this.”

  Hazel drops my hand defiantly, her brows drawing together. “You don’t mean—”

  “I would never hurt London. No, I fucked up her ex. Carl.”

  This time, Hazel gasps so hard that it damn near echoes through the house. She stares at me in disbelief. “Is he here? In Bayshore?”

  “Yes. Though he won’t be getting very far. I sort of…well…” I lift my hands as proof. “But it didn’t happen until after I said some really fucking horrible things to London that I’m pretty sure she’ll never forgive me for.”

  “He’s been emailing her,” she confirms in a low, shaky voice. “Like a sociopath. It worried me, but I didn’t think he’d show up.”

  Disgust ripples through me, threatening to drown me. If I’d known…if London had felt safe enough to tell me…if I’d fought harder to keep her at my side…maybe all of this could have been avoided. I squeeze my eyes shut while my throat turns into a vice.

  Hazel begins quietly tending my wounds. Grayson clears his throat, shifting on the couch beside me.

  “You want a beer?” he suddenly asks.

  “No. I want a time machine. And I want a new life.”

  Silence thuds between us. I catch Hazel and Gray exchanging a look. The rawness of the moment prompts me to speak. “You’re an inspiration, Gray, you know that? Both of you are. I want what you guys have. I thought I had it, for a minute.”

  Grayson’s face looks softer than I’ve ever seen it. He squeezes my shoulder. “Brother, you can do anything you want to. You’ll get that new life if you want it bad enough. And I think you’ll get London back too.”

  Hazel tuts. “I can’t believe you’re Mr. NDA.”

  “That’s why you both had convenient excuses to leave the other night,” Gray says, nudging me. “You sly dog.”

  “I’m not that sly,” I say, sadness crashing through me again. The adrenaline of the beatdown is wearing off, and all that’s replacing it is self-pity and despair. “I’m just an idiot.”

  Hazel tuts again before she reaches for the Band-Aids. I can’t help the doctor in me. “No, grab the gauze first.” She course corrects, and I guide her through how to properly bandage my fingers. Once I’m all set, she offers a small smile.

  “You should spend tonight here,” she says softly, glancing at Gray. He nods.

  “I need to be at the hospital tomorrow,” I say glumly. “I should drive back tonight.”

  “What time?” she presses.

  “Eight.”

  “Just spend the night here. It’s better if you’re not alone,” she says, patting my knee before standing up and carrying off the first-aid kit.

  “She’s right,” Gray says finally, squeezing my shoulder again. “After all, that’s what family’s for.”

  Gray’s words ring through me the whole evening. Hazel tries to call London but now her phone is off, which makes me feel worse. Hazel eventually goes to check out one last Black Friday sale for a house she’s staging, leaving Gray and me alone.

  And we just…talk. About everything. About the situation with London, of course, but about our jobs. Our futures. Our pasts. Why we’re so fucking competitive. Why it’s all sort of Dad’s fault.

  I don’t think Gray and I have shared more than a hundred words over the past six years, and tonight, we talk enough to fill a damn book. Gray orders pizza for dinner from our local favorite, Cameo Pizza. While we’re enjoying the long, greasy strips of pepperoni pizza, downing each bite with more beer, someone knocks at the door. Hazel answers it—Maverick’s there.

  “You guys got Cameo?” he asks in lieu of a greeting, immediately sitting at the coffee table where the huge boxes are spread open. “And you didn’t even fucking tell me.”

  Grayson and I share a smile. I smack the back of Mav’s head.

  “Hello to you too,” I say.

  He waves me off. “We’ll talk after Cameo.”

  Our pleasant dinner turns into a fight over which movie we should all watch. All in all, it’s the most relaxing family night I’ve ever had. Spending time with Gray and Mav is more fulfilling than I expected. Plus, I feel like Gray and I have cleared the air somehow. Maybe it was because we finally address that time he almost drowned in Lake Erie. I was fourteen. I tried to laugh it off on the way to the hospital—once again, asshole reflex striking at a young age—which he took as subtext that I’d rather him dead. But actually, I confess, I was so terrified and so at a loss that I couldn’t do anything but try to make light of it.

  Mav finally goes back to Mom and Dad’s house, and Hazel heads to bed.

  Gray and I, though, we stay up talking. Scheming, more like. With more beer and eventually the pizza leftovers, our conversation turns to goals and dreams. I confess to him my Bayshore clinic plan, relating the situation with the building.

  By midnight, he’s convinced me to quit my job and go after the clinic dream.

  By one a.m., he’s drawn up a makeshift contract on a piece of paper pledging GrayWork’s support on the renovation project.

  At two a.m., we clink our last beers and hug it out.

  To the future.

  Chapter 32

  LONDON

  I take Friday night to myself. To sulk and stew and replay all Dom’s hurtful words a million times in my
head each time I think the tears might finally stop. It feels like torture, honestly. Like self-flagellation. Oh, you think you might have a shot at breathing through your sadness-congested nose again? Think again, London! Here’s a replay of the time Dom insinuated you were an untrustworthy wench!

  Once Saturday rolls around, I stay burrowed in my bed until curiosity forces me to finally check my phone. I scroll past the new messages from Dom, double back, read them all, and then delete his number from my phone, and then I block it. Next, I find approximately five missed calls from Hazel, as well as a few text messages asking me to call whenever I feel ready.

  Which is weird, since she technically doesn’t know that I wasn’t ready.

  “Hi, Londonnn,” Hazel coos once I call her. “How are you, babe?”

  “I don’t know,” I sigh.

  “Listen, I know everything,” she says in a low voice. “Dom came over last night and spilled his heart out. He ran Carl out of town. Dom’s back in Cleveland now, so you don’t have to worry about seeing him, since I’m sure you’re mad—”

  “Wait, what?” I sit up in bed, my tear-clogged head suddenly spinning.

  I can hear Grayson in the background. “Oh my GOD, did you see this?”

  “What is it?” Hazel asks Gray.

  “Dom made the fucking paper!”

  Curiosity is killing my cat now. “Guys, what are you talking about?”

  “Here, I’ll put you on speaker.” The phone rustles, and then I can hear both of them more clearly. Hazel explains the Bayshore Herald just posted an article headlined “Black Friday Brawl.” And the star? Dominic Daly himself.

  “It says charges are pending!” Hazel gasps.

  “Read the damn thing!” I shout.

  “A Bayshore native and a Columbus man were filmed in a brutal beatdown on the Bayshore boardwalk on Friday afternoon, on the property of E. Lago restaurant.” Hazel goes on to read, including the statement from the police officer who speculates that the brawl might have been Black Friday-related, according to the testimony provided by Columbus man, Carl Mack. “Oh my god, do you think Dom’s going to go to jail?”