SACRED (The Kingwood Series Book 3)

by S. L. Scott

  “You don’t have to apologize. I bury myself in work and my wife for a reason. I don’t want to think about what happened, but I’m glad we talked through some of it. Take some time off.”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll need.”

  “You know you can take as long as you want. Do you have something in mind, a way to spend that time?”

  I sit up and take my shot, downing it in one gulp. “I’m going to find my birth parents.”

  “Wow, Cruise. You’re stirring up a lot of shit in your life. You sure you want those answers?”

  “I’m sure. I need to put some things behind me and starting at the root of the cause is the best way to start moving forward.”

  “You lived through my search for answers, so yeah, I’m skeptical these days about digging up old ghosts.”

  “You got answers. Now I need some.”

  “What do your parents say?”

  “The Senator doesn’t know. My mom said she knew it was coming. I guess it’s only natural.”

  “I’m surprised the Senator hasn’t figured out how to market this situation, twisting it to his advantage.”

  “I’m not currently talking to him. I owe them a lot for taking me when no one else wanted me. I grew up never in need for anything—”

  “Except love. Seemed to be lacking in your house until the cameras were on. I presumed dinner didn’t go well. Should I ask about it.”

  “Just as I expected. I think my dad’s fucking Celeste.”

  “What the fuck?” I shoot him a look and then roll my eyes. He adds, “Damn.”

  “She’s history to me, but I feel bad for my mom.”

  “Your mom is a strong woman. Anyway, I doubt this is the first time she’s dealt with his infidelity.”

  “I know. I just don’t know why she accepts it.”

  “Maybe it’s not accepting it, but more wanting to keep her family together.”

  “I don’t know. I just hate it for her. The Senator’s an asshole.”

  “Changing the subject, what’s with the woman who’s inspired you to figure out your life?”

  Clara. My Dove. I won’t share her secrets, but I will share mine. “She’s different.” Dipping my head into my hands, I say, “It’s weird, but I already think about her all the time. It’s like once we met, I wanted to know everything about her. And then I want to . . .” Fuck. I can’t tell him. He’s my best friend, the brother I choose to have, but I can’t tell him this. That would be a betrayal to her, so I stay my course, keeping her past out of it. “I want more time with her. I want to protect her. I want to date her. I want to take her to dinner. I want Paige and Matty, you and Sara Jane to meet her. I want . . . she makes me want so much with her.”

  When I look up, he’s smiling. “I know the feeling.” He’s shaking his head and then leans back. “I’ve never seen you attached to anyone. I want to meet her.”

  “You will. Soon.”

  “It’s funny that of all the women you’ve dated, hooked up with, whatever you want to call it, you never brought them around us.”

  “But here I am, wanting to bring Clara over like you’re my parents.”

  “I can promise not to interrogate her, but Sara Jane’s protective over you.”

  I chuckle, and lean back. “Tell her to go easy on my girl. I like her a lot.”

  “Maybe more than a lot?”

  “Definitely more than a lot.”

  “This place is amazing.”

  I stand at the bar and watch Clara roam around the penthouse in astonishment. She even spun around at one point with her arms out. She said it was just because she could, the place is so spacious.

  “Why do you work and live here? I mean, I see why you want to live here, but why do you work here, too? And what do you do again? You’ve explained it, but I’m confused.”

  “The penthouse was purchased as a base while we did research on a project we were working on at the time. My family cut the money strings and our friend needed a job and a place to live. So Chad and I lived here, while King—Alex—would come and work at night. It really just made sense to serve the two purposes with one place.” It’s still hurts to think about Chad, much less mention him so casually. But I don’t want to bury his memory, so I say his name whenever I get the chance.

  Walking to the wall of windows, she looks out. “Your other friend moved out so you have this huge place all to yourself?”

  Chad.

  How do I explain what happened to him without scaring her?

  I was tortured.

  Chad is dead.

  God, this sounds like a fucking movie. Just lay it out like she did. “He died.”

  “Oh.” She looks over her shoulder at me. “I’m sorry. Do you mind if I ask how?”

  “Chad was killed.”

  “My father was killed.” It’s as if she catches herself, and corrects some transgression she’s committed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to infer they are same. Your friend was nothing like that monster. I shouldn’t have said—”

  Striding across the room, I cup her face. “Hey. You don’t have to apologize all the time. I know what you meant.” Taking her in my arms, I inhale her sweet scent—a light floral fragrance. “When you’re with me, I want you to feel comfortable. I want you to speak freely and say what’s on your mind. Always, Dove. Don’t hold back.”

  “I don’t want to upset you.”

  “Don’t worry about that. If I’m upset, I’ll tell you. We’re not going to hide behind passive-aggressive bullshit. Let’s just be open and honest with each other.”

  Leaning against the window, she looks up at me. “This is surreal. You’re surreal, as if you’ll disappear like a daydream.”

  “I won’t.” Placing her hand on my chest, I cover it with mine. “I’m here. I’m real. That’s my heart you feel beating. It beats faster around you. I can feel it when we’re together, as if it was dormant and you brought it back to life.”

  A smile surfaces that’s so delicate it could become a memory before I have enough time to truly admire it. I ask, “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’m not worthy of your kindness.”

  My heart clenches. “Fuck that, Dove. You’re more worthy than any of us. You didn’t ask for hell to pay, but you paid the price anyway.”

  Her body eases and her smile becomes a part of her as she pokes me playfully in the abs. “You talk about me like I’m amazing. Trust me, Cruise. I’m not. If I were, none of the bad would have happened.”

  “You were a kid—”

  “Can we not talk about this?” Coming forward, she embraces my middle, but rests her chin on my chest looking up at me.

  “I don’t know when we can talk about things or when you’d rather not.”

  “I feel terrible when you ask and I don’t want to talk. I opened the wound, so I know I’m to blame, but sometimes I just want to be in the now, and to be happy. I’m conflicted, because I want you to know. I want you to feel free to ask questions. I want that same right with you.”

  “I understand. How about we use a code word if we don’t want to talk about things? If the word is said, then we stop talking about it and talk about something else instead.”

  Her interest is piqued, a small smile playing on her lips. “What’s the word?”

  Staring out the window, the sun is beginning to set and the last of the day remains in the reflection of the skyscrapers.

  “It has to be something unassuming.”

  “A non-trigger word . . . like frosting or flour.”

  “Flower like a rose or flour for cooking?”

  “Either.” Joy. That’s what I see in her eyes when she suggests, “What about donut?”

  “What happens when we want donuts?”

  She laughs. “We go get donuts, silly.”

  We’ve discussed life-altering tragedies but I don’t even know if she likes donuts. I’m determined to find out. I lean my hand on the glass over her shoulder. “What’s your favorite ki
nd of donut? Let me guess . . . chocolate? Glazed? Sprinkles?” Being this close to her, so close to her lips, I get turned on so easily. Kissing the shell of her ear, I whisper, “Cream-filled?”

  “God, yes.” Her breathing deepens, her voice husky, revealing her lust. “That.” When I start kissing her neck, she moans, “Donuts. Yes, donuts.”

  I can’t stop from laughing. “So, donut is our stop word?”

  Sighing seductively, she grabs my shirt, and pulls me around. “It’s always going to be about the baked goods for us, isn’t it?”

  “I’m pretty sure it is.” Sweeping her off her feet, I flip her over my shoulder. “Have I shown you my bedroom?”

  “I’ve been waiting for that tour since I arrived.” Just inside the doorway of the bedroom, I set her down on her feet again. When I kiss her, she giggles while wrapping her arms around my neck, and then asks, “Where have you been all my life?”

  “It’s not about where we’ve been, Dove. It’s about where we’re going.” And wherever that is, I hope it’s with you.

  15

  Clara

  When Cruise said he wanted to make love to me, he didn’t lie. I’ve never felt so loved and cherished than when I’m with him. Standing in his closet, physically my body misses his. Emotionally, I couldn’t ask for more. My heart is full.

  I choose a crisp white shirt, and pull it from the hanger. By looking at the suits and shoes, the ties, and shirts in his walk-in closet, I can tell he spends a lot more on his wardrobe than I’d ever be able to afford.

  Sliding the fine cotton over my skin, the fabric is cool to the touch and smooth. The label reads Prada. I’m no aficionado, but I know that brand is expensive.

  Tiptoeing down the hall, I cross the room in bare feet and sneak outside on the balcony. It’s quieter at this hour and easier to convince myself that I’m at the top of the world, living the high life up here as I look down and around the usually bustling metropolis.

  I lean against the railing, lifting up on my toes for a better look.

  This penthouse alone shouts wealth, but then to find out his last name . . . Cristley.

  I was familiar with the name long before I met his mother during a fundraising committee meeting. It’s her husband, Cruise’s father, which I’d heard about growing up. He was a senator known for re-election scandals and dirty dealings. That’s what my father used to gripe about over dinner—how unfair the world was that scum like John Cristley could get elected and then waste taxpayers money on potholes and mass transit. He claimed the elected officials never solved their constituent’s real problems, like lowering taxes and putting food on the table.

  My father never appreciated a hard day’s work and thought the whole world owed him just for being born.

  Wealth of the Cristley’s magnitude is intimidating, to say the least, but the power of his family name scares me more. That’s not a world I can slip into unnoticed. No, my past will come back to haunt me. Sure, my family put on a good show living in the suburbs among well-maintained lawns and a good school district. But he was evil to his core. Sometimes I overheard conversations I was never meant to hear.

  “I don’t give a fuck about her. I only care about him, the fucking little bastard that he is. If we have to send a message to make him see things our way, we will.”

  . . . The sins of my father have been left for us to atone for.

  The Cristleys are political royalty in this state. I probably saw Cruise on TV when I was younger, not able to dream, much less fathom, that I would one day be dating him, or falling in love with him.

  Love.

  The word itself was twisted before I met Cruise, wicked even. I was never taught to love, but to obey. With Cruise, love comes easily and is all encompassing in ways I welcome. It feels good to feel good. He makes me feel beautiful, happy, and worthy.

  But will his family?

  The door opens and Cruise leans against the metal frame. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Thinking.”

  Coming out, he leans his arms on the railing next to me and looks down the long avenue. When he turns back his eyes stay steady on mine. “It’s a great place to think, or not, maybe to avoid if that’s what you’re wanting.”

  “I have a feeling you like to avoid thinking about a lot of things. What you said to me, about being here for me and listening. I want you to know that I’m here for you and I’m also a great listener.” Watching lights flicker on around the tall buildings as people start to arrive for work is a nice distraction, but it never really pulls me away from the bad of my life. “I was taught to remain silent at all times unless spoken to directly by my father.”

  “I don’t want you to be quiet. I want you to be loud. I want to hear your voice, and your thoughts, your opinions, and for you to always speak your mind. Don’t hold back with me, or anyone. You don’t owe an exchange of your silence for someone else’s.” Running his hands into my hair, I lean against his palm. He whispers, “Be brave, my little dove.”

  Kissing my lips, I get lost in his words and kindness, his encouragement and desire for me. I feel whole. He’s done that for me. I don’t know how he’s done that in such a short time, but he’s changed me for the better.

  “Promise me. Promise me that you’ll always speak your truth and you won’t ever let anyone shut you down.” Gently clasping my face between his hands, he says, “Promise me.”

  “I promise. I promise you, but why do I get the feeling you’re making me promise because you won’t be here?”

  When his hands fall to his sides, he walks to the other side of the balcony. I don’t like the distance anymore than I like the dread filling my stomach. “I have to go out of town.”

  Feeling ill, I stare at the back of his head hoping I misheard him. “A trip?” I try my best to sound positive, not like I have anything to worry about, but I fail. My shoulders slump as if my body already knows the outcome of Cruise and Clara—a fated love story.

  Maybe he picks up on the desperation in my voice, or he’s in tune with my body, because he turns and looks at me. He may not have hearts in his eyes, but he doesn’t have hate.

  “Not long. A day or so.” Cruise reaches for me, looking at me like I can do no wrong. So different than what I’m used to seeing from men. I take his hand and am pulled in with a whoosh, his body catching mine. “We’ve talked about a lot of things, but not so much about us in the sense of what this is. What we are.”

  “What are we?” I ask, not whispering like the wind that blows.

  I love that he can’t seem to keep his hands off me. From big sweeping kisses to gentle gestures and soft strokes, he’s almost always touching me. With his fingers tapping against the tips of mine, he asks, “What do you want us to be? What do you want with me?”

  It’s not that I hesitate. I just want so much with him and don’t want to scare him by overstepping an imaginary line he might have in his mind. The debate is roaring inside my head when I’m pulled even closer and his warm hand touches my neck as heated kisses cover my cheek. He whispers, “I’ll be anything you need me to be. Just please be with me. Please be mine, Dove.”

  As the city sleeps around us, I’m held in knightly arms by a man so brave to take me on. My gratitude overflows and I realize that the innocent are given second chances. And this is mine. Heaven doesn’t only exist in the skies above or in distant thoughts when escaping hell, but right here on Earth, in Cruise’s arms. Still too hard to believe, taught that I was never enough for anyone to truly want or love, I ask, “You want me?”

  “So much,” he says as if it’s too painful to bear if he doesn’t. “God, so much.”

  The shadow from the beard that’s grown overnight scrapes across my skin, marking me. I never wanted to be owned. I never wanted to be loved because the love I knew was perverse. I had it all wrong. So wrong.

  I think Cruise loves me. He shows me in ways I’ll feel long after I’m gone from his arms. He owns me.

  My heart.
r />   My soul.

  All my yeses.

  And maybe some of my noes.

  But he’ll respect them like he respects me.

  Knowing that I can truly be me and he still cares, possibly even loves me, is intoxicating.

  “We don’t need words, Cruise. I was yours the minute your lips kissed mine.”

  “To further seal this deal . . .” Our lips meet and our tongues touch. Under an overcast sky, we don’t need stars to find our way to each other. Our hearts are already leading the charge.

  “Do all couples have this much sex?”

  He chuckles lying in bed next to me. “Is it too much?”

  I hate bringing him into our little piece of paradise, even in indirect references, but I need to know what I feel isn’t bad, isn’t sinful, and doesn’t make me just as twisted as my father. “Is it wrong to like it like I do? Does that make me demented or sick?”

  Rolling to face me, his face contorts. “God, no.” His hand finds the inside of my wrist and he traces figure eights lightly across my skin. I’m not even sure he realizes what he’s drawing, but I do. “Forget that sick fuck. What we have, what we feel is right. It’s pure. It’s good. Like you. You’re good. Don’t ever believe the lies he told you. He tried to take your good and turn it bad. But look at you. Goddamn it, look at you. You’re an angel—wholesome with the purest of hearts. So pure that sometimes I worry I’ll be the one who destroys you.”

  “No, that could never happen. I’d go down in flames before I’d condemn your kind heart.”

  “When I’m with you, I don’t feel so fucked up.”

  “Cruise?” I keep my voice low, measured to fit the quiet and dark room.

  There’s barely enough light to make out his features, but I do. “Yeah?”

  “You don’t have to, but I’d like you to talk to me.”

  When he looks away from me, his chest rises and then sinks slowly back down with the weight of the conversation. I lay still and don’t make a peep. I’m really good at it and the atmosphere in the room seems to demand it. He asks, “Are you okay, Clara?”