If we weren’t in a room full of people, I’d shove my hands down her shirt and cup her tits. The restaurant is rowdy as fuck, and these drunk folks are pissing me off. Her phone plays a weird tune. She picks it up and taps the screen with her pink nails.
“Shit, um . . . I have to go home.”
I look at my Rolex and bring my focus back to her. “Why? It’s three in the morning,” I say, before finishing my omelet.
“I forgot that I told my friend that I will meet him tonight.”
“This late at night?” I raise my eyebrows. She doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, she finishes her pancakes and moves on to the eggs. Then it dawns on me who she is speaking about. That really pisses me off.
“You’re meeting Tate.” I air-quote with my fingers. “Your non-boyfriend.”
“Not that that’s any of your business, but yeah,” she snaps, throwing her napkin on her empty plate. Little does she know the more she gets feisty with me, the more my dick gets hard.
“You ever talk to me like that again, I will bend you over and fuck the shit out of you,” I say, before taking a swig of my orange juice.
Her mouth drops open at my words, and she rubs her thigh. “You’re an asshole.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I bet you don’t get any play with that mouth.”
“You’d be surprised how much play my mouth gets.” I’d love to take out my stress on her pussy, but she’s got to get rid of her boytoy. What kind of dumbass name is Tate anyway?
“Aren’t you too old to speak like that?” She studies me for a second, frowning.
“I’m twenty-eight, not sixty.”
“You coulda fooled me,” she shoots back. “Are you gonna eat that toast?”
I shake my head and slide the plate over to her. She opens a packet, takes a knife and spreads jelly on the toast and bites into it. The woman can eat—she has an appetite the size of Texas. It turns me on, and I’d rather her not starve herself. Mia was always obsessing over her weight because she was a supermodel, and in that world, you had to be a certain size to get a gig. And it annoyed the shit out of me when she used to put her fingers down her throat and vomit her food. It turned me off so bad that I stopped fucking her.
After Alana finishes eating the toast, she wipes her mouth with a napkin and tosses it on the plate. Beautiful green and blue eyes narrow and she says, “What?”
“Just so we’re clear, consider me your new friend.” I smile.
As we approach the lobby, a knock-off version of Justin Bieber wraps his arms around Alana’s shoulders and kisses her on the lips, and that makes my blood boil ten times more.
“Oh, Tate, this is Darien, my brother’s friend.”
“And her friend too,” I blurt out. Tate glares at me, but I don’t care. Yeah, I’m going to be the motherfucker she dumps your sorry ass for.
So this is the loser she is fucking. He has to be the same age as her. The skinny jeans and two loose chains dangling from his belt loop and a long white t-shirt tell me that he is trouble. I know his type—I used to be that type before I married Mia. Not giving a fuck about anyone else and fucking any woman I wanted to. Too bad his time will be up when it comes to Red. When we step into the elevator, I stand on the opposite side of them, and my knuckles turn white as I grip the wall rail. The Justin Bieber wannabe shoves his tongue down her throat. I want to throw him out of the elevator and kiss the shit out of her. He pulls away, breathing hard, holding her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles.
“We’re watching Death Note tonight, the Netflix version,” Tate says to her. I should beat his ass for suggesting that garbage. FYI, the Death Note Netflix version sucks. It’s better to stick to the anime.
The elevator whistles open and they step out.
“Thanks for breakfast,” Alana says, not looking in my direction. Instead, she has her hand on Tate’s chest.
And our eyes meet before the elevator closes.
Once I open the door to my new condo, I remove my gray long-sleeved shirt and toss it on the black suede couch. When I kick my expensive shoes off, they thud against a box of shit that I need to unpack. Didn’t know I had a lot of shit that I wouldn’t need when I downsized from my ten-thousand-square-foot mansion to a three-thousand-square-foot penthouse. Compared to a fifteen-bedroom and ten-bathroom mansion, this three bedroom, two bathroom is not bad. It’s cozy despite the fact that it is damn near empty. The only thing that I took the time to set up is my sleek black piano by the pure white wall and my office for work. There is a lot of shit I need to do.
Get rid of Mia.
Unpack.
Sell my mansion.
Buy American Banking.
Fuck Alana until she can’t walk.
Might move that last one to the top of the list. I go to my minibar located in my contemporary kitchen and pour ice and whiskey in a tall glass. The ice clinks together as I take a sip of the alcohol. The dark whiskey burns my throat. I take the remote from the bar and turn on some rock music and lie down on the custom-made couch. Red is consuming my thoughts more than ever, and now Tate is standing in my way to fuck her. Have to find a way to get rid of him. I whip out my phone from my pocket, tap the Facebook icon and click on her page. I click on her friends list and type in Tate. Bingo. Found his profile. His last name is Bush. I screenshot his profile and send it to Conner, my IT guy, with a message attached to it.
Give me a background check on him.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table.
Alana. Alana. Alana is my new obsession. My muse.
Alana
INDIAN MUSIC THUMPS through the speakers. I sit between Tate’s legs on the gray pillow as he rests his chin on top of my head. Talk about an awkward situation. It’s weird seeing Tate with clothes on—we spend most of our time naked, him inside of me or me on my knees or his face buried between my legs. So yeah, trying to get to know him without sex involved doesn’t spark my interest. Should have stayed in and ordered food.
My phone dings with a Facebook notification. I click on it and a friend request from Darien Casey pops up. How the hell did he find me? My cheeks flush as I scroll through his photos. Him at the gym with his shirt off. His body is hot. Six-pack abs, chiseled chest, muscular arms. Of course he’s got a body like a god. Fucking swoon. I place my index finger and thumb on the screen, making the picture bigger. There’s a dreamcatcher tattoo on his right pec. Hitting the back button to the home page, I tap the accept button and shove my phone back into my denim pocket. Can’t help thinking about Darien and how he turns me on. Swear I’ve never been so horny for a man in a while. And the way he told me he would bend me over to fuck me made my panties soaked. I was so hoping he would.
“So I have this project to do, it’s easy as fuck. Have to prove why a company should be held accountable for not providing all the ingredients in a food box,” Tate says as he inhales tobacco from the hookah in his mouth. I mimic him.
“What is your plan after college?” I blow smoke in the air. What the hell is he talking about?
“Work as a corporate lawyer.” He pushes my hair to the side and kisses me on my shoulder. And he says something else, but I don’t catch it—I’m distracted by the woman rolling her belly in front of us. We sit on a floor in front of a black table low to the ground. The couple sitting next to us tips the woman. The woman holds out her hand, so I grab it and I try to roll my belly, but I don’t have a dancing bone in my body. Music stops and everyone cheers and claps. The short woman with black straight hair bows her head, and I return to my seat.
“I want us to start dating,” Tate says, planting a kiss on my forehead. Whoa, definitely didn’t see this coming.
Shifting on the gray pillow, unable to get comfortable, I say, “I just got out of a really bad marriage and . . .” I don’t feel that way about you. You’re just good for a good time. I can’t say those things without hurting his feelings. Maybe if I really try hard then I can grow to like him, maybe even love
him. Tate won’t break my heart. He’s such a sweet guy and so nice. So why don’t I feel the same way about him? Because you’re attracted to assholes. Charles is an asshole, and that’s what I loved about him. But look where it got me, a broken heart. “Let’s go out again, and I’ll let you know.”
It can buy me some time to see if I like him. I don’t want to be with him because I just got out of a marriage, but I don’t want to end our relationship because I need to move on and get over Charles.
“Cool.” He laces his fingers with mine.
Tate drops me off at home; I just want to be by myself and have a clear head when he is not around. As I push the door open, Crystal sits with her legs propped on the coffee table. The Shameless theme song plays on the flat screen.
“Spill the beans about Tate.” A smile reaches her eyes.
I kick off my black ankle boots, place them on the rack next to the door and make my way to the worn couch. “He wants us to start dating.” She passes the bowl of popcorn to me, and I grab a handful, stuffing it in my mouth.
“Are you going to?” She unwraps the wet towel from her head and tosses it on the wooden floor.
“Don’t know. Haven’t decided.”
“You should. Tate seems to have his shit together.”
But Tate doesn’t make me crazy about him. Sure, he looks good on paper. He’s graduating at the top of his class with a 4.3 and he tutors undergraduates at NYU, and he is going to be a corporate lawyer. He’s a gentleman—opens doors for me and treats me with respect. But I don’t get any flutters in my stomach when I see him. My heart doesn’t jump for joy. There are no fireworks between us.
To take the spotlight off me, I change the subject. “How are things with you and Clarence?” I set the bowl on the table, and she folds her legs under her butt.
She begins to bite her pinky nail and says, “I missed my period.”
“What? But you’re on birth control.”
“Well . . .” She drags the word out.
“Crystal! You’re supposed to be careful,” I say through tight lips. She knows what I went through after I got pregnant.
“I’ve been missing some days. Okay?” She heaves a sigh.
“Have you told Clarence?”
She shakes her head. The credits begin to play on the screen. “No. I’m going to give it another week and then I’m going to take a test.”
“What if you are?”
Swallowing hard, she says, “Let’s not think about that.”
The next night Tate and I arrive at a fancy restaurant and I feel like a fish out of water. Everyone is dressed in business suits and cocktail dresses, and Tate and I are dressed in casual wear. A graphic tee fits loosely on my torso and black high-rise jeans snug my flat tummy. Tate doesn’t look any better, dressed in faded blue skinny jeans and a blue-and-black-checked shirt that falls to his knees, a man bun on the top of his head. If I didn’t know that he was pursuing law, I would think he was a hippie.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were taking me to a fancy restaurant?” I say, following the hostess to the booth.
Shrugging his shoulders, he says, “I wanted to surprise you. Don’t worry about the dress code, my father owns this restaurant.”
“You didn’t bring me here to meet your father, did you?” I hope he doesn’t hear the panic in my voice.
He shakes his head.
The hostess hands us our menu and tells us to enjoy. I scan the menu. God, this place is expensive—the lobster tail and steak is eighty-six dollars. As much as I love steak and lobster, I wouldn’t pay this price.
“Don’t worry about the cost, I’ll put it on my tab,” Tate murmurs.
The waitress takes our orders, and I remove my jacket and place it on the back of the wooden chair. It’s stuffy in here.
I cross my arms on the table.
“You look beautiful today.” His eyes meet mine.
“Thank you.”
He clears his throat and says, “My graduation is in December, and I want you to come.”
The restaurant is absolutely stunning. Silk cloth covers the table, and the silverware is so shiny you can see your reflection. French paintings hang on the wall and a long fish tank is inset in the wall. It’s like I’ve stepped on the set of Beauty and the Beast. As I admire the artwork, I see Darien’s arrogant ass. He is not alone—he’s with a woman. She appears to be the same age as me but carries herself with more grace than I do. I’m assuming she is high maintenance because of the dress she is wearing—expensive, designer, and sophisticated. She has luscious wavy brown-sugar hair, like she goes to the salon on a regular basis. Unlike me. I don’t go to the salon often. I can do my own hair. Why pay a shit-ton of money for stuff you can do? They look like the perfect couple, like Barbie and Ken. They sit two tables from us and Darien’s eyes connect with mine. Busted, I look down at the white tablecloth and bring my focus back to him. A smirk plays on the corner of his mouth. I look away again and the third time I look back at him he continues to stare at me. His date follows his eyes, and I glance at Tate. Why won’t Darien let me eye-fuck him?
The waitress sets our drinks down on the table.
“What?” I ask Tate.
“Graduation. Are you coming?”
“Don’t know yet. Where is the bathroom?”
“On the left next to the kitchen.”
I stand up from the table and rush to the bathroom like my ass is on fire. Can’t believe Darien is here. What’s worse is I am on a date with another guy and I am thinking about him. Not gonna lie, I thought about what he said about bending me over. I remember the way he looked at me when he took me out for breakfast. The hungry look in his eye like I was his prey and he was sizing me up, ready to devour me. Lust danced in his gray eyes like it had its own ritual.
I wipe my face with a wet paper towel and clean boogers from my eye. As I exit the restaurant, Darien leans against the gray wall with his legs crossed. He looks even more yummy up close in that black three-piece suit and long black coat. My bet is it’s something designer, like Burberry. I don’t know which one looks better—the expensive suit or the cashmere sweater he was wearing when I first met him. I have to tilt my chin to look at him because he is tall and I only come up to the middle of his chest.
“You’re stalking me?” I snort.
He lets out a slight laugh, bends down, and his lips are inches from mine. For a second, I think he’s gonna kiss me. And if he did, I would let him. I want to taste the alcohol on his plump lips. The tension between us is growing thick, and I inhale deeply.
“Sweetheart, I’m not stalking you. You’re with Tom tonight?”
“His name is Tate.”
“What-the-fuck-ever.” He undresses me with his eyes again. My cheeks heat up. “You’re hot in your regular clothes. Although I’d prefer you wearing nothing but those black Converse.” He points to my shoes.
“You’re unbelievable.”
He steps forward, runs his hand through his dark hair. I wouldn’t mind playing with it and pulling on it. “I want to fuck you.” His words make heat rush to my sex, and I press my thighs together. How can he say that when he is on a date with someone else? I will not get involved with a man who doesn’t have a problem with cheating. Should march up to his date and let her know what kind of man she is dealing with.
“People in hell want ice water, but they don’t get it.”
Stepping back, I play with my ponytail, and he steps forward, tracing his fingers on my pouty lips. I gulp as my heart flutters against my ribcage.
“What about your date? She would be pissed that you’re trying to hook up with someone else,” I whisper. I step back.
“She’s not my date.” He steps forward.
“Right, it was nice seeing you, Darien, but I have to go.”
He grabs my arm and leans down, inches from my ear, and says, “This isn’t over. I’m a persistent man, and I always get what I want.” His breath tickles my ear, sending a shiver down my spin
e.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I scoff, breaking away from his grip. Hate that I want to tear his clothes off and hump him like a horny teenage boy.
I sashay back to the table, and my food has arrived. The steam from my food evaporates into the air. “I don’t feel well, Tate.”
“What’s wrong?” he says, frowning.
I glance in Darien’s direction, and he speaks to his non-date. Whatever. Clearly, he is a liar.
“My stomach hurts. Can you take me home?” I lie. Can’t even look at him because I feel so guilty for not wanting him. My heart is supposed to be jumping for joy. I’m supposed to feel goose bumps when I’m around him. I’m going to tell Tate that I want to be friends and he deserves someone better than me.
“All right.” He flags down the waitress, and she gives us a to-go box.
“Can you kiss me, please?”
His eyes get big, and he nods his head. I place my lips over his and let my tongue roam his mouth, and his lips taste of Dr. Pepper. I suck on his bottom lip. Nope, there aren’t any fireworks between us. After Tate pulls away I look at Darien. I want him to see that he will not have a chance of fucking me. That I won’t give in to him. I’m hoping to piss Darien off, but he gives me a devilish grin and winks.
I am totally fucked.
Alana
TODAY, I HAVE a big day. I have an interview at one of the top art schools in New York. FIT—the Fashion Institute of Technology. I applied to their computer animation program. Always wanted to draw for a living. One day, I want to own a drawing studio and write comic books. When I graduate, I’m gonna start my own business. Can’t wait.
Pacing the red rug in my living room, I wait for Gunner to pick me up. As usual, he is late. Gunner is always late, even for work. I could have left already, but he wanted to take me so we can celebrate afterward. Can’t ask Crystal to take me because she is three hours away. She went to visit her parents in D.C., and she will be back in a few days. My hands are so clammy that I clutch my portfolio to my chest, crinkling my artwork paper. Fuck.
Chasing Darien ~ J.M. Stoneback Page 3