My phone buzzes again, and it’s Jack calling from downstairs. “Boss you’ve got some reporters here?”
“Send them up, Jack. And when the lawyer shows up, tell him to wait, please. Something unexpected.”
“Sure thing.”
I hear the elevator ding and a knock at the suit door a few minutes later. I glance around the suite, and everything seems fine. No stray underwear or something that’s going get me into actual trouble. I open the door with a smile and face down the three reporters in my face. “Hi.”
A bubbly blonde with a recorder beams at me. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Argent. Can we come in?”
I gesture with open arms and the best fake smile that I can muster. “Absolutely.”
As they enter space, she introduces herself. “I’m Lucy Sanford from the Las Vegas Star.”
“Mike Bangor, San Diego Chronicle,” the handsome man behind her says. I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
And finally, “Shelley Pollon, Portland Tribune.”
“Welcome to my humble abode.”
They settle on the couches in the living room, making themselves at home quickly and easily, as most reporters do. “Can I offer you all some refreshments?”
“Water would be lovely,” Lucy says.
“Certainly. Monica,” I call loudly. “Can I see you for a moment?”
A few seconds later Monica emerges from my suite in one on my t-shirts on. It’s so big that it’s falling off her shoulder, and she has nothing underneath it. It’s sexy as fuck, and I probably could push the neck all the off her thin shoulders and watch it drop to the floor. She hasn’t found the sweats yet. So the t-shirt ends at her thighs.
She sees me looking, and blushes pink. “The sweats wouldn’t fit,” she says. “They keep falling down.”
Right now, she’s not in the line of sight of the reporters, but she will be. “That’s fine,” I say. “Will you grab three glasses of water from the kitchen for our guests?”
“Guests? I thought it was just the lawyer.” I just smile and raise my eyebrows, and she sighs. “Fine.”
I walk back into the living room and settle across from the reporters. “Hit me,” I say. “I’m an open book, but unfortunately I don’t have a lot of time to give you today.”
They nod in unison like their heads are on strings. “Completely understand,” Mike says. “I’ll start. I’d like to ask about the launch of your newest properties and how you expect them to influence the local—” his eyes slip past me and he freezes mid-sentence. The women’s eyes follow his, and I turn to find Monica with a tray of water in nothing but my t-shirt staring down the barrel of three reporters.
“Thanks honey,” I say. “I’m sure our guests are thirsty.” Monica’s face is bright red, and I can see the water in the glasses shaking from here. She glances at me, and I nod towards them. It takes her a second, but she steps forward and hands a glass to each reporter.
Even reporters from smaller papers are still reporters, and they’re not stupid. Shelley from Portland is the one that speaks first. “Are you…Monica Blast?”
“Yes,” Monica says quietly, looking at the floor.
I catch her around the waist and pull her down beside me on the couch, ignoring entirely the fact that the t-shirt is high enough to show off her thighs and probably her ass. “Miss Blast’s presence here and anything she says are strictly off the record. You can ask your questions.” I curl Monica in beside me and put my hand possessively on her hip, teasing the hem of the shirt. She’s stiff as a board beside me.
“Miss Blast,” Mike says, trying valiantly to keep his eyes from her legs and failing. “We’ve met before, when you were a part of the Miss Nevada competition. You did well.”
“Thank you.”
I look over at her, and Monica is smiling, but the vision strikes me, because she’s smiling but her eyes are filled with pain.
Lucy chimes in. “I’m very sorry for everything you’ve been going through, Miss Blast. I’m sure it’s been hard for you.”
Monica’s eyes fall to the floor again. “Thank you,” she says again. Like a reflex. Automatically.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t notice that she seems to have shut down and be running autopilot. I shouldn’t notice that she’s shivering under my hands. I shouldn’t suddenly be feeling regret for putting her on display. This is what I wanted. To prove to her that I’m serious about taking revenge.
And it’s true, there is a tiny bit of me that feels smug about the blush on her cheeks and her state of undress. But her trembling is getting to me. “Sorry Mike,” I say. “What was your question?”
He asks something about the economy and local jobs, and I answer. The others ask their questions too. I don’t even remember what they say or what I say because I’m so focused on Monica. She’s a shell of herself. Even only knowing her again for the last day I know that. And I did that.
Fuck.
This is not how I imagined that this would go. I had it all planned in my head, how I would revel in her blush and her awkwardness. Right now all I want to do is make her come back. I struggle through the questions, and they seem satisfied, even though I can see the desperation in their eyes wanting to ask questions about Monica.
But they don’t. All they do is stare. And finally, I can get them out. I get a ping from Jack asking about the lawyer and I can finally send them away. But Monica doesn’t move. Not when the lawyer comes, not when he walks us through the process of applying for a marriage license. All she does the sign the papers, completely blank.
And then the lawyer is gone and she’s still gone too. Shit. What the fuck did I step into? It seemed like such a simple thing, a little embarrassment to start my revenge. But I didn’t really think. How she’s been put on display her whole life. I don’t even think I knew about her doing pageants. That was later, after I knew her.
I sit down next to her, and reach out to touch her. She pulls away. “Monica.” There’s a moment when I can see the tears in her eyes, and it feels like a knife straight into my heart.
I shouldn’t care about this. I shouldn’t. I should be glad for her tears and that she’s getting a taste of her own medicine. But it doesn’t feel that way. And after seeing her pure and free and open underneath me, I know in my gut that this isn’t who I am. I will make her pay me. There’s no question of a debt between us. But I’m wrong to make her pay it to me in front of others.
She’ll pay it to me and no one else. I’ll extract it from her in borrowed pleasure and begging. I will make her mine.
“It’s fine,” she says. “We’re done, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re done.” I’m not going to make her talk to me right now. Not if she doesn’t want that. I hand her a tablet. “Order yourself some clothes. Everything should be fine on there.”
“Okay.”
She retreats into the guest room faster than I can even turn to follow her and closes the door. Only time will tell how monumentally I just fucked up.
8
Monica
For a moment, I sit on the bed in the guest room and just breathe. That was…awful. But not the worst it could have been. There are worse things than sitting by a man’s side in a t-shirt. He has the right to do worse to me. In fact, I expect more. I agreed to it.
Daniel was right on one count: the lawyer didn't give me or my clothes a second glance. Though clothes would be generous. I’m wearing nothing but Daniel’s t-shirt and the reporters got a good look at me.
I guess my passport and other things had been delivered while I was getting dressed, because they were all there when I just signed the papers. It all seemed very simple. As easy as signing nothing.
And now it's done. Normally it would take several weeks to receive a marriage license. But given who Daniel is, I shouldn't be surprised that the lawyer told us it would be ready either tomorrow or the next day. So fast.
Is this something I really want to do? After that? I know, deep down, that i
f I refused to marry him, Daniel wouldn't make me. But it's not something that I should be doing just because I'm afraid of losing everything. Or because I’m afraid of him exposing me for who I was. He’ll do it again. Tears swim in my eyes, and I blink them away. Come on, Monica. It’s not that bad. It’s worth it, besides, I will lose everything.
As soon as I have the thought, I know that it's bullshit. It's more than that just that at play. I can't explain the crazy chemistry between Daniel and me. Embarrassing incident in front of reporters aside, I can’t get breakfast and what we did out of my head. I want more of that. Of him. And I feel stupid that I don’t even care about being exposed. That it’s a price I have to pay and if he can make me feel that way again, I’ll gladly pay it over and over.
And as we spoke to the lawyer, there's no penalty for either of us to call it quits down the road. I intentionally ignore the little twist in my gut at that thought. That's it then. I am marrying Daniel Argent, and I can't even pretend that I don't want to do it. There's so much history between us, so much baggage. But there's something here that we need to explore together. Both of us.
I'm still in his t-shirt, and it smells like him. Like the desert sun and cedar soap. After the lawyer left, he handed me a tablet and told me to go crazy. Not in those words, but that was the implication. The tablet already has all of his accounts loaded into it for purchasing things, and I need a whole new wardrobe. But honestly, I don't know what kind of clothes I need.
Taking the tablet, I walk through the living room into the office that Daniel is currently occupying. He's typing away on a laptop, looking as calm as ever. It feels strange to enter this space. It reminds me a bit of what my father's office used to look like, and the reversal is strange. But Daniel is not my father. I know that. Daniel would never do some of the things that my father has done. He would never intentionally cause lasting harm. He would never not care that his actions had cost others their lives.
He looks up at me. “Are you all right?"
"Yeah. I just don't know what I need." He gives me a questioning look, and I explain. "What kind of clothes do I need to be your wife? Am I going to need a lot of gowns for openings? Suits? Is there a way you'd like me to look?"
Daniel stares at me for a moment before standing and coming around the desk to me. "Is that how you see me? As someone who wants to tell you what to wear and control your appearance?"
I shake my head. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't know where I stand with you. I don't know why you want me. I keep trying to make sense of it, and I can't. One minute you're making me beg for you, and the next, you’re showering me with gifts, and the next showing me off half naked to reporters. It's not exactly the clearest line of logic."
He sighs. "You're right."
I blink. "I'm sorry? You're admitting that I am right about something?"
"I'm not perfect," he laughs. "And I'm more than willing to admit that what this is, is complicated between us. So let me be clear now.” He takes the tablet out of my hand and sets it on the desk before pulling me close. It's strange how comforting that motion feels after such a short time. "I already told you this part of it. When we were younger, I wanted you. Even though I hated the way you treated me, and what your family did to mine, I never stopped wanting you. You are the star of all my fantasies, and I hated myself for it. I didn't understand why I couldn't just let you go. You were never going to want me. Never going to be good for me. But it didn't matter."
A peculiar feeling gathers in my chest. I had known that Daniel had a crush on me, but it didn't matter that much to me. When I was young and naïve, a lot of boys had crushes on me. It was normal to me. But to hear that his was deeper, that he had such a desire that went beyond what he should have felt given my cruelty, makes me ache with sadness. I wish that I had known. Perhaps if I had, and we had been together before now, maybe both of our lives would have been different. Maybe they would have been better, and maybe they would have been worse, but we’ll never know.
"When I saw you at that poker table," he says, “all of that came rushing back to me. I thought I had let that part go, that I had taken all that desire and anger and turned it into something else. It's how I made this life. But it hadn't let me go.
“Do I want you, Monica? Yes, I do. I don't think I ever stopped. Is there a debt to settle between us? Yes, there is. But you owe that to me and to no one else. I was wrong to do that to you just now—never should have exposed you in that way. You’re mine and I didn’t realize how much I wanted that. It's not my intention to marry you and make you the laughingstock of the world. You are going to be my wife, and I take that seriously. I’m sorry that I embarrassed you. I hope you can forgive me, and I know that I’m not going to humiliate you publicly again." Tears come to my eyes again, and I have to close them. Daneil pushes his hand into my hair and tilts my face to his. "I need you to hear me when I say that. I want you, you’re mine, and I’m sorry."
He kisses me then, and it’s soft and fierce at once. It makes me tingle and ache with emotion that I’m afraid to put a name to. I’m dizzy with it, and I have to cling to him just to remain upright. I can’t breathe, and it’s not just from the kiss. Fuck, what is happening to me?
I absolutely believe his apology. I feel it in my bones, that he means it. His fervent lips on mine leave no doubt. He won’t do that to me again, and the relief makes me able to breathe. I was willing to suffer it, but I would much rather just suffer for him, as fucked up as that makes me feel.
He’s breathing hard when he pulls away. “And I’m not going to stop making you beg me,” he says. “Not yet, at least. For all the things between us that need to be settled. And you know that there are a lot of them. You owe me a debt, and you’re going to pay it privately. To me and only me. I like it when your face flushes with embarrassment when I tell you what to do. I like to see you out of control. I like having power over you." He pauses, looking down at me seriously. "But I think you like it, too.”
“I don’t," I whisper. But we both know that it's a lie.
"Not the kind of power where I'd hurt you, or where I control what kind of clothes you get to wear. You know what I'm talking about."
I can't look at him anymore. I press my forehead to his chest to hide my face. "I shouldn't."
“Why not?"
“Because."
"Because women have to be strong?" He simply holds me, letting me hide. "You've been plenty strong, Princess. I know there are things that you haven't told me, and I know it's been worse for you than you're letting on. It's okay to be angry about it. And it's okay to enjoy not having to make any decisions for a while. It's also good to be able to ask for what you want even if you feel like you shouldn't want it."
Anxiety grips my chest, and I wrap my arms around his waist. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"What happens when you've had enough? When you decide that the debt is paid and you want to move on? Because you're making it very hard to hate you, and if you're going to take what you want from me and then decide that it's over, I need to hate you. I need that or I won't survive it."
There are so many things that he could say, and I thought that I was prepared for all of them. But not this one. His words are soft, but firm. "It will never be paid, Princess."
To most people, those words may sound like a death sentence. But I hear them for what they really are: a declaration. Whether or not we ever view ourselves as equal in the things we've done to each other, he's not letting me go. Something small eases in my chest, and I relax into him. He has no exit strategy, no plans to drain me and drop me and leave me for dead. And that, for right now, is enough. I sense that he wants to say more, but neither of us are ready for that. We both know it though. Both feel it.
"To answer your first question," he says, "I don’t give a shit what you wear. You could parade around the streets as naked as Lady Godiva and that would be fine with me, even though I might be a little jealous. Will there be events? Yes, p
robably. You can wear whatever you want to them. Buy the most expensive dresses you can find if that's what's going to make you happy. But don't think for a second that I am going to make you dress a certain way.”
Oh. "Okay."
“Why do I get the feeling that this is a first for you?"
Because it is. When I was a kid, I always had to look a certain part, play the role of the heiress for the Blast Dynasty. You can’t escape being the daughter of one of the world's biggest developers. And when I was in beauty pageants, it was the same. A certain way to look, a certain way to be, a certain way to act. Even when I was with Martin, he always requested certain looks. Demanded more than requested most of the time, and it didn't matter. He left me anyway. Though I try not to think about him. "It's just… unexpected,” I say. "That's all."
"You're not telling me everything are you?"
I shake my head. “No, I’m not."
Daniel kisses my forehead. "That's fine. I hope you'll tell me some time. But buy what you like. I wanted to take you ring shopping tomorrow, and there will probably be cameras—there usually are when I'm out in public. It's just something to be aware of, but I want you to wear whatever makes you happy."
What makes me happy? I wonder as he lets me go and sits back at his desk. I definitely have a lot of things to look through in order to decide. When I get to the door he calls my name. "Monica?"
I turned around to face him.
"I really do mean it. What makes you happy, not what you think will make me happy."
I nod before leaving the office. I didn't realize such a simple question would give me so much to think about. I hadn't realized how many restrictions had been placed on me in that way. What do I like to wear? I don't think there's ever been a time in my life when I've been free to choose without anyone else's opinion involved. And in the last two years, that hasn't been a matter of opinion, but a matter of survival. Beggars can't be choosers when you're shopping at thrift stores. So what do I want?
The Marriage Dare Page 8