Hardcore (Filth Book 3)

by Dakota Gray

  I think of all the cases I’ve been handed over the years. “In our world, it’s the people who love you who puts a knife into you. Don’t take it personally.”

  “That’s depressing.”

  I shrug. I haven’t made my peace with that. It just is. “This is why we’re going over your story until it’s tight as a drum. The faster they move from you, the faster they can focus on the real culprit.”

  “I guess.”

  Even repeat customers find the whole process of the justice system tiring, but I've yet to see Gabriel stand up straight like he means it. I keep forgetting he lost a friend to murder. Shit like that sticks with you forever, especially when there wasn't a casket or makeup to pretty up the death.

  If his grief becomes a problem for the case, I'll deal with it. Today his mental health isn't my problem. He'll stand under the grilling. I'll explain what we'll do going forward.

  And then I'll pick up some items from the grocery store before I hit Kennedy's place. I lead the way to the conference room because nothing is going to keep me from seeing her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At 6:25 I throw everything I need into my briefcase. I don't offer a goodbye to a single person as I exit the building. I'm not going to have time to hit the grocery store, but Kennedy isn't the only person with a well-stocked fridge. I have chicken breasts, fresh vegetables and every kind of pasta. Honestly, pesto should only be eaten when it's made from scratch.

  The promise of seducing Kennedy, making her blush, blinds me to all else. I'm out of my car before I even notice the one parked across the street from my house. It's the only other place to park.

  My mother steps out of the silver Mercedes. No pumps for her but black, thin heels. A formfitting dress, also black. She's a brunette, looks about forty, mainly because she dyes out the gray strands. Sunglasses cover her brown eyes. I don't need to see the red-rimmed edges to know she's cried today. It's why she's at my house, forcing this impromptu visit. She needs to see my face, touch it, and remind herself she didn't spend the last thirty or so years alone. My father happened.

  I don't want to do that for her, but if there's any shred of humanity inside me it's because of my mother. That's the kicker. My father and mother had a solid relationship from what I could see. He was different with her. She was his only weakness. Probably the only thing my father and I had in common.

  I wait for her at the door and take her arm to lead her inside. “Mother.”

  Her mouth thins into a frown. “You know I hate when you call me that. Did you get my messages?”

  “Been busy. Planned to call you when I had a free moment.”

  She tilts her face up somehow appearing prim and disapproving. “You look free now.”

  I smile at the dig. “I have plans for tonight. If I seem like I'm doing my best to push you back out the door, that's why.”

  She seems so fragile standing next to me when she chuckles. It's a rusty, not-often-used sound. “Here I thought I'd get a warm welcome.”

  “No you didn't. I've been avoiding you.”

  Her brows go up. “Why do you think I showed up on your doorstep?”

  I didn't get all my ruthless tendencies from my father. Gotta respect them though. “Tea?” I guide her toward the kitchen.

  “Only if you have chamomile. Otherwise, water. Cold water.”

  A woman who knows what she wants and demands it raised me. I am a product of my upbringing. I prep the tea pot, and on the sly I send a text to Kennedy to let her know I've been invaded by a parent, but I still have every intention of stopping by. She replies with a series of photos of New York style steaks marinating in butter and lemon.

  It would be easy to get lost in the potential of the moment, but I know why my mother is here. The best way to deal with it is to cut to the chase. “Is Corey being reasonable?”

  “No.”

  I sigh.

  Who is Corey?

  My asshole of a cousin. With my father gone, he's the Alexander of the Alexander and Associates. For as long as I can remember he was the guy my father pointed to as the perfect example of what I should be.

  Corey made the backroom deal that allowed him to attend Brown without coughing up a dime. He started at the bottom of the totem pole of my father’s firm. He only languished there for six months before climbing up the ranks. He had served his dues.

  After my father's will was read, he took over as owner and co-managing partner of Alexander and Associates.

  With that, my mother is owed money. She's in charge of the programs that she pushed my father to invest in, and one of those includes hiring more women on staff and not as support.

  I made the choice to opt out of the fight, and yet here I am. She's my mother. How can I back down? Shit, this is why I didn't call her back. When I walked from the firm I wanted to be done with this shit forever. Nothing could pull me back in. Or so I thought.

  Six...no, seven months ago my seventy-year old father died peacefully in his sleep leaving my mother, at fifty-five, with a whole lot more life to live. And her own ambition.

  I'm going to fix this for her. Fuck me.

  “What do you need me to do?” I sound as annoyed and conflicted as I feel.

  “Nothing,” she brushes aside the offer. “Nothing.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and dig deep for patience. “Mom.”

  She spreads her hands like I've browbeaten her into taking help. “I just want to be at the next board meeting.”

  I bring the tea to her and she lets it steep as I try to find an easier way to give her this. The board is made up of senior partners who have bought into the firm. My father gave her a small share in the event of his death she wouldn’t be destitute. My cousin’s first duty as acting owner was to change the bylaws and state that anyone with less than seven percent of shares are barred from board meetings.

  She has no leg to stand on other than the fact she poured blood, sweat and tears into the business. She’s not a saint. I don’t hold her up on a pedestal. I love her anyway. Helps that I respect the fuck out of her and know she’ll continue to do good for the firm.

  “Anything else?”

  The lines around her eyes deepen. “Let me see you.”

  My gut twists at the request. No. This moment is why I didn't want to see her. I drag myself over to the table to sit in the chair beside her. She presses a hand to my cheek. I know what she sees. The dark brows, dark eyes. The sharp slope of my cheekbones. The wavy strands that are slicked back and never unkempt.

  My father.

  She misses him.

  Sometimes that's all my mother can see when she looks at me. He's the last person I want to be, but sometimes he crawls out of my mouth and in my actions.

  Her love for him makes me question my apathy occasionally. He couldn't have been that bad. He never raised a hand to me. He also never raised a hand to show me affection. Never once paid me mind unless it had to do with being an Alexander. His last fuck you came in the form of cutting me out of his will and giving Alexander and Associates to my dickhead of a cousin.

  But she loved him, and she needs this.

  How can I say her love for him is misplaced or illogical? I’m harsh at times, but I’m never cruel. Or at least I don’t think I am. There’s that fucking good guy to stop me occasionally after all.

  He was born from a chess game. One summer, my father sat me down and decided to teach me how to play. I was home from boarding school. My mother, I am sure, had urged my father to bond with me. We could connect as he taught me his favorite game. He had a chess board made and would play by himself or with a friend even if they would only communicate by phone.

  My father also liked to stand on cliffs and brood.

  But that summer he wouldn’t play anyone else but me. I lost soundly, for two months. Then one day my father swiped every piece off the board, glared at me and told me to stop acting like I didn’t know how to play the game.

  I never told my mother that. Why? She wa
s happy to see son and father spending time together. I was happy to live that lie too. I kept losing so he would patiently teach me, pay attention to me.

  After that though I beat him at every single game we played for the rest of the summer. At the end of that, our next real heart to heart was when he told me I would do what he said if I wanted college paid for. And after that, when he cut me out of Alexander and Associates.

  Warm and fuzzy, right?

  All my mother can see is her husband and son spending time together, and how we talked every day. Her love for him makes her blind and accept bullshit. My love for her lets me forgive her for failing me.

  I should refuse to let her sink her grief into my bones, but that’s likely never going to happen. She’s my fucking mother.

  My phone buzzes and I break away from the touch.

  Legs. Beautifully, bare legs fills my phone's screen. Yeah. There's also a steak in the picture but that's not what I focus on.

  “I really need to go. I'll hit the board up and let them know to expect you.”

  “No tea?” She purses her lips for a second. “No catching up? I want to know how you're doing.”

  “I'm fine.”

  She brushes her fingers along my brow. “You never talk about your father.”

  My jaw tightens with reflective anger. “Did he talk about me before he died?”

  She folds her hands in her lap and doesn't reply. It's answer enough. She sighs. “You both are, were...so very stubborn.”

  “He was my father. He should have been the bigger man. He wasn't.”

  “Do you think he didn't care about you?”

  What did Kennedy say? Actions speaks louder than words. “No.”

  It’s why I don’t miss him. When I think of him there’s no pain or ache. There’s only anger or disgust.

  Her eyes are on mine. I know she sees how I feel about him. “You shouldn't hate him.”

  “I don't.” My phone goes off again and Kennedy is eating a sliver of the steak. Her mouth gets all my focus for three seconds. “I'm leaving.”

  She narrows her gaze on my face. “It's a woman, isn't it?”

  “If I say yes will you let me leave without a guilt trip? I’m willing to negotiate this.”

  She laughs and pats my cheek. She looks...happy. “Be kind to her.”

  “Who said I was being mean?”

  She gives me a long mother stare that pretty much says I know you're full of shit. I place a kiss on her forehead after I stand. “Lock up when you go. Try not to be too nosy when you look through things.”

  “Why would I look through your things?”

  “Because I won't open up to you and be emotional and shit.”

  Her eyes light up. “Well, I learned to let your business be your business when the maid complained about all the crusty socks under your bed. You were fifteen, I think.”

  My cheeks heat. “Jesus, Mom.” My phone saves me from anymore of this conversation. “I gotta go.”

  “Since every time you've looked at your phone, you've smiled, I won't hold this against you. Call me when you can.”

  I don't make any promises I don't intend to keep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “It's unlocked. Come in!”

  That's the greeting I get after knocking on Kennedy's apartment door. I “wipe my paws” like the welcome mat says then enter.

  I don't know what I expect, but it's definitely not...sleek. Her apartment is neat like mine. There's not a throw pillow out of place. There are books, sure, but they all have a tidy place on the bookshelves that line half the room. The cream area rug perfectly blends with the forest green couches, glass coffee and end tables. If not for the few pieces of art on her walls, the apartment would be ordinary.

  Maybe I expected bolder colors and choices in design. This is Kennedy we're talking about here. No matter how much I growl or gripe at her, she never backs down. Her place is so...

  “What are you doing?” she asks, and I can only guess she's in the kitchen.

  There's a hallway between us, and thin, very thin, damn walls if I can hear her and she's not screaming at the top of her lungs.

  “Being unimpressed with your apartment.”

  Her soft laughter reaches me, and I follow the sound.

  “You are so upper middle class, Duke.” Her voice gets clearer.

  “I'm buying you a bean bag and knocking over some books to liven the place up.”

  “Gifts, already?”

  I hit the corner, open my mouth to reply, and the world kind of stops spinning on its axis. Fuck the boring decorations, this is what I expected from Kennedy.

  For this moment to fully sink in, let me paint the picture.

  There's a crisp citrus scent in the air both from the lemons and the spices. The cheap florescent lights surprisingly throw out a warm glow around the room and gives added texture to the white tile countertops and stainless steel fridge. Her small touches of red and white plaid oven mitts, hand towels and jars litter the room in various spots. Other utensils and appliances are lined up like little soldiers to the side of the oven and spill over to the fridge.

  And there she is in a smile, black apron and hot pink stilettos.

  That's it. A smile, an apron and stilettos.

  I'm getting dizzy from the amount of side boob.

  This is heaven. I don't care what any man says. He has a porn fantasy bucket list, and at least three will be cliche-ridden. He'll daydream about you, at least once, begging him to fix your pipes or wearing a school girl outfit—in my case, coming home from a hard day's work to a naked woman in my kitchen.

  Food and sex hits my caveman buttons. Sue me.

  Kennedy wearing a pencil skirt and heels was the fake jab. This is the one-two-punch. A weaker man would drop to his knees and praise the ground she's standing on. I call on years of restraint to help me through the moment. This means slowly putting my sack of food on the counter and keeping my eyes on hers when I smile.

  “Dinner smells good.”

  She laughs. “God, your poker face is magnificent.”

  She turns around to tend to her food and I...just can't. I'm Tiffy from Connecticut who loves pumpkin spice lattes and I cannot.

  Her red hair flows down her back and shifts with her subtle movements. My eyes can't help but follow the trail of strands all the way down. Her hair stops just shy of her tail bone. Of course I let my gaze dip for the second—no, third favorite part of her. Kennedy is absolute perfection from the promise of dimples along the bottom curve where her ass meets her thighs to the faint stretch marks along her hips.

  I swallow, but there's not enough air in her kitchen for me to take a deep breath.

  “Want a taste?” she asks over her shoulder. “I have a few steaks ready to go. I sliced them but they are still tender and juicy.”

  I've never been hungrier. “Feed me.” My answer is more of a growl.

  Her smile is wicked when she offers me a forkful of meat. “I see you listened to me and brought an appetite. Come taste.”

  In two strides I'm pushing her against the counter and gripping her wrist. I make sure to hold her gaze when I close my mouth over the fork. “Not bad,” I murmur and chew.

  Her breasts shift beautifully under the apron. “That's it? I have to question your palate.”

  I release her hand. “Trust me. I know what would taste good right now.”

  “Do you?” She plays coy by batting her lashes. “What?”

  There's the line. She wants me on my knees. I appreciate the hell out of the show, and the joie de vivre in which she delivers it. I'm going to reward her handsomely, but she needs to understand this thing we're doing is happening on my terms. Call me a control freak, but that's the way it's going to be. We've gone on this ride with her in the driver's seat, and see how long that took for anything to happen–again? No. This is my game now. Let's see if she can best me.

  My stare tracks down. Even in an apron she has cleavage. That's unfair. “If you're
done cooking I can show you what tastes good.”

  She bites her bottom lip. “Dessert is chilling in the fridge. I'm just waiting for the corn to finish steaming.”

  “Okay.” I grin at her. “I need a cast iron skillet.”

  Her brows slash down. “What?”

  “Or any deep dish pan you have. Mixing bowls for the pesto is also needed.” I keep the laugh out of my tone, barely. “I can definitely use some help chopping. I brought a lot of basil and spinach.”

  She pushes me back a step, the annoyance clear in the taut lines of her shoulders. “You're going to cook?”

  I blink at her for a second. “I thought that was why I came over?”

  “Duke,” she says slowly, “you're not stupid.”

  “Nope.”

  She narrows her eyes. She wants to fight on this point, force us to get to the good stuff. Eventually she remembers I'm stubborn as hell with a huff. “Everything you might need is in that cabinet.”

  Not wanting her to be too pissed at me, I cup the nape of her neck before she breaks free. The kiss I give her is soft, wet, slow. I linger long enough our tongues tangle, sliding along each other in the best possible way. I break it after she moans into my mouth.

  “I like the outfit you wore for me.”

  “Oh.” Lust and frustration tangles around the single word. “So you noticed?”

  She's still pissy with me, but we'll deal with that later. “Behave. You're in enough trouble as it is.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Yup.”

  She breaks from the mini-prison I had caged her in. I should point out there's a gleam of payback-is-a-bitch in her golden eyes. And, yeah, there's a lot of bending over as she selects a wine from her fridge. Even more tit jostling when she pops the cork. Close contact and rubbing when she gives me a glass of my own. My dick condemns me to hell for not acting on the open invitation to make a home in the wet warmth being offered, but there's a long game in my masochistic actions. I have to remind myself of that repeatedly as I prep my meal.

  Eventually she realizes nothing can break me and lays out a towel on the counter and hops up to watch me cook.