Bluff : Book 2 of the Complicated Parts Series

by Ashley Jade

  Exhaling a breath, I shake the memory from my thoughts and focus my attention out the window again.

  Curiosity holds me hostage as I watch him pull his phone out of his pocket and then check his watch. His gaze darts between the two for a beat, as if he’s having an internal debate of some sort before he brings it to his ear.

  I don’t know who’s on the other line, but it’s obvious they annoy him based on the way he grinds his teeth and drags a frustrated hand through his short dark hair.

  And then the strangest thing of all happens.

  Out of nowhere, his face lights up and every ounce of his former irritation dissipates. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  The conversation is short, a few minutes at most, and when it ends, he’s back to his usual brooding self. Which only has me even more baffled because who in the world would make him instantly happy like that?

  A curse leaves my mouth when it hits me. Turns out it’s not who…it’s what.

  Asher once disclosed to me that Preston’s gambling problem was so bad he had actual bookies on speed dial. He was so desperate to find his brother he attempted to track them down and offered them money to spill. According to the private investigator he hired to help, there were over five he’d been in contact with since the age of fifteen. One was honest enough to admit he didn’t know anything and no longer talked to him, but the others took the money and made up stories and locations that ended with Asher being even more depressed.

  Right before I moved out of his home, he decided to give up and stop looking for someone who didn’t want to be found.

  I told him it was probably for the best, and Breslin and Landon agreed, no doubt relieved he finally came to his senses.

  The promise Preston forced me to make curdles in my stomach as I watch him walk through the front door of my apartment. I hate not being able to tell Asher he’s been found—almost as much as I hate not knowing what’s caused such bad blood between them that Preston refuses to see or talk to his brother, but my husband’s given me no choice.

  Doesn’t mean I’m going to sit idly by and let him pull this crap.

  “I’m going to ask you this once and if I find out you lied to me, I don’t ever want to see you again and the deal we made is off for good.”

  The tone of my voice tells him there’s no room for argument, but he doesn’t look worried. As usual, he’s cool as a cucumber.

  “I don’t lie…I bluff. But for the record, I’ve never lied to you, Kit.”

  I want to tell him that right there is a lie because he never told me why he won’t talk to Asher, or what the deal with the secret phone is—but then I realize he’s right. Preston doesn’t lie to me, he just chooses not to tell me certain things…which isn’t any better. It’s just a technicality.

  “You omit. There’s a difference.”

  He crosses his arms. “Are you gonna get to the point of this little interrogation?”

  I look him right in the eyes. “Did you call a bookie and make plans to gamble before?”

  “I live in Vegas and work for the mob. I have no use for bookies and haven’t called one in years. Also, I’d never call a bookie to make plans to gamble…it’s not brunch.”

  I poke his chest. “You used to live in Vegas and you used to work for the mob. And I don’t care how the process works, I need a straight answer.”

  “No.”

  I match his stance. “Who did you call then?”

  “None of your business.”

  “It kind of is.”

  He walks to the fridge and pulls out the carton of eggs. “How so?”

  “We’re married.” I raise an eyebrow as I watch him take out a new pan. “You cook?”

  “I cook.” He starts chopping up an onion like a pro despite a fractured finger. “I figure if you’re going to continue giving me the third-degree, I’m gonna need some sustenance. Preferably uncharred.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to answer my question?”

  He cracks some eggs into a bowl. “I already did.”

  I’m pretty sure peace in the Middle East would be easier for me to achieve at this point. And way less frustrating.

  “Fine, you don’t have to tell me who it was, but can you at least tell me if they’re dangerous?”

  “No.” He whisks the eggs and adds the chopped onion. “Do you have any garlic?”

  “No—you won’t tell me. Or no—they’re not dangerous?”

  He swoops past me and opens the fridge. “No, they’re not dangerous. Your milk has gone bad.” He makes a face. “It expired last month. When’s the last time you went food shopping?”

  I shrug. “I don’t really go food shopping. I usually order takeout or get frozen stuff I can microwave. Cooking isn’t really my thing unless it’s simple stuff like eggs and grilled cheese.” My heart rises in my throat. “It’s not like I have a family to feed, so I never saw the point in learning how to make full meals.”

  He walks back over to the stove. “Most kids like grilled cheese and microwavable stuff anyway.” Something crosses over his face, but then he adds, “Asher and I used to bug the crap out of the housekeeper for grilled cheese and chicken nuggets when we were younger.”

  “My parents didn’t have a housekeeper, but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were my favorite.” I can feel the smile spread across my face with the memory. “Grape jelly and smooth peanut butter only, though. Cut into fours and no crust. It was my dad’s specialty. He’d always make it for us when my mom wasn’t home. He wasn’t much of a cook either…at all really. I once asked him to make macaroni and cheese from the box and he called my mom in a panic and almost passed out.”

  Preston flips the omelet over in the pan and winks. “Guess that explains who you inherited your overdramatic side from.”

  “Bite me.” I take two plates down from the cabinet with a heavy heart. “My dad wasn’t overdramatic…but he was pretty particular about things. Not in a mean way…he just liked things to be a certain way and didn’t like to deviate from his routine.”

  He flips the omelet again. “That’s not unusual. Most people don’t like change.”

  “Yeah, he hated change.” I laugh. “My mom and him were so different. She loved to decorate and rearrange everything from the rugs to the furniture. Sometimes every week. It drove my dad crazy and he’d retreat to his office when it overwhelmed him, but he was too captivated by her to tell her to stop. I think she was the only person in the world who didn’t annoy him. He said in a world full of clouds and storms she was his sunshine.”

  He divides the omelet and plates it. “Sounds like a man in love.”

  I take my plate and walk over to the kitchen island. “He had a yellow rose delivered to her every day without fail.” I look down at my food. “Sorry, I’ll shut up. I always end up getting carried away and rambling on and on about them for too long and annoying people.”

  “You can talk about your parents for as long as you want.” He joins me a moment later. “Yellow roses? Sounds like a hopeless romantic like his daughter.”

  “I can’t decide if you meant that as a compliment or an insult.”

  “Trust me, angry girl. If I wanted to insult you, I’d start with the cremation ceremony you gave those eggs before.” He picks up his fork. “I think it’s safe to say that unlike most husbands…I’ll be ordering my wife to get out of the kitchen.”

  I fling the forkful of eggs which was about to enter my mouth at him. “Jackass.”

  He brushes the food off his shirt. “I am, but at least now you look amused instead of sad.”

  He’s right. Usually, I’m down in the dumps after talking about my parents because it’s so bittersweet, but with Preston, it feels more sweet than bitter. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  He exhales heavily. “It’s been a long day.”

  I get up from the table when it dawns on me how inconsiderate I’m being. “I keep forgetting you’re injured. I should probably let you finish eating so you can
get some rest instead of cooking and cleaning up after me while I talk your ear off about people you don’t even know.”

  I fish his medication out of my purse. “You were right before. I assumed you were addicted to these because of your gambling issues. But I know how upsetting it can be when someone makes assumptions about me based on what they think instead of facts.”

  He stares at the bottle of pills. “Narcs aren’t really my thing. I much prefer a green felt table with a side of whiskey or beer.” His lips pull tight. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take them if I didn’t have access to my usual and needed a pick-me-up. You’re probably better off holding on to them for the time being.”

  Shock roots me to the spot. “Did you just ad—”

  “Don’t make it a bigger deal than it is, Bishop.” He points to the seat across from him. “Sit down and tell me more about your parents. I could use the distraction.”

  I make a mental note to throw the pills into the toilet as I put them back in my purse. “Okay, but we don’t have to talk about them. It might be boring—”

  “Not to me. I’m all ears.”

  Taking a deep breath, I settle into my seat…and then I proceed to tell him everything I still remember about my parents.

  And he never complains, not even when I’ve talked so long, I fall asleep at the table and he has to carry me into my bedroom.

  Chapter 11

  A blood-curdling scream coming from Kit’s bedroom has me lurching up from the couch ready to slaughter someone.

  She screams again as I enter her room and the sound along with the way she’s clutching the poker chip on her necklace for dear life shreds me.

  I’m almost positive she’s having a nightmare, but just to be sure, I scan the room and make sure the window is locked.

  “No.” A choked sob rips from her throat and she kicks her legs. “Please don’t kill me.”

  I’m about to reassure her I’d never lay a hand on her, let alone kill her, but she starts flapping her arms and cries out again. Only this time—it’s my name on her lips.

  Shudders are wracking her small frame, whipping her around the mattress like a plastic bag in the middle of a hurricane. I want to grab her, shake her out of it, and tell her it’s only a dream.

  Instead, I approach her bed carefully, like she’s a bomb about to detonate. “You’re okay, Kit.”

  It’s like she doesn’t even hear me. If anything, me speaking only makes it worse. Her tremors grow more violent and so do the screams.

  Seeing her like this is the equivalent of someone cutting my chest open with a shard of dull glass.

  When she yells for me again, I don’t hesitate. I wrap my arms around her as though she were a wild animal needing to be tamed.

  She struggles for the first minute, kicking and thrashing, but then she goes limp and blinks up at me.

  “Preston?” Her voice is laced with panic and her body feels cold despite her sweat soaked skin. “Is it really you this time?”

  She looks so confused and helpless, something inside me unhinges. “It’s me, angry girl.”

  I loosen my grip so she can move freely again and she bolts upright. “It wasn’t before…it was a trick and I couldn’t—”

  “You’re safe. It was just a bad dream.” I palm her cheek. “You know I’d never let anything happen to you.”

  I’m not a good person and most of the time I deserve the bad shit that comes my way, but Kit’s my proverbial line you don’t cross.

  Not unless you have a death wish.

  She nods slowly…and then to both my horror and concern she throws her arms around me—clinging to me like I’m her lifeline as her soft sobs fill the room.

  I’m at a loss for words, but given her heart rate and breathing are still erratic, I do the only thing I can think of—I situate us so she’s resting against my bare chest and we’re skin to skin.

  Then I trace my fingers up and down her spine until her crying slows down and she stabilizes.

  “Thank you.” Her voice is burnt toast. “God, you must think I’m crazy.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I thought that way before tonight.”

  “Asshole,” she says, but there’s humor in her tone.

  She shifts slightly, and I get a whiff of her hair, that intoxicating berry concoction going straight to all the places they shouldn’t. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” She draws in a ragged breath. “But this is kind of nice.”

  “It—” I clear my throat so I don’t finish that sentence. “I once read in a camping magazine that sleeping like this keeps you warm.”

  “You mean snuggling?”

  She might as well stick a big floppy bow on my balls and suggest we paint each other’s nails. “I don’t snuggle.”

  “Would you prefer the term cuddling?”

  “Bishop.”

  “Relax, Holden. You can be the big spoon.”

  She nuzzles closer and I trail my hands up and down her arms. Something I regret almost instantly. Not only is her skin softer than butter in the midday sun, she must have changed after I put her to bed because all she’s wearing is a thin little tank top and shorts.

  My dick stirs, very much aware that the only two things separating him from his own pearly gates are a pair of boxers and her tiny bottoms.

  I stifle a groan when I feel her nipples harden and I have to remind myself what transpired earlier.

  Kit was right about us needing to stop whatever was starting between us.

  For a multitude of reasons.

  The first one being—she’s gay. It’s not an issue for me, but if she’s going to have a mental breakdown every time I whisper dirty things in her ear and we dry hump, it’s probably best we don’t anymore.

  Goose bumps erupt over her exposed flesh and my own heart rate ticks up. It’s taking everything in me not to slip my hand between her legs and find out what kinds of sounds she makes when she comes.

  Instead, the hand on her back slides under her shirt and I circle her pierced navel with my thumb, recalling reason number two.

  Mixing business with pleasure never ends well for either party. Once things like emotions and sex are involved…it makes shit complicated. The bottom line becomes murky.

  And deal’s get broken.

  She licks her lips and it’s all I can do not to move her shorts to the side and bury myself inside her when her tongue touches my skin and she arches her hips, pressing her pussy against me.

  My heart pounds in my ears and hot lust pulsates my groin when she repeats the movement. Instinctively, I dig my fingers into her ass and thrust, eliciting a sharp gasp from her.

  Then there’s nothing but choppy, desperate breathing in the darkness. The chemistry a thick, palpable current running between us.

  “Preston.”

  Her voice is shattered glass and it’s like a knife twisting in my gut.

  “I know.”

  Her teeth scrape my shoulder and she shudders when I reach down and adjust my erection, squeezing the tip to take the edge off before I tuck it into the waistband of my boxers.

  A few minutes later, the sound of her sleeping softly fills the air and I recall the most important reason of them all.

  Kit’s a jump first and ask questions later type of girl.

  But if I allow my selfishness to get in the way and let her do that with me…

  I’ll hurt her worse than I did before.

  And this time, she’ll have every reason to never forgive me.

  Chapter 12

  I almost had sex…with a guy.

  Well, not just any guy…Preston.

  The glint from my wedding band mocks me. My husband.

  Bending over the bathroom sink, I lather on soap and scrub my face vigorously, as if it will wash away all these weird feelings.

  I cringe as I look at my reflection in the mirror. Feelings…that’s far too extreme of a word for mid-morning.

  Urge? Thumbs down—that word isn�
�t any better. Not when there’s a penis involved.

  Not that I have anything against penises per se. I’ve experimented with strap-ons a time or two and my favorite vibrator is phallic shaped.

  Penises aren’t the problem for me. It’s the male attached to them. Specifically, the six-foot-three asshole sleeping in my bed.

  I peer at the asshole in question from the doorway of my bedroom and my heart spasms.

  He looks so sweet and innocent with one hand stuffed under a pillow and the other…

  Oh, dear God.

  Watching Preston scratch his nuts is something I could have gladly gone my whole life without seeing.

  Grimacing, I pad out to the living room and nearly trip over his crumbled-up suit on the floor.

  Muttering a curse, I gather the pile and make a mental note to have it dry cleaned. Preston is doing me a favor after all. Not to mention what he did for me last night…before the heavy petting.

  I’m getting ready to toss his clothes in the laundry room when something hits my foot. I yelp because it freaking hurts, but my mouth clamps shut when I realize what it is.

  His cell phone.

  Chewing my lip, I toy with the idea of going through it for a solid minute before deciding against it. It’s the ultimate invasion of privacy. I certainly wouldn’t be jumping for joy if he went through my phone.

  Although unlike him, I have nothing to hide. The only dirt he’d find would be a few questionable pictures of the time Breslin and I got drunk in college and attempted to bedazzle our vaginas. And the porn gifs Juan insists on sending me because it’s Taco Tuesday—which he assumes must be every lesbian’s favorite day of the week.

  But none of those things are secrets I’m keeping from him. I’m an open book.

  But Preston? His book is on lockdown and he threw away the key.

  What if he’s in serious trouble?

  It’s not a stretch to think that if he gets annoyed whenever I bring up his not so secret phone and refuses to tell me who he’s talking to…things aren’t exactly copacetic.