Love So Dark: Billionaire Romance Duet

by Stasia Black

  “No fair,” I laugh as I jerk out of the way when he takes another swing. “You have two and I only have one.” I go low and try to sweep his legs but that just gets me clobbered on the back.

  “That just proves I’m smarter and can make better usage of available resources than you,” he says, going for a low-to-high swing that I block with my pillow. No problem for him because he’s got the second pillow to smack me on the head with. I shriek in outrage and bounce off the bed, dancing out of the way before he can get me again.

  I glance back at the head of the bed. Wait, shouldn’t there be a fourth pillow? I don’t try to be sneaky about it, I just make a break back for the bed. Jackson chases after me. He’s a smart guy. Seeing my move, he must realize the same thing about the pillows. I don’t see any on the side of the bed closest to us so I launch myself over the bed to look on the other side.

  Aha! I’ve hit pay dirt.

  The fourth pillow is on the ground tucked in the corner. I grab for it even as Jackson wallops me with pillows. Shocker that he seems to concentrate his blows on my ass. I roll my eyes and giggle. I never did manage to get dressed after the shower.

  I grab the pillow from the floor. Now equally armed, I swing both pillows around and tackle Jackson to the bed until I’ve got him pinned underneath me, legs on either side of his chest. I rain down blow after blow on him with my pillows.

  “Say uncle,” I cry.

  “Never!” He wriggles underneath me.

  “Say it!”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Fine, then say I’m the Queen of Awesome and you’re my lowly slave.”

  I feel his laughter since I’m sitting on his chest, jostling me up and down on my perch. He reaches up and slides my pillows off his face. “I bow down, oh Queen of Awesome,” he says with a wide grin. “I am but a lowly slave, always in service to her worshipfulness.”

  It’s a light moment and his eyes are full of merriment, but I see something else there too as he holds my gaze. That zing that always seems to pass between us. Intensity. Rightness. The thing that turns a light moment deep and made me feel connected to him early on even when we hadn’t spent much time together. I’m not freaked out or scared by it anymore like I was in the beginning, though.

  This is Jackson. This is my Jackson. He’s seen deep inside me to my needs and desires and wasn’t frightened by what he saw there. We can meet each other in the dark. We’re compatible there, just like we are in the other parts of our lives.

  Neither of us are laughing or even smiling any more. Jackson’s caught up in the moment with me. He reaches up and slides a loose piece of hair behind my ear.

  “Calliope, I—”

  A knock sounds at the door, interrupting whatever Jackson was about to say. I want to shout at whoever it is to go away. What is Jackson about to say?

  “Callie?” It’s Shannon’s voice, none too quiet. She knocks again.

  “I do believe she thinks she’s committing coitus interruptus,” Jackson whispers in my ear.

  Jackson using that term sends me into a fresh wave of giggles. Obviously whatever we were in the middle of has been interrupted, and even though it wasn’t coitus, I feel so frustrated it might as well have been. What had Jackson been about to say?

  Maybe nothing. But maybe something.

  I roll off of Jackson and grab my robe, a silky little nothing that doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Shannon’s still banging on the door with the fervor of an under-quota salesman.

  I yank open the door, lean against the doorframe and run a hand through my hair to fluff it in a way that hopefully makes it look like I was just fucked.

  “What?” I don’t bother hiding my frustration.

  Shan’s eyes widen when she sees me. “How could you do that here? While we’re all in the house? I had to tell Mom all the shrieking was because we saw a mouse up here. Which of course sent her into a tizzy about how we had to be wrong because her house would never have rodents and blah blah blah,” Shannon stops and narrows her eyes at me, “Why are you grinning at me like that?”

  “No reason, big sis.” I throw my arms around her and hug her hard. Here she is, always trying to make peace, even when there’s no real reason.

  “Ugh, I don’t want your sex sweat all over me.” She tries to squirm out of my grasp but I hug her even harder.

  “We were just having a pillow fight after I woke up from a nap, dork,” I say, intentionally mussing her hair. No need to mention the numerous and mind-blowing orgasms before the nap. I didn’t make a sound during those thanks to the belt, after all.

  “Deity give me patience,” she looks up at the ceiling, then back at me, “Will you ever grow up?” She finally manages to pull away from me and her hands immediately go to smoothing down her flat ironed hair.

  “Not on your life,” I pinch her in the belly.

  She twists away and shakes her head at me. “Mom says dinner will be ready in fifteen and you know heads will roll if you aren’t right on time.” She glares at me but I can see some softness beneath it.

  “You know you love me,” I call as she walks away.

  She sends me the one-fingered salute over her shoulder. We Cruise sisters are nothing if not a pair of dignified ladies.

  Ten minutes later Jackson and I head downstairs, me in a modest but cute blue A-line dress and Jackson going all out by busting out a suit and tie. And day-um, does the man look fine in a suit. No doubt I’d have sticker shock if I knew how much the thing cost, but looking at how it fits his muscular body and that ass. Damn, that ass. I can’t help but to reach down and discreetly give a squeeze as we descend the central stairwell.

  “I want to get you alone and cuffed face down on a bed,” I whisper in his ear as I take his arm. “I have plans for that ass.”

  Holding his arm like I am, I feel the slight shudder that goes through his body. He’s as turned on by the thought as I am. At his request, I’m going commando and a draft slips up under the full skirt of my dress, hitting the moisture that’s just spurted at the image conjured of Jackson spread out before me. My nails bite into the forearm of his jacket and Jackson looks my way, shooting me a knowing smile. Then he looks past me to the wall as we descend the stairs.

  “So this is you, the Queen when she was but a pageant princess,” he comments with a smile as we pass by a long row of pictures lining the stairway that I once heard Shannon refer to as The Callie Shrine Wall.

  I can’t say she’s wrong. Some moms make scrapbooks. My mom created the Shrine Wall. You know how in TV and movies, serial killers sometimes have those creepy shrines to their victims with all kinds of photos of them all over the wall? Yeah. This wall is a little like that. Except the pictures are framed and they’re all from my pageant days. Starting at seven years old all the way until I stopped at fifteen, it’s a year-by-year chronicle of every pageant I entered. There are pictures, ribbons, sashes, hanging tiaras, all leading to the pièce de résistance—the giant shadow box of my glittering crown for Little Miss Siskiyou County that I won the year I quit. It’s placed in a small inlet that Mom had some workmen cut into the wall, crafted specially to fit the crown.

  “You’re lovely,” Jackson says.

  I wince but when I glance over, he’s not looking at the glossy pictures. Just at me, here, now, in the real world. I know I don’t look my best.

  I look from picture to picture and watch the way my pageant smile grows more brittle over the years. And how the external package becomes more, well… packaged. Spray tans. Glitter bronzer to highlight the cheeks—and, starting at eleven since I developed early—above and in between the breasts. And always, glossy hair. Glossy red lips. Eventually glossy eyes.

  I turn away and jog down the rest of the stairs in spite of the fact that I’m wearing heels. These are only three inches high and I can easily maneuver in up to four-and-a-half—another skill I picked up from my pageant days, actually. Along with learning to invest all of my self-worth in my looks.


  For fuck’s sake, by the time I was ten I was accustomed to strange men leering at my body. I don’t know who thought up the idea of having a swimsuit portion of a beauty pageant for twelve year olds, but they should be murdered. Slowly.

  “Callie, you okay?”

  Jackson’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, eyes concerned.

  I smile but we can both feel the falseness in it. It’s too reminiscent of the grinning girl on the wall behind us. I take Jackson’s arm again and try to let him ground me.

  I just need to shake off all the feelings the walk down memory lane brought on. That girl is long gone. I take a deep breath. I look up into Jackson’s eyes and drop the grin. “I’m all right. Let’s get this over with.”

  He lifts his right hand and squeezes mine where it drapes over his arm. All right. Let’s get this done. One evening, then I just have to make nice tomorrow morning till lunch and we can leave. I can do this. We can do this.

  I feel absolutely confident.

  Until I turn the corner and see who’s standing by my father.

  Mr. McIntyre.

  The man who sexually abused me for years.

  Twenty-One

  CALLIE

  “Callie. Jackson,” Mom says brightly, though I see censure in her eyes for being late to come down. “We’ve been waiting for you. Look who took time out of his busy schedule to come by and dine with us.”

  I grip Jackson’s arm, swallow hard, and do my damnedest not to let the dizziness suddenly assaulting me take me down.

  Unlike Dad, Mr. McIntyre looks like he’s aged a decade in the few years since I last saw him. And he was old when he first started fucking with me.

  He’s tall and rail-thin in a way that always reminded me of a skeleton. One with skin loosely stretched over it. Even just glancing at his face and the sagging skin at his jowls and ears makes my stomach sour.

  I turn away so he’s not in my line of sight anymore. Seriously, how much is a girl supposed to take? I already had to stand face-to-face with my blackmailing rapist last week and now here’s my first abuser, standing and holding a bourbon with my father like nothing at all is wrong in the world.

  I stopped doing pageants when a judge cornered me and told me the only way I’d retain my title as Little Miss Siskiyou County was to give him a quick blowjob in a closet.

  I thought that by getting out of the pageant circle I’d be safe from all that—creepy men looking at me, the touches I didn’t want when no one was looking, the comments when they thought no one else was in earshot.

  But then there was Mr. McIntyre. Dad’s business partner. At least that’s how Dad talked about him. In reality, he was Dad’s boss.

  I learned that one night when Dad and Mom retired early after an especially long night of drinking Mr. McIntyre’s special Kentucky bourbon. He so kindly offered to clean up since Mom had cooked.

  Mom ordered me to help him before stumbling off to bed. I didn’t think anything of it. Mr. McIntyre had been coming over for several months by then and had never been inappropriate before. Not even any lingering looks.

  He started off by asking me about school. What grade I was in. What my favorite subject was. If I was thinking about colleges. The same sort of thing adults always asked.

  Until he asked if I had a boyfriend. Even that was a question I’d been asked before, so it didn’t seem weird. At first. It only started feeling off when I told him I didn’t have one.

  “I don’t believe that,” he scoffed, nudging me on the shoulder where I stood beside him drying dishes after he washed them. “Not with that body. I bet all the boys’ pants get tight when you’re around.”

  Yeah, my comfort level went from acceptable straight to zero at that point. Not that that was going to dissuade Creepy McCreepster.

  “I mean, if I was a boy in your grade, I wouldn’t get a single thing done. I’d be too busy staring at those huge tits of yours.”

  I dropped the plate I’d been drying back into the sudsy water and stepped away, but he must have been watching me closely because he seemed to anticipate my move.

  He let go of the cup he’d been lackadaisically washing, caught me around the waist, and shoved me up against the counter with his body.

  I opened my mouth to scream for my parents, but he quickly covered it with his soapy hand. And then came the oft-repeated threat that would keep me in check for the next three years.

  “Yell and I’ll fire your father like that.” He snapped the fingers of his other hand. His cajoling voice was gone, replaced by one filled with malice.

  “You want me to be your friend, not your enemy.” He moved his wet, soapy hand to my breast, leaving what I knew would be a big wet handprint on the gauzy fabric when he pulled it away.

  Which was a pattern, I’d find out later. He liked marking things. That turned out to be a blessing of sorts. Because he always needed the show of power, or, I don’t know fucking why, he always wanted to see his release crudely painting my body.

  He never penetrated me. It was just a lot of groping and then disgusting cleanup for me. On my face. My breasts. My ass. Then when he left, the showers that turned my skin lobster red until the hot water was gone.

  And I put up with it. The thousands of justifications. It wasn’t actually rape. If he ever tried to go that far, I’d scream, fight, and put a stop to it.

  My dad’s job was everything to him. And Mom. The money. Our lifestyle. Dad’s reputation in the community. I couldn’t be the one to pull the tablecloth out from underneath the house of cards.

  Besides, if I ever told, Mr. McIntyre always said it would be my word against his—some stupid teenager against one of the most powerful men in the town. Who would people believe? Even if I did say something, could I really drag my family through that?

  At the time, the answer was no. I didn’t believe I was worth all the bother.

  But now?

  Fuck that shit.

  I know I am fucking worth it.

  I always was.

  And that child-molesting bastard who has the gall to stand there smiling by my dad? Well he’s one monster who doesn’t get to get away with it.

  Except… bitch shit cunt fuck cakes. I can’t. Not right now, at least.

  I’m trying to be the girl who thinks before just making impulsive decisions. If there’s one thing I know about Jackson Vale, it’s that he’s protective. What would he do to McIntyre if he found out about the abuse right here, right now, with the bastard sitting in front of him?

  I certainly don’t want to protect my abuser. God knows I’d relish watching any beat down Jackson could give him. But how far would he go? And there are witnesses. I glance between my mom and dad. Even if they side with Jackson and me—

  And are you so sure they would?

  I ignore the insidious voice. I don’t want Jackson getting in trouble and I wouldn’t want my parents to have to perjure themselves if it came to it. After everything Jackson’s done for me? I won’t draw him into this bullshit. But that doesn’t mean I have to suck it up either and force myself to sit through a meal across the table from my fucking abuser.

  I go up on tiptoes and whisper in Jackson’s ear, “I need to go chat with my mom for a second. I’ll be right back.”

  When I pull back, I can see Jackson’s more than just confused. He’s concerned. He’s always been too perceptive, damn him. I give him a gentle smile and squeeze his arm, then I turn away without giving him any more time to tease out what might be the matter.

  I cross the dining room to where my mom is setting down the roast she started earlier in the day.

  “Mom, can I talk to you about something in the kitchen?”

  Her eyebrows narrow. “We need to sit down to eat. I’ve timed everything precisely so that it will all be the perfect temperature.”

  Time to change tactics. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I saw a dish still warming in the oven that we forgot to take out.”

  Before she can look out
over the table to find the fictional dish I’m speaking of, I grab her arm and usher her back into the kitchen. As soon as the door shuts behind us, I start talking. “I need you to send Mr. McIntyre away. He sexually abused me for three years and I can’t stand to be in the same room as him.”

  Mom’s face blanches. She opens her mouth and then shuts it again, so I keep talking.

  “On the nights he’d come over to eat, after you and Dad went to bed, he’d come to my room.” Once I start, words spill out one after the other in a torrent I can’t seem to stop. “He’d touch me, expose himself...” A shudder wracks my body. “…and other things.”

  There’s a short moment of silence and then Mom’s back straightens. I take a step forward, hoping for once she’ll just take me in her arms and hold me. Unexpected tears spring in my eyes. The release of finally having told… it’s so unexpected. After all these years, to finally tell Mom, I can’t even—

  She steps forward and I go to hug her. I just want to feel her arms around me and hear her telling me everything will be all right.

  Instead, she grabs my upper arm in a bruising grip and jerks me to the other side of the kitchen island furthest from the door to the dining room. I stumble after her, wincing at the pain of her talon-like fingers on my arm.

  “How dare you come back in this house and spit on our generosity with your filthy lies?”

  I yank backward out of her grasp and stumble into the counter. What? No, this isn’t how this is supposed to go.

  The door to the dining room opens and Shannon slides in. “Is everything okay in here? Anything I can help with?”

  “Get out of here,” Mom snaps, voice icy.

  Shannon doesn’t obey, though. Her eyes shoot to me.

  I can only stare at my mother, though. “It’s true,” I defend obstinately, my voice thin and oddly pitched.

  “He sexually abused me for three years. He told me that he’d fire Dad if I ever told anyone. That’s why I never said anything. But I’m done with that. I was just a child and he’s a monster who preyed on me. Here. Under this roof.” I gesture at the house around us.