The Rivals

by Allen , Dylan

  I give him a why do you think you have the right to ask? glare.

  “Rivers, I have to tell you, I think I’m in love with her, so I might need you to back off,” Ty says good-naturedly. “You gotta watch out for him. He’s the most committed bachelor in town,” he whispers to me.

  “Tyson, please remove your arm from my woman’s shoulder,” Hayes says in a deceptively calm voice. I bristle at that.

  “I’m not his woman,” I say.

  His body tenses and he growls, “Like hell.”

  “Well, one of you is clearly very confused.” Remi laughs.

  “It’s not me,” I say.

  The next second, Hayes’s hand wraps around my bicep, and he’s pulling me out of the booth.

  “What in the world are you doing?” I yelp.

  “You two don’t break anything,” Remington calls after us. I turn around and give him a look of complete bewilderment.

  Why is he laughing?

  Why isn’t he calling the police?

  “Hayes, let me go.” I slap at his hand. He doesn’t even look at me.

  He pulls me down a long corridor, pushes open a door and switches on the bathroom light.

  “What the fuck was that?” he asks.

  “What the fuck was what? I’m not the one who just dragged me through a restaurant.”

  He crosses the small room in two strides and pushes me up against the sink. Not to intimidate or scare me. He’s never been able to do either. Not since the night we met.

  “You’re not my woman? Are you fucking serious, Confidence?” he asks angrily.

  “Hayes, what do you think—?”

  “That was a rhetorical question,” he growls and cuts me off and leans toward me.

  “Not for me,” I lean forward, too.

  He shakes his head at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing and takes a step back. He shoves his fingers through his hair.

  “At least you’re consistent,” he mutters under his breath, but the bathroom has great acoustics and it bounces off the wall and hangs between us.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you know how to hold a grudge. And I’ve given you space to do it,” he says.

  “You’ve given me space?” I gape at him.

  “Yes,” he snarls and steps closer to me. “But there are fucking limits. And you clearly don’t understand them.”

  “Oh, I understand just fine,” I seethe.

  “No, you don’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be telling another man that you’re not my woman. While his arm is around you.” His eyes narrow, and his hands grip the sink on either side of me.

  “Hayes—”

  “You must have completely forgotten who I am.” His eyes darken and he leans into me.

  “How could I?” I snap.

  “Then, did you forget who we are?” He leans against the door and turns the little knob in the handle. His eyes are blazing as he strides toward me.

  “I won’t tell you how that felt. But trust me when I say you wouldn’t have liked being in my shoes.”

  I flush and glance away from his eyes. I can see the hurt there, and as mad as I am at him, it’s the very last thing I want to do to him.

  “Tesoro …” He grips my chin and turns my head until he traps my eyes with his. They are full of determination, and they hold me in place.

  “I know you’re pissed. You have every right to be. But, don’t get Tyson’s ass kicked because you want to hurt me,” he growls.

  Worry tickles the back of my throat.

  “As if you’d go around beating up people because he was flirting with me.” I dismiss his threat.

  He leans in and puts us nose to nose, and then he rubs the tip of his against mine.

  “I absolutely fucking would,” he whispers, and I’m caught between a swoon and pang of worry.

  I pull my chin out of his grip. “This isn’t a Kristen Ashley novel. You’re not Dax Lahn. I’m not Circe,” I snap.

  He blinks and shakes his head in confusion. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “It’s a book. And all I mean is that I’ve been trying to move on and you won’t let me.” My voice is stiff and lacks conviction. But it’s just a reflection of what’s happening inside of me. I don’t even believe myself anymore.

  “Don’t fucking talk about moving on. Not when you don’t mean it,” he says.

  “How do you know what I mean?” I gripe.

  “You knew when you took this job that I was going to be here. You came anyway. I don’t think you did that because you’re moving on,” he pushes back.

  “I took it because I needed it, and it’s perfect. If it had been in Alaska, I would have taken it.”

  He rakes his eyes down my body. My white blouse feels thin under his heated gaze. I shift in my shoes when he lingers on my hips.

  “You’ve missed me,” he says.

  “I haven’t,’’ I lie.

  “If I touched your pussy, what would I feel?” he asks.

  “That’s one question you won’t be answering tonight.”

  “I want to touch you.” He dips his head and kisses my cheek. His hand grips my hip.

  “You’ll feel better when I’ve made you come,” he whispers against my cheek.

  He moves so fast that my ass is up on the edge of the sink before I can protest.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asks. His finger trails up my leg and stops at my knee. Blood rushes in my ears, heat pools between my thighs.

  “Of course not,” I breathe.

  His fingers slip under the hem of my shorts and I grab his fingers.

  “But I’m going to ask you to anyway.” His eyes fly up to mine in surprise, but there’s no anger there. In fact, I think what I see is respect.

  “Why?” he asks and stands back up.

  If it could speak, my vagina would be cursing me out.

  “Because what I want isn’t what I need, Hayes.”

  “Why are they mutually exclusive?”

  “I don’t want to just be your partner in bed,” I admit.

  “Oh, Tesoro,” he sighs and drags his nose across my temple before he moves us back to facing each other. He cups my face in his hands and presses a soft kiss to my lips before he pulls back.

  “There’s not a pussy in this world I’d fall on my knees for. Not even yours,” he says, the fierce love and tenderness in his eyes stealing my breath.

  His eyes never leaving mine, he continues. “But for this, Tesoro …” His palms cover the space between my breasts and my heart kicks against the wall of my chest, desperate to find its way into the hand of the man it loves.

  “For the love of the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met.” He kisses me again. “I would spend the rest of my life on my fucking knees.”

  And then, my big, strong, beautiful man brings my entire world to a halt. He drops to his knees in front of me. On the floor of the public restroom.

  “Hayes, get up.” I tug his arm. “Please.”

  He grips my hips and presses his face in between my legs and inhales.

  “Goddamn.” His groan vibrates against me and moisture blooms beneath his mouth and nose. “I love the way your pussy smells. I fucking miss the way it tastes. I’m dying to feel it gripping my cock.” He rubs his nose against my clit and pleasure skitters, like the kiss of butterfly wings, all over my body.

  I thread my fingers into his thick, silky hair just as he leans away and stares up at me with that same fierceness.

  But now, it’s laced with need.

  He has the look of a predator, and I wish he would hurry up and catch me.

  “I want to plant my flag there so that everyone knows it’s mine. But, it’s not even in the top five of my favorite things about you, Confidence. And it’s certainly not the only thing I want.” He looks up at me through his honest, smart eyes, and the rest of the world falls away.

  “Oh, Hayes …” I trace the line of his s
trong brows and sweep down the slope of his nose.

  “I want your fire. I want your courage; I want your loyalty. I want your anger, your disdain, your disappointment.” I brush a lock of hair off his forehead. “I want you smiles; I want your laughter. I want you fighting for my team. And yes, I want your pussy. Every day.” He squeezes my hips, and I want to give him everything he’s just asked me for.

  But …

  “I can’t.” I shake my head, caught between my fear and my love and feeling like neither one of them are serving me well right now.

  “You won’t,” he chides me gently, but with real reproach in his voice. “But I understand.” He cuts off my protest. “You want to protect yourself. But you can’t. Not from me. Not from us. It’s all or nothing. And as long as we’re alive, it will never be nothing.”

  “Hayes, don’t …” I pull back slightly and shake my head. I don’t know what to say.

  “I know,” he says with real regret in his eyes. “I fucked up. But, I am not that asshole who treated you like you were nothing. I’m not ashamed of anything except that something I did made you feel like you were less than the miraculous person I know I’ll never deserve,” he says.

  My hand comes to my chest and my fingers clutch the front of my blouse. “Oh, Hayes,” is all I can manage.

  “But, I need you to understand—” His eyes go from pleading to demanding in a blink.

  “That you thought I was hiding something?” I interject.

  “No,” he says sharply. “That I’m responsible for my entire family. Not just the ones that are alive right now. But the ones who will be alive in a hundred years. I just had to keep the estate intact because I lost sight of that once and married someone who I barely knew.”

  “Well, I’m not her,” I remind him.

  “I know that … and I knew it in Italy, too. By the time the report came, I didn’t care what it said.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “I already knew everything that I needed to about you. You’re the woman who leans in when most people lean away,” he says. I want so badly to throw my arms around his neck and tell him it’s okay. That I see him, and that I’ll always lean in.

  “I’m going to show you why us. How us. I’m asking for a lot. Your future. Your love. Your loyalty. Your body. Your children. Your life,” he says. “But I’m offering you the same things in return.”

  Tears sting my eyes and I search his. All I see reflects my own feelings.

  “I want you to be my partner. I’m not taking no for an answer, not when I know you feel the same way,” he says.

  He reaches up and swipes a tear off my cheek with the pad of his thumb.

  “I miss you,” I admit.

  His eyes flare. “It’s about fucking time.” Fierce need replaces the tenderness, and he surges to his feet. Without pausing, he steps between my legs and pushes my knees open.

  “And I’m going to let you go home without fucking you. Even though I know you want me to.” He chucks me under the chin.

  “But let me tell you, when we’re right and we’re back, I’m going to wreck your pussy. I’m not good with words, baby, but when I fuck you, I feel like you always know what I’m saying.” He grinds into me.

  “But let me speak your language for a minute, so that when I tell you that I love you, you don’t just hear it. You understand it. And you don’t question it,” he says.

  “I know you love me. I do …”

  “Then let me show you just how much.” He takes my hand in his and puts it to his lips. “Let me show you what you’ve shown me,” he says softly.

  “What’s that?”

  “What it’s like to be part of a team that you can trust. That won’t let you down,” he says.

  “Give me a chance. Please.” He comes as close to begging as I’d ever like to hear him again.

  “Okay,” I acquiesce. “But you better not fuck it up.”

  “Oh, I intend to fuck it up, but in the best way possible,” he says and then he kisses my blues away.

  BIASED

  HAYES

  “You’re early,” Confidence groans, one eye open, but squinting. Her hair is tousled all over her head and her face is creased with the indentation from her pillow. She looks like every single fantasy I ever had as a boy and everything I thought I’d never have as a man.

  I hold up the white wax bag full of pastries and wave them in front of her face.

  “Breakfast,” I say and drop a kiss on her warm, sleep plumped lips and step inside of her apartment.

  “The place looks like nobody lives here,” I say as I look around at the blandly and sparsely decorated space. “Where did you get this couch?” I ask as I drop onto the gray love seat. Besides the glass coffee table, it’s the only furniture in the entire space.

  Well, except her bedroom. Not that she would let me in there. But the door is open, and I can see her sea of white comforters and pillows strewn all over the queen-sized bed in the center of the room.

  “Ikea,” she grumbles.

  “Sleep well?” I ask and start unpacking the bag.

  “Uh, not really,” she says, and with a resigned sigh she sits down next to me. She draws her knees to her chest and hugs them. Her pink tank top pulls tight across her back and I watch her shoulder muscles flex when she rolls her neck as if trying to loosen it up. I slide my fingers under the drape of her hair and caress her nape until I find the knot of tension. I start to rub it and she closes her eyes and moans.

  “That feels so good,” she whispers. I don’t respond. I just watch her. The skin under her eyes is dark, little lines bracket her frowning mouth. She looks tired and stressed.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping well?” I ask. Her eyes open and she looks at me wearily.

  “Because I’m afraid I’ve given my clients bad advice,” she says and then jerks her head to the side. “Ugh, what am I doing?” she says in a harsh whisper to herself. “I can’t be talking to you—of all people—about this.” She sighs. “I’m losing my mind; I’m so tired. And Barry getting fired has turned into a nightmare. Word has gotten around, thanks to Barry spreading it, that I asked Remi to choose between him or me. And that’s earned me a flock of …” She trails off, searching for the right word.

  “Enemies?” I offer and press deeper against the muscle in her neck.

  She lets her head loll backward, and her hair spills around my hand. It’s warm and soft and my fingers immediately start to close into a fist to capture it. I want to yank her head back and kiss her like I should have when I walked in. But I relax my hand when she closes her eyes and groans.

  “Enemies may be a little strong,” she says and then chuckles ruefully. “But only a little.” She shakes her head and sighs. “This is why I hated my last job. No one cares about anything but their careers, their egos, kissing the ass of the person they think can help them. And it’s like everyone here has forgotten why we practice law,” she says, her voice full of frustration.

  “You’re being awfully judgmental. They’re practicing law, too. Everyone, even white-collar criminals and profit-driven, billion-dollar companies deserve a fair defense,” I push back.

  “I didn’t say they didn’t. Everyone is entitled to whatever protections and remedies the law affords. But working in areas of law where there’s no money to be made is so disheartening,” she says.

  “Why? I thought you were doing some good?”

  “Well, we would be if law firms like Wilde did it for more than the tax write-off. Our clients are too poor to even keep a roof over their head, much less pay for our very expensive, very well researched advice. But that’s what we promised them. I wouldn’t want them to be worse off than they would have been if we hadn’t brought the suit at all,” she says and worries the inside of her lower lip.

  “How’s that possible? They’ve got you,” I say.

  “I’m not enough. Wilde is committing minimal resources to their pro bono cases. But this one is different. The implicatio
ns of its outcomes are huge. Precedent setting potential, and it’s barely staffed. So I’m doing the work of four people because I can’t leave legal research that is going to determine what our brief argues to second year law students. This is too important. And no one else seems to think so,” she snaps bitterly, and I feel the same guilt I felt when she challenged us the day Barry was fired.

  It got me thinking about what I came home to do. What I wanted the legacy of my leadership for my family to be. Did I want to reaffirm our roles as society leaders or did I want to do some good for the city that had made us rich? Did I want my name on a stadium? Or did I want to build schools? Affordable, quality housing, fill food deserts with grocery stores?

  I’ve decided—and I wanted to show her, instead of tell her—what my plans were.

  “What more ideal conditions would exist for it than with Wilde Law? They have deep pockets and nice office space and yeah, it’s a tax write-off, but you didn’t see other firms clamoring to take the case for free in the first place. They do good work. They have some of the world’s best legal talent to choose from,” I say and hand her one of the kolaches from Sweet and Lo’s.

  “Yeah, but they don’t dedicate those resources, people, or money that the case deserves because they think their clients should just shut up and be grateful,” she says resentfully.

  “You’ve got a chip on your shoulder about this,” I say and she nudges me with that shoulder.

  “Hey, watch out—that thing is heavy,” I tease her. That earns me a fierce little scowl.

  “I do not.”

  “You do. And you tend to paint wealthy people into shapes that are distorted by your bias for, and dislike of, them,” I challenge her.

  She lets go of her legs and plants her feet on the ground. Her mouth opens in an affront, her eyes wide with offense at my word.

  “I am not biased,” she says in a high-pitched, loud voice.

  I laugh. “Chill, it’s okay. We’re all biased. You just don’t know it. Because you’re walking around thinking that you’re being judged for being poor. You wear it like it’s Joseph’s multi-color cloak. Your suffering is not more valid because you didn’t have money at the same time, Confidence,” I say and her face turns red.