by S. Love
I’m vaguely paying attention to the girl on the screen, showering unaware as the creeping shadow passes over the steamy, opaque shower curtain. Ominous music plays, and I watch her gruesome death play out in a hypnotic daze. The shadow slinks and recedes down the drain with the running, bloody water.
The glass doors opening sends my heartbeat into a frenzy. Even though I wasn’t watching watching the film, the dark, moody atmosphere’s got me jumpy.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Falcon stands in front of the doors, and my eyes are drawn instantly to the tight, rigid planes of his stomach and his muscled chest. Fossil gray sweatpants sit low on his hips, the black matte Rolex showing on the wrist of the hand that’s pushed into his pocket.
I look back at the TV screen. “Your efforts paid off.”
“I’ve been talking to Oz.”
“Conversation must have been slow, then.”
“He said you took him home with you.”
I roll my eyes, tempted to never stop until they burst out the back of my skull. “He gave me a ride and then refused to leave. My mom invited him to stay, not me.” I turn my head, a frown sitting heavy above my eyes. “And so what if he did come with me?” I wave a finger between us. “This isn’t real, remember? Not that there was anyone to see us together, but no one in St. Charlotte gives a crap who steps foot into my house. I’m no one special. I’m not you.”
“From now on, you don’t go anywhere with him,” Falcon says in a possessive tone.
I stare at him, the blueish glow from the TV throwing shadows across his chiseled face. He’s serious.
Smiling in disbelief, I wait for the punchline, exhaling a holding breath when he doesn’t tell me he’s joking. “Okay, you’re not my handler. Stop acting like you are.”
His dark brown eyes, hooded under long, thick lashes, force me to rethink what I just said. “I’m gonna stop you right there. Here, in this house, and in this town, mine is exactly what you are.”
We stare off, my mind playing tricks on me while he’s calm and in control. Then I lurch from under his domineering hypnosis, prying my way out of the false reality he’s creating.
“You’re delusional. Now, do you mind? I’m trying to watch this.” The film’s not great, and I’m barely following the threadbare storyline.
Before I have time to realize what’s happening, or to stop it, Falcon rips the blanket from my legs, stealing the heat I’d accumulated.
“What the hell?” I move to grab for the corner of the blanket, but I’m too slow, and all I catch is air.
Holding the blanket by his side, Falcon sits himself on the loveseat, his strong, broad body eating up the remaining space.
“You don’t need anyone other than me. I want to make that clear right now.” His intense gaze has an undesirable effect on me, and I flatten my features into my most convincing poker face. “I’ll give you what you’re missing out on.” He tugs on my ankle, straightening my leg from where it’s bent underneath me. Trapped in this trance of watching him manhandle me, I twist my body so I’m sitting facing him, my back resting against the plush, curving armrest.
He tugs me even lower, my back grazing the velvet upholstery until my head’s propped up on the armrest, and I’m practically lying down.
“Tell me when to stop, Lyla.” Both my legs are across Falcon’s thighs, and he pushes them apart, one of his hands sliding up my calf, the tips of his fingers stroking the back of my knee. My stomach bottoms out, my heartrate doubling in speed. The television drones to an inaudible murmur while I grapple with what I’m allowing to happen, and how far it could potentially go. I’m so nervous I can barely breathe.
Feeling him at the hem of my shorts, his fingers remain where they are, stroking back and forth across my skin, and I think I’ve stopped breathing altogether. In a matter of seconds, Falcon’s hovering over me, holding himself up with one hand on the back of the couch, his other hand pushing up my shorts. This isn’t for show. There’s no one here but us, and to get carried away would be crossing a line. A line that hasn’t been drawn yet but desperately needs to be.
Falcon’s head dips, his nose grazing the feverish skin at my neck. I let my head fall back, powering off pure emotion and not a drop of sense. He kisses that spot behind my ear that makes my thighs clench and a shiver skitter down my spine, goosebumps spreading over my arms. I’m so sensitive to his touch, it’s unbearable in the best and worst way. His lips trail up my neck, over my jaw, and eventually find my mouth. We start off greedy, and I can taste the smooth whiskey on his breath. His hand kneads my upper thigh, his callused thumb digging into my panty line.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he whispers roughly between kisses, slowing the pace to pull back and look into my eyes. “Too fucking good for Jardine.”
Consumed by lust, I grab him by his face, pulling his mouth back to mine. I don’t want to talk, not about me, not about Garret—not about anything. Falcon pushes his hips between my thighs, his heavy erection pressing into me as I unashamedly grind against him, the friction from his sweatpants having no cooling effect on my raging, heated libido.
Snapping to my senses at the height of his chaos, I tear my mouth from Falcons, panting with swollen lips and a throbbing center.
I pound my fist against his chest, anger rushing to cool my blood and clear my blind spots. “I hate you! All of you! Ever since I’ve been here, around you idiots, I’ve turned into a sex-crazed nymphomaniac.”
Falcon watches my outburst in silent confusion, a frown setting deep over his eyes.
“Get off me!” I push him with two hands, the muscles flexing in his thick, defined chest resisting my physical attack. “Just leave me alone.”
I roll out from underneath him, still hyper aware of everywhere he’s just been touching me. My pulse skitters as I lumber to the door, tripping over my own feet in my haste to hide away in my room. There’s no such luck, though, and Ozzie’s blocking my way out, standing unmoving in the doorway.
“What did you do to her?” Eyes raising over my head, his gaze murderous, Ozzie glares at his brother. “Tell me you didn’t—”
“He didn’t,” I answer for Falcon, sensing where Ozzie was just about to go with that. “We didn’t…”
Ozzie’s nostrils flare. “I know what you’re doing.”
I look between the brothers, Falcon adjusting himself on the loveseat with an unsure, shadowed look on his face, and Ozzie coiled to pounce if I don’t get him out of here. Now.
“Don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong, Oz. I’m not afraid to fucking break it.” Falcon looks at me. “Lyla—”
“Don’t fucking talk to her,” Ozzie barks, like I’m not even in the room. Then he’s pulling me away, his grip on my arm loosening when he’s shoved me through my bedroom door. He storms inside and turns the lock, sealing us both inside.
“What’s gotten into you?” I’m jacked up on adrenaline, boring into Ozzie with a flat, accusatory look.
His answering looks is indecipherable. “Whatever’s going on between you two, just let it go.”
“Why?” My baser instincts are screeching for me to hear him out. My pride won’t allow him to tell me what I can and can’t do. “We aren’t hurting you.”
Ozzie’s frustration builds, the tension he’s radiating putting me on edge. “But he’s going to hurt you.”
I pause for thought, then go ahead and speak anyway, whether he’ll like what I’ve got to say or not. This isn’t about him. “You don’t know that.”
“Help, I’m fucking sure of it. You’re here to clean.” Ozzie stalks across the room, hedging me in between him and the bed like some sort of caged animal, forcing me to sitting. I arch my back to save from being crushed by him. Rage darkens his green-hazel eyes to stormy thunderclouds. “Stick to what you’re good at. And if you’re as smart as what you pretend be, you’ll listen to me.”
I push on his stomach. It doesn’t do anything, and I fall back onto the bed from the counte
raction. As soon as my ass bounces on the mattress, I pounce to my feet, my body geared up for a war that’s been brewing since the first day I arrived in this beach palace of opulence.
Ozzie’s got my wrists in his two closed fists before I can even decide what to do with my hands. He overpowers me on every physical level, forcing my arms down to my sides as I pathetically fail at resisting.
When he’s got me pinned in place, subdued and conquered like I don’t matter to him in the slightest, he releases my wrists, dropping them faster than two burning coals. He stands in front of me, strained tension steeling his entire body. The wifebeater he’s wearing hangs over his torso, teasing abs I’m sickened to have noticed.
Clayton Osborne is a bully. It doesn’t matter how defined his abs are, or the beautiful, unique color of his piercing eyes. He. Is. A. Horrible. Person.
“Do what you want,” he grates, finally backing off. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Great. He’s sulking.
When he’s gone, and the dark, brooding, masculine energy’s fizzled from the room, I talk myself into going to bed, lying awake questioning why Falcon didn’t stop Ozzie’s tirade. Or why he didn’t come up here and check that I was okay.
Chapter 18
The boys spend most of Sunday surfing, and having them out of the house is exactly what I need to figure shit out. I wasn’t prepared for this job or the people who came with it. Having my own car brought me here, Garrett wasn’t supposed to be part of the equation. I’m just going to flat-out ask him what he wants from me. If he wants anything at all. If he’s happy with Masie, fine. That’s me done.
Two knocks on my bedroom door suck me out of my own head. Picking up one of the square cushions set up neatly in front of my pillows, I hug it to my chest, sitting cross-legged on my bed.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens and Cindy steps inside. She hovers by the doorway. Dressed in a form-fitting, black sleeveless dress that hugs her body to just below her knees, her blond hair’s straight to her shoulders, fresh champagne highlights shimmering in the sunlight. She smooths her hands over the front of her tight skirt. “Lyla. Would you mind joining us at the country club tonight? We’re leaving within the hour.”
Dear God. Why me?
“Sure,” I say, pushing a smile to my stiff lips.
Cindy smiles, and it looks just as plastic as mine. Besides, there’s no guarantee her sons are going to be there tonight. This family’s so fractured, there isn’t enough glue in all of Home Depot to repair the cracks.
I can’t change my fate, so I take a quick shower and wash my hair. I pick the first dress my hand lands on: a blush pink jersey dress that cuts off mid-calf. I round out the outfit with matching, strappy heels and leave my hair out, straightening it with the flat-iron and tucking it behind my ears.
As I walk down the stairs, my heels tapping the marble alerting everyone to my presence, Ray’s already opening one of the glass double doors, his other hand joined with Mariah’s. Cindy’s with them, her face stuck in a compact mirror while she reapplies her matte red lipstick. The frosty atmosphere isn’t one I want to walk into, but I shuffle into the waiting town car with them, sliding Mariah a smile as I close the door.
“I like your dress,” I say.
She returns my smile, her shyness overwhelming tonight.
The car ride to the exclusive country club is excruciating, and as we pull up at the entrance, I’m almost wishing for at least Topher to turn up and defrost this arctic setting. If us being here is an orchestrated front of unity, we would have been better off staying at home. I’ll be surprised if anyone inside this hoity-toity club is empty-headed enough to buy this half-assed Brady Bunch performance that none of us have rehearsed for.
Just as I’d suspected, Cindy—so utterly out of character—sweetly asks me to show Mariah around the grounds. I refrain from asking why a five-year-old girl who, as far as I know, has no dreams of becoming a landscaper, would be interested in seeing the grounds. The pool’s closed for the evening, there’s no playground or game setups, as far as I’m aware. There’s no kids club.
“Here’s two of our boys now.” Pouring white wine into Cindy’s glass from the bottle, Ray’s attention is divided unequally between Mariah, Topher, Ozzie, and not spilling Pinot Grigio all over the table linen. “They’re serving up a seafood banquet tonight. Fresh off the grill. What do you say we head up to the terrace and find ourselves a table? Mariah, I hope you like seafood.”
Cindy picks up her napkin, dabbing at the flat corners of her mouth. I wish she would make herself less easy to read—for all our sakes. “Excuse me a moment.” She dishes out polite smiles and fluffs the ends of her sleek hair as she stands from the table. “Powder room.”
Ray raises a cursory glance as his wife makes her way across the bar and lounge. She passes Ozzie and Topher on her way to the ladies’ room, but no words are exchanged, Ozzie’s demeanor no less adverse than it is any other time.
Crappy attitude aside, I can’t say I’m not relieved he’s here. I’m most happy about seeing Topher, though. Surprisingly, surprisingly, he’s turned into an ally I might not survive the rest of this summer without. He brings the intensity levels down to a benchmark I’m more accustomed to. Sure, his attitude can be summed up in two words: spoiled rotten, but he’s not all bad all the time. And I’m in no prime position to be asking for more than that. If bearable is all I can get, then bearable is what I’ll take.
Mariah’s smile upon seeing Ozzie makes being here suddenly not seem so bad, and I mock up an internal picture of me behind the wheel of a not-too used Mini Cooper, gunning it down the freeway, potentially with Garrett in the passenger seat.
“Topher, Clayton. Are you joining us up on the terrace?”
“If we have to,” Topher says without meeting Ray’s eyes. All of his attention is on Mariah, and it looks like I’ll be sharing babysitting duties tonight. Not that I think that’s how he sees her. I know he doesn’t. There’s genuine love there, and that love travels both ways.
“Clayton?” Ray lifts an eyebrow in question.
“I’ll meet you up there.” Ozzie’s dismissive, like his mind’s somewhere else.
Not waiting for an explanation or expansion on that, Ray calls over a waiter and asks him to take our drinks upstairs to the terrace, and he orders a bottle of champagne on ice for Cindy.
I let him know I’m using the bathroom before I join them upstairs, and I take my time crossing the lounge, soaking up the low chatter around me as I discreetly roam my eyes over the room. I don’t see Garrett or his family, and the disappointment that settles in the pit of my stomach won’t be shifting any time soon, I’m sure.
On the other side of the room, in a separate hallway, I exhale my disappointment in a loud sigh, trudging up the carpeted stairs like I’ve lost the use of eighty percent of my leg muscle. Garrett was the bounty for having to endure three hours at this country club I don’t belong in, and now I get nothing. He’s spending his time elsewhere.
Halfway up the short flight of stairs, audible moaning stops me right where I am. I scan the contained area, my gaze faltering on a deep alcove farther up on my right on the square-sized landing. When the moan shatters the silence again, I’m certain of what I’ve stumbled upon, and I’ve got no desire to witness the physical side of those intimate noises.
Just as I turn to scramble back to the main floor and ask is if there are any more bathrooms in this sprawling resort, someone else walks up the stairs behind me. He leans a shoulder against the wall, his hands pushed into the pockets in his fitted, navy pants.
And right at the worst possible moment, a hand slapping flesh incites a cringy, drawn-out groan of pleasure.
“Why don’t you go in and find out if that’s what it sounds like.” Ozzie’s enunciated anger is aimed at the space behind me, where the moaning’s on the cusp of reaching its spectacular crescendo.
I really don’t want to be here for this.
; “Why would I do that? I only came up here to use the bathroom, not for a private viewing.”
He laughs, and it’s pure venom. “Oh, you’ll want to see this. Hang around, Help. There’s about to be plenty of mess for you to clean up.”
I’m starting to get a good idea of exactly who’s in there. “I’m not doing that, and neither should you.”
Footsteps, and the distinct sound of a zipper, steals Ozzie’s nuclear gaze. His cheek twitches as he stares at whoever’s behind me. I’m not so brave, and I choose to feign interest in the floral pattern threading through the carpet runner instead.
The carpet becomes less interesting when Ozzie explodes off the wall and pounds up the stairs, the citrusy scent of his cologne trailing in the wind he’s created.
He grabs the young, deer-in-headlights waiter by the starched collar of his white shirt that’s hanging sloppily from the waistband of his black uniform slacks. The torrent of activity grinds to a halt, Ozzie glaring at the stricken waiter, his clenched jaw set sharper than a knife blade. Ozzie fists the waiter’s collar, shaking his torso. And then he slams him into the wall, pulls back his arm, and rams his fist straight between his eyes.
My hands fly up to cup my mouth and nose, the jarring crunch of bone roiling my stomach. Blood spurts from the waiter’s nostrils, and before I can stop myself, I’m screaming Ozzie’s name, hanging off his arm as he winds up to land a second blow. I’m nowhere near strong enough, and his fist slams into the guy’s ribs, his torso buckling from impact.
“Ozzie! Stop it!” I yank on his arm, dragging him away from his bleeding victim. He’s dead weight, and his feet stubbornly remain planted in place. Air blows through his nose, the savagery in his wild eyes scaring me.
In my periphery Cindy’s standing white as a sheet, and I know I need to get Ozzie out of here before he inflicts more damage. And I’m not just taking about with his flying fists.
The beaten waiter swipes his knuckles gingerly across his face, and he stares down at the blood painting his skin. “You broke my fucking nose, douchebag.”