Hearts of Darkness: A Valentine's Day Bully Romance Collection

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

  Her deep-red painted lips turn up in a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She attempts to remove her coat but struggles a bit. I resist the urge to assist her.

  Her dress is skimpy and black, revealing smooth porcelain skin and ample breasts. Her long red hair drapes over her cleavage. I take in every inch of her with a slow once-over. Fuck. If you have that much skin out, you must want me to look. When my eyes finally meet hers, it’s obvious she knows how sexy she is. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her mid-thirties. Mature—just what an old man in his twenties likes.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.

  She nods and smiles. “Thanks. I’m Veronica.”

  “August...and you’re welcome.”

  “Double old fashioned,” she tells the bartender.

  “Sound choice,” I say.

  She gives me a wry smile. Her blue-green eyes are still dull, though. “Thanks.”

  I swing around on my stool. “For celebrating, you want champagne or something sweet. Wine is good for unwinding at the end of a long day.” The bartender sets her drink in front of her. She picks it up and takes a sip as I continue. Her face twists as it goes down. Not her usual choice.

  “Whiskey or a rich bourbon means you’ve had a hard fucking day—one you need to forget.”

  This time, her smile is a tight, flat line. “And what are you drinking?” she asks.

  “Bourbon.” I return the smile.

  “Hard day, huh?” she asks.

  “Every day is a bourbon day for me.”

  She clicks her brightly painted nails on the bar. They look like talons. She must really like red. “So, if I wanted to forget today completely, what else would you suggest I do?” She giggles. “You seem to be a pro...at hard days, I mean.” I catch a sparkle of her eyes in the reflection of her glass.

  This just got interesting.

  “First, I’d ask if this has anything to do with that noose around your finger?” I gesture toward her left hand and stare into her eyes.

  She breaks eye contact with me and fiddles with her ring. “You could say that. I would say my husband is a cheating, no good bastard.”

  I take her hand into mine and slowly drag my finger across the bumps and grooves of her ring. She trembles under my touch. I dip my finger into my glass then run it along her arm. Goosebumps race me for possession of her and win out as they cover her body.

  “I can definitely help you with your problem, and I would very much like to fuck your pouty mouth,” I say evenly.

  She gasps, and her eyes never leave mine. I pin my eyes to her so there is no question of what I’m offering.

  “If you let me, I’ll bury myself so deep inside of you, you’ll forget the day you said the two most asinine words ever strung together—‘I do’”

  She stares at me for a full measure, her mouth agape.

  She nods slowly, breathing unsteady.

  “Veronica!” A deep voice calls from the entrance and I pick up my glass and close my eyes.

  “Looks like the party is over before its even begun,” I mutter.

  A middle-aged man, with thick hair—more salt than pepper—stalks to the bar. He plants himself in front of us with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s bigger than me, and I’m just over six feet. I’m still thirty pounds shy of his two hundred.

  “Alex, honey. Hi.” She sounds small and shaky. She turns to me. “This is my...”

  “I’m her psychologist, Dr. Mitchell.” I don’t bother extending my hand, there’s no way he’s shaking it. He knows better.

  He snatches her from the stool and drapes her coat around her body.

  “My wife don’t need no head doctor.”

  She asks him why he gets to play but she doesn’t as he drags her away. She turns to me and mouths “sorry,” before disappearing into the cold night.

  Well, damn.

  I shake my head and stand up to go to the bathroom. Why anyone would want to get married is beyond me. When I turn toward the back hall my world tips on its axis.

  All this time. All this fucking time.

  If I would have turned to check them out when Clyde asked me to, I would have spotted her first. I could have thrown cash on the bar, grabbed my coat, and run the fuck out of this bar.

  Of all the dive bars in Denver.

  My heart beats faster inside my chest and a sharp pain shoots through it.

  Elody Acosta.

  We are both locked in place. My chest is rising and falling as fast as hers. She’s more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen in this lifetime. I break eye contact to quickly assess her group of friends—two blondes, a redhead, and one woman with blue and purple hair. I let out a long, raspy breath.

  She was the brunette Clyde wanted.

  She’s always been so fucking beautiful. The last time I saw her, she was twenty-four, but she could have easily passed for a high school girl back then. This curvy, sexy creature before me has aged to perfection. Her near-black hair falls down her back. She has naturally sun-kissed skin and deep, dark eyes that steal your soul.

  The last time I saw her, she decimated me.

  ELODY

  2010

  I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN from his posture it was him. He’s always had poise beyond his years. Even without seeing his face, something deep inside of me should have set off a warning. If I hadn’t been so busy partying it up with my friends, I could have ducked out quickly and run far away.

  “August,” I say quietly.

  Neither of us move, but judging by the shock, horror, then sadness on his face, he isn’t happy to see me. He looks so... Fuck. He’s a man now and taller than the last time I saw him. The T-shirts and basketball shorts have been replaced with a fine tailored suit. He has a perfectly manicured beard. Facial hair?

  My heart stutters at the sight of the man staring back at me. His long, boyish locks that curled and waved in unruly patterns is shorter and more conservative. Those fucking eyes. They’re bluer than the heavens.

  I match his gaze. We seem tethered to one another through time and space.

  “What are you staring at El?” My friend Portia slurs. She stands up next to me.

  “Who’s that guy? He’s sexy as hell,” she says. Then she whispers, “Invite him to the party. That way, you two can stop eye-fucking each other across the room.”

  I throw her a somber look.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, and pull my shoulder’s back, cleanse my head with a quick, deep breath, and take an unsteady step toward August Mitchell—no longer a boy—who was once my everything. Until now, I thought he was firmly in my rear view.

  Even the four cocktails I downed can’t compete with the blood pumping through my veins. My speeding metabolism burns right through every ounce of the booze I need to keep my legs walking forward. My heart races at a quick pace, my legs shake under the weight of my body, and I curse my choice of attire—a joke t-shirt depicting a bikini-clad torso that I’d thought would be hilarious for a February “beach party” in Denver.

  The fucking joke’s on me.

  Thank goodness I took the penis necklace off earlier.

  “It’s you. I mean it’s really you,” I say, when I finally get to him.

  He smiles. What the hell? How is he sexier? Of course he is, he’s come into his own now. I missed those eyes so much.

  “Were you expecting someone else?” he asks.

  I shrug and look around. “In this dive, yes.”

  His mouth falls open in mock shock. “The Leaning Pint is the best hidden treasure in Denver. I’ve been gracing this establishment since long before I was of legal drinking age.”

  “You mean last week?” The teasing words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  His brows knit briefly, letting me know that I’ve gone a tad too far. Shit.

  “Ha. Everyone’s a comic these days,” he says. “Would you like to join me on one of the worn-out stools and have a drink for old times’ sake?” He gestures toward the b
ar.

  I look back at my friends who are gawking.

  “Would you rather rejoin your friends?” he asks and the expression on his face makes me think he hopes that I do.

  I turn and walk over to the bar. No doubt I’ll have a lot to explain to my girls, but they have no idea who this guy is to me or how dangerous this meeting is. His hand moves to the small of my back, guiding me, like the man he has become. His hand is like a hot poker, scorching my skin.

  Against every alarm bell, whistle and siren going off in my brain, I take a seat next to his.

  “What can I get you?” His voice is slow and cautious.

  “Jameson, neat.”

  His forehead creases. “That serious?”

  “It would seem so.” I nod slowly and secretly take slow, measured breaths to calm my pounding heart.

  “Two Jamesons, then,” he tells the bartender, who nods and scoots to the other end of the bar.

  The air is thick and suffocating around us.

  We both stay quiet. The sound of our silence nags at my ears. I wait for my drink and look at everything but him. I don’t have to be psychic to know that his eyes are on me. The side of my face burns under his gaze.

  When my drink is placed in front of me, I down half of it. Instantly, I cough and gasp, clutching at my chest, breathless from the heat of the amber liquid as it burns a trail of fire down my throat.

  I look into his eyes and he’s smiling at me, apparently amused that I can’t hold my liquor.

  “If I remember correctly, you were the first person to get me drunk,” he says. His eyes harden, but then soften quickly. His voice is soft as he speaks about our past, but there is an edge of cruelty to it, as if he has extinguished any fondness of our memories. “Shouldn’t you be better at drinking?”

  I smirk. “I’m pretty sure this is meant for sipping rather than guzzling, but when you run into your ex...”

  He watches me. I’m five-five, but his gaze makes me feel smaller. He’s quiet for longer than I’d like him to be.

  “Is that what I am? Your ex?” His eyes darken to a stormy blue.

  I shrug and keep the eye contact, only blinking to relieve myself from the intensity of his gaze. He must feel it, too, because he breaks our contact and focuses his attention on the soundless television.

  “What’s the special occasion?” he asks.

  His swift subject change confuses me. “What?”

  He continues to avoid looking at me. His body language goes from intense to bored in seconds.

  “Oh, uh, my friend Portia, the blonde with the penis hat on, turned thirty today, and it’s a dual celebration. “Dirty thirty” for her...” I stop talking as he studies the phallic decorations and the farewell balloons. Then his eyes return to me with a near glare.

  “...and the shirt?”

  I grab my glass and down the rest of the liquid. “We’re also celebrating my going away.” The words are breathy as they compete with the booze.

  His head whips back to me. His blue eyes are harder and cold, but I can still see hints of the boy I once knew and loved.

  “You’re leaving? When?” he asks.

  I swallow around the growing lump. Why is this so hard? We haven’t seen or spoken to each other in eight years. Still, my heart pounds under his stare.

  “I’m moving to Florida in fourteen days.”

  “For how long?” The words are short and harsh.

  He’s pissed?

  I shrug. “I don't know. At least a couple of years.”

  He hisses through his teeth. “Always two fucking years. Why?”

  My body sags. He knows why, but I humor him. Maybe he’s forgotten, but judging from the snarl on his face, I doubt it. “Any longer and I’d get too attached. Any shorter and I’d feel like I was moving around too much.”

  His face twists into the ugliest scowl, and my body aches. I did this to him. Thankfully, he tucks it away fast, and his face returns to its natural beautiful state.

  “Funny, I had no idea how hard leaving was for you. Last I checked, you were amazing at leaving—a real fucking exiting specialist.” He spits the words out.

  He reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves a business card and a pen. He flips the card over to the blank side. I watch as he scribbles onto the back of it. He slides the card to me. I look down at the address, but curiosity makes me flip it over. I read the card to fill myself in on what he’s been doing with his life.

  “You have a PhD in psychology?” I ask. “Here I thought you’d major in video games or something like that.”

  A small laugh escapes him, but it’s more sarcastic than amused.

  “What’s the address for?” I look into his eyes and he gives away nothing.

  Instead, he rises from the stool and closes the distance between us. He leans down, his face a whisper from mine. His breath is heavy with alcohol, hot, and sexy as hell as it caresses my cheek and ear. Fuck.

  Warm vibrations run down my spine.

  “I’d very much like to give you a proper send off. Seeing how our last encounter ended so...abruptly.”

  He takes my chin and pulls my face to his. I can’t breathe. His eyes ask the question. I tilt my head toward him, barely an answer, and close the distance. His mouth is sweet, hot, and aggressive on mine. Our tongues taste things long forgotten, yet missed at the same time. I raise my body off the stool unable to get enough, running my fingers through his short hair.

  He pulls away from me and leaves me gasping in my stupid bikini shirt. I’m staring at him, hungry for all that he has to offer. He stares back at me through hooded eyes, revealing that he intends to take more than he will give this time. I deserve it all. No punishment is too cruel for what I’ve done to him.

  “Be at this address in two hours, or so help me, I will find you and drag your ass there myself,” he demands. “You fucking owe me this goodbye.”

  My chest is so tight that it aches.

  I nod because he’s right. I do owe him.

  He pulls on his coat, scoops up his black credit card, throws a wad of cash onto the bar, and saunters out. My eyes are pinned to the door until he’s long gone, hot tears burn my skin as they roll down my cheeks. There’s no way he could really find me if I didn’t want him to, but I’m very confused about how to play this. Should I give him the closure he’s due, or move my travel plans up and get the fuck out of Denver?

  AUGUST

  2002

  THIS IS THE LAMEST thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I stare down my mother, who stands across from me doing the same to me. Her arms are folded across her chest, and she leans against my doorframe. She has all day to go to war with me.

  “Come on, Auggie. You’re making this much more difficult than it has to be.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m too old for a nanny, Mother. I have younger friends whose parents leave them alone for weeks at a time.”

  She looks up, then back at me. “I’d like their names so I can have a discussion with their parents about safety.”

  Yeah, I’ll never tell you that.

  I throw my arms in the air. “This is ridiculous, I’m practically a grown up.”

  She points a stern finger at me. “Not in the eyes of the law. Sixteen is not an adult.”

  “Like anyone would ever know.”

  She waves her hand at me. “Your father and I would know. August, we’re leaving for two months. You’re the one being ridiculous if you think we’re leaving you here alone for that amount of time.”

  I try the sad face. I’m desperate. This isn’t my first go-round with nannies. My life has been a steady stream of them. Some could take partial credit for raising me, as much as my parents travel. They like to pick the oldest, crustiest women they can find to throw me into strict rule hell, which is ridiculous.

  It’s not like I ever see my parents when they’re home, anyway. My father is always at work or working on work. Mom is running off to some society charity event. They never see me at all. God forbid
they’re gone longer than a weekend without hiring a nanny to bring her curfews and rules. I’m just too old for that mothering shit.

  Here it goes. “Can you stay with me then, Mom?”

  She lets out a heavy sigh and shakes her head. “You know I can’t do that.”

  I smirk. “You don’t trust Dad.” Or me.

  Her eyes flash. “Well, that’s part of it, but your dad needs me. He couldn’t find his way out of a wet paper bag,” she teases. “He can’t even dress himself.” She laughs, and it instantly lightens my mood. Her laugh is musical, like wind chimes.

  “You could give the guy a break, he is color blind.”

  She sighs again, and her shoulders drop. “You could give me a break and come downstairs. The nanny thing is happening.”

  “Fine.” You win.

  “Good, then.”

  She stops at the door and looks back at me until I start following her out of my room.

  “She’d just better stay on her side of the house, and I’ll stay on mine...unless I’m choking to death.”

  “Whatever, August. Separate sides, corners, and all of that. You’d just better not try and run this one away. We have important business overseas, and we can’t stop to deal with your shenanigans. Besides, she’s very sweet.”

  I roll my eyes and follow her down the stairs. Great.

  That's code for old and gnarly.

  “Just play nice.”

  “Okaaay.” I let the word drag out. “Let’s see what grandma you guys brought in to look after baby...” I trail off because the person on the landing is anything but a grandmother.

  This can’t be the nanny. This girl is barely a woman.

  I lose all cool as I stand in front of her and force my mouth closed. Only after I gather myself do I speak.

  “Hey, I’m August.” My face is warm and tingly. She is so hot. In place of old and crusty is young and gorgeous.

  The way she looks at me, she must be just as surprised, but she recovers quickly.

  “I’m Elody Acosta. Nice to meet you, August.”