read the first five Chapters of bastard boss!
While Tyler & Bella's duet can be read on its own, you can also enjoy meeting them, and reading Bella's brother's story in The Necklace Trilogy
Chapter One
Tyler's point-of-view
When your father’s a bastard, you become one, too.
I stand on the balcony of my downtown apartment, a whiskey glass in my hand, watching the avalanche of rain plummeting the city. Nashville is drowning in rain, while my family is drowning in the disgrace and sorrow caused by my father. True to the dictator he was, he is gone now, his very absence a command that I clean up the mess he’s left of the reputation of the family law firm. Not an easy task, when much like the rain now rushing through the streets below, scandal sweeps through the hallways of the luxurious offices of Hawk Legal in a bloody damn river.
I down my drink and set the glass on the patio table, and with good reason. Nothing good comes of my drinking. I can’t even become an actual alcoholic, though I tried once, a little too hard. I’d submerged myself in my father’s disapproval and swam around in it with such ease it was as if I was vacationing in that bullshit. I think back to one particularly nasty confrontation with my father in which he told me I would never be good enough to run the family firm I was already running.
That was the night I met Allison, really met her, rather than just passing her in the office hallways.
She’d delivered paperwork to my apartment that night for a big case I was managing the next morning as a favor to my assistant. When she arrived, I’d been three sheets to the wind.
She’d stayed until morning.
I’d known it was wrong. She was my employee. But it was almost as if I wanted to live up to my father’s disapproval, wallow in it, even. One night had become months of involvement. I grew to care for Allison, but she’d come to love me at a time when I hated myself too damn much to even understand the meaning of love. I was toxic and I knew it.
She’d confessed her feelings for me on a night when I was out of my own skin, angry with my father, angry with myself for letting him control me when I let nothing else control me. I was on a path of self-destruction, destined to take her down with me, destined to hurt her. I walked away from her because I didn’t want that to happen.
I wanted to save her.
I failed.
All I did was drive her into my father’s arms.
Now a year later, and a year after Allison left the company, they’re both dead. Her dead at my father’s hand after, per the police, she threatened to go to my mother. Him dead after someone put it all together. That someone should have been me, but I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit with my father to see beyond myself.
To complicate matters, the entire situation is now blasted on every news station for Hawk Legal clients to hear, a problem that jeopardizes our client list, and therefore the stability of two hundred and fifty employees on staff. Also blasted on the television, is speculation over whether I will attend today’s memorial for my father to support my mother, who isn’t mourning him, but rather serving an obligation she feels publicly. I tried to talk her out of this ridiculous show of public mourning, but again, I failed. It’s a pattern, it seems, and I don’t like it.
Why am I even entertaining attending a memorial that makes us all look like we support the man who did such a heinous thing?
He killed Allison.
Decision made, I loosen my tie and pick up the glass. I’m not going to the farce of a memorial that only makes my mother look foolish, not respectable, as she claims. I tilt my glass to my lips, cursing when I find it empty. I’m a ball of nasty emotions, the kind no man ever wishes to feel.
I enter the apartment, shrug out of my jacket, and toss it on the chair that’s part of the seating area adjacent to the patio, but I don’t wait to see it land. I’m already continuing on to the bar in the main living area. Once there, I do what any man would do on the day of his murderous father’s memorial—I refill my glass, and do so with Macallan 25 whiskey. It was my father’s favorite drink, and I don’t drink it now to honor him in his death, but rather as a fuck you, you will not take anything else from me, not now or ever. I down a swallow of the booze and walk to the living room, sit down on the black leather couch in front of the fireplace and stare down at the journal lying on the table. It was her journal—Allison’s.
She left it here but told me to keep it, read it even, and maybe I would wake up. I never even considered reading it. I didn’t want to know what was inside. But I stare at it now, desperate to feel as if she is alive again. I flip it over and open it to the last page, which is filled with a delicate script, and the words read: Sometimes you love someone who cannot love you back, and therefore you are destined for heartbreak. No, you are destined to be broken. He broke me but I can only blame myself. I knew loving Tyler Hawk was a mistake, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Mine wanted him. But I wasn’t his person. Maybe that means he wasn’t mine, either, and one day, I hope to find the person who will love me. For now, ironically, I end this journal, on the last page of the book, and the bittersweet last chapter of my time with Tyler Hawk.
It’s as if a fist reaches up from the bowels of hell, shoves itself inside my chest, and all but rips my heart from my body and grabs ahold of my insides and twists.
The journal slides from my grip and the leather backing all but slams shut, but its words are far from silenced in my mind. I swear it still shouts at me, smoldering words of contempt I feel with slashes of a blade. Anger burns inside me with the certainty that contempt is well deserved.
I snatch my phone from my pocket and dial the detective on the case, only to be thrown to voicemail. I leave Detective Wallace a message. “I’m still waiting on an answer. How long was my father involved with Allison? Call me back, Detective.” I disconnect, uncertain why I need to know that answer but, on some level, I am aware of my clawing need to find a way that this is not my fault when that’s a coward’s ploy.
I’m accountable for my actions and to some degree, his as well.
My eyes fall on the journal and my desperation to escape its scorn has me reaching for the remote control. I turn on the TV, only to hear a newscaster say, “How will Tyler Hawk handle the legacy of the name and the firm he’s inherited when that legacy is now murder?”
I curse, turn off the TV again, and down my drink.
The door buzzes, and I set my glass on the table with unnecessary force, drawing in a calming breath. I’d say whoever is here has security clearance, therefore is friendly, but I just had a reporter at my door after slipping past the guard in the lobby. Everyone wants a piece of the Hawk family pie right now. I’d ignore whoever dares come to me today, but they’re already knocking again. “Holy hell,” I grumble, hands to my knees as I push to my feet, briskly striding to the door with every intention of making whoever is on the other side go the fuck away.
I unlock the door, and swing it open, only to find a blonde bombshell in a black funeral dress standing in front of me. And not just any bombshell. This is Bella Bailey, an attorney for Hawk Legal, and agent to the rich and famous, who, under my tutelage, now represents a growing list of A-listers. She’s also the half-sister to Dash Black, the author who turned an assassin he hunted when he was in the FBI into the star of his bestselling novels. Dash wasn’t an A-lister when I hired his sister, nor was he my friend. He is both of those things now, though the friendship side of the equation is complicated at best.
As is my relationship with Bella.
One might call me a moth drawn to the flame, but she would be the one burned if I ever touched her. Thank fuck Dash has always stood between me and her. Meanwhile, there was Allison, alone in this world, and exposed and vulnerable to the likes of me, and apparently, my father.
“Why are you here, Bella?” I demand softly.
“Because I knew you’d get dressed to go to the memorial but never leave your apartment.”
I narrow my eyes on her. “And how would you know that?”
“I learned the art of observation from the best,” she says, adding without hesitation, “you. I know you better than you obviously think I do.” She indicates the bag in her hand. “Ice cream. My favorite way to cope with every bad thing life throws my way and often the good things, too. And yes, I can eat a whole pint and I don’t mind if you watch.” She moves forward as if to enter the apartment.
I step left and block her entry, the bag in her hand colliding with my body. Her bright, baby blue eyes go wide, shock registering with a soft whoosh of air from her lips. “This isn’t a good idea, Bella.”
“Ice cream is always a good idea, Tyler.”
She’s one of the only people at the office who dares to call me Tyler, which I blame on her brother. Maybe those lines he drew between us are not that wide after all. “This is not a good idea,” I repeat.
She laughs, a soft, amused laugh, that should surprise me but does not. This is Bella, after all. She knows how to handle big egos, big wallets, and impossible financial negotiations, and rather than a jaded mentality that often comes with experience, she manages a demureness that feels as genuine as the day I met her. “What?” she challenges. “Are you going to bite?”
“Among other things, if you’re not careful,” I assure her. “I am not in the right state of mind for you to play the sweet little girl rescuing me.”
Her lashes lower, dark half circles against her ivory skin, before her eyes are once again fixed on me. “I’m far more complicated than that description and we both know it.”
“Bella—”
“I can handle you, and your grief, Tyler, probably better than you can right now.”
“Like Allison handled me?” I challenge.
“You didn’t kill her.”
“I drove her into the arms of her killer. She worked for me. I had no business touching her.”
“As do I. Which is why we both know you’re safe to let me in.”
“But are you safe?”
“Yes,” she assures me, and she pushes on the bag that still rests between us as if that little bit of nudging will force me to step aside and allow her entry. It doesn’t, and yet I find myself easing away from the door, allowing her to enter my apartment. She’s inside in a flash, and the familiar sweet scent of jasmine perfume, ignites a burn of desire in my body, a problem she simply doesn’t seem to understand. She buries her troubles in a pint of ice cream. I’d rather bury mine in her. I shut the door and flip the lock into place.
I stand on the balcony of my downtown apartment, a whiskey glass in my hand, watching the avalanche of rain plummeting the city. Nashville is drowning in rain, while my family is drowning in the disgrace and sorrow caused by my father. True to the dictator he was, he is gone now, his very absence a command that I clean up the mess he’s left of the reputation of the family law firm. Not an easy task, when much like the rain now rushing through the streets below, scandal sweeps through the hallways of the luxurious offices of Hawk Legal in a bloody damn river.
I down my drink and set the glass on the patio table, and with good reason. Nothing good comes of my drinking. I can’t even become an actual alcoholic, though I tried once, a little too hard. I’d submerged myself in my father’s disapproval and swam around in it with such ease it was as if I was vacationing in that bullshit. I think back to one particularly nasty confrontation with my father in which he told me I would never be good enough to run the family firm I was already running.
That was the night I met Allison, really met her, rather than just passing her in the office hallways.
She’d delivered paperwork to my apartment that night for a big case I was managing the next morning as a favor to my assistant. When she arrived, I’d been three sheets to the wind.
She’d stayed until morning.
I’d known it was wrong. She was my employee. But it was almost as if I wanted to live up to my father’s disapproval, wallow in it, even. One night had become months of involvement. I grew to care for Allison, but she’d come to love me at a time when I hated myself too damn much to even understand the meaning of love. I was toxic and I knew it.
She’d confessed her feelings for me on a night when I was out of my own skin, angry with my father, angry with myself for letting him control me when I let nothing else control me. I was on a path of self-destruction, destined to take her down with me, destined to hurt her. I walked away from her because I didn’t want that to happen.
I wanted to save her.
I failed.
All I did was drive her into my father’s arms.
Now a year later, and a year after Allison left the company, they’re both dead. Her dead at my father’s hand after, per the police, she threatened to go to my mother. Him dead after someone put it all together. That someone should have been me, but I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit with my father to see beyond myself.
To complicate matters, the entire situation is now blasted on every news station for Hawk Legal clients to hear, a problem that jeopardizes our client list, and therefore the stability of two hundred and fifty employees on staff. Also blasted on the television, is speculation over whether I will attend today’s memorial for my father to support my mother, who isn’t mourning him, but rather serving an obligation she feels publicly. I tried to talk her out of this ridiculous show of public mourning, but again, I failed. It’s a pattern, it seems, and I don’t like it.
Why am I even entertaining attending a memorial that makes us all look like we support the man who did such a heinous thing?
He killed Allison.
Decision made, I loosen my tie and pick up the glass. I’m not going to the farce of a memorial that only makes my mother look foolish, not respectable, as she claims. I tilt my glass to my lips, cursing when I find it empty. I’m a ball of nasty emotions, the kind no man ever wishes to feel.
I enter the apartment, shrug out of my jacket, and toss it on the chair that’s part of the seating area adjacent to the patio, but I don’t wait to see it land. I’m already continuing on to the bar in the main living area. Once there, I do what any man would do on the day of his murderous father’s memorial—I refill my glass, and do so with Macallan 25 whiskey. It was my father’s favorite drink, and I don’t drink it now to honor him in his death, but rather as a fuck you, you will not take anything else from me, not now or ever. I down a swallow of the booze and walk to the living room, sit down on the black leather couch in front of the fireplace and stare down at the journal lying on the table. It was her journal—Allison’s.
She left it here but told me to keep it, read it even, and maybe I would wake up. I never even considered reading it. I didn’t want to know what was inside. But I stare at it now, desperate to feel as if she is alive again. I flip it over and open it to the last page, which is filled with a delicate script, and the words read: Sometimes you love someone who cannot love you back, and therefore you are destined for heartbreak. No, you are destined to be broken. He broke me but I can only blame myself. I knew loving Tyler Hawk was a mistake, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Mine wanted him. But I wasn’t his person. Maybe that means he wasn’t mine, either, and one day, I hope to find the person who will love me. For now, ironically, I end this journal, on the last page of the book, and the bittersweet last chapter of my time with Tyler Hawk.
It’s as if a fist reaches up from the bowels of hell, shoves itself inside my chest, and all but rips my heart from my body and grabs ahold of my insides and twists.
The journal slides from my grip and the leather backing all but slams shut, but its words are far from silenced in my mind. I swear it still shouts at me, smoldering words of contempt I feel with slashes of a blade. Anger burns inside me with the certainty that contempt is well deserved.
I snatch my phone from my pocket and dial the detective on the case, only to be thrown to voicemail. I leave Detective Wallace a message. “I’m still waiting on an answer. How long was my father involved with Allison? Call me back, Detective.” I disconnect, uncertain why I need to know that answer but, on some level, I am aware of my clawing need to find a way that this is not my fault when that’s a coward’s ploy.
I’m accountable for my actions and to some degree, his as well.
My eyes fall on the journal and my desperation to escape its scorn has me reaching for the remote control. I turn on the TV, only to hear a newscaster say, “How will Tyler Hawk handle the legacy of the name and the firm he’s inherited when that legacy is now murder?”
I curse, turn off the TV again, and down my drink.
The door buzzes, and I set my glass on the table with unnecessary force, drawing in a calming breath. I’d say whoever is here has security clearance, therefore is friendly, but I just had a reporter at my door after slipping past the guard in the lobby. Everyone wants a piece of the Hawk family pie right now. I’d ignore whoever dares come to me today, but they’re already knocking again. “Holy hell,” I grumble, hands to my knees as I push to my feet, briskly striding to the door with every intention of making whoever is on the other side go the fuck away.
I unlock the door, and swing it open, only to find a blonde bombshell in a black funeral dress standing in front of me. And not just any bombshell. This is Bella Bailey, an attorney for Hawk Legal, and agent to the rich and famous, who, under my tutelage, now represents a growing list of A-listers. She’s also the half-sister to Dash Black, the author who turned an assassin he hunted when he was in the FBI into the star of his bestselling novels. Dash wasn’t an A-lister when I hired his sister, nor was he my friend. He is both of those things now, though the friendship side of the equation is complicated at best.
As is my relationship with Bella.
One might call me a moth drawn to the flame, but she would be the one burned if I ever touched her. Thank fuck Dash has always stood between me and her. Meanwhile, there was Allison, alone in this world, and exposed and vulnerable to the likes of me, and apparently, my father.
“Why are you here, Bella?” I demand softly.
“Because I knew you’d get dressed to go to the memorial but never leave your apartment.”
I narrow my eyes on her. “And how would you know that?”
“I learned the art of observation from the best,” she says, adding without hesitation, “you. I know you better than you obviously think I do.” She indicates the bag in her hand. “Ice cream. My favorite way to cope with every bad thing life throws my way and often the good things, too. And yes, I can eat a whole pint and I don’t mind if you watch.” She moves forward as if to enter the apartment.
I step left and block her entry, the bag in her hand colliding with my body. Her bright, baby blue eyes go wide, shock registering with a soft whoosh of air from her lips. “This isn’t a good idea, Bella.”
“Ice cream is always a good idea, Tyler.”
She’s one of the only people at the office who dares to call me Tyler, which I blame on her brother. Maybe those lines he drew between us are not that wide after all. “This is not a good idea,” I repeat.
She laughs, a soft, amused laugh, that should surprise me but does not. This is Bella, after all. She knows how to handle big egos, big wallets, and impossible financial negotiations, and rather than a jaded mentality that often comes with experience, she manages a demureness that feels as genuine as the day I met her. “What?” she challenges. “Are you going to bite?”
“Among other things, if you’re not careful,” I assure her. “I am not in the right state of mind for you to play the sweet little girl rescuing me.”
Her lashes lower, dark half circles against her ivory skin, before her eyes are once again fixed on me. “I’m far more complicated than that description and we both know it.”
“Bella—”
“I can handle you, and your grief, Tyler, probably better than you can right now.”
“Like Allison handled me?” I challenge.
“You didn’t kill her.”
“I drove her into the arms of her killer. She worked for me. I had no business touching her.”
“As do I. Which is why we both know you’re safe to let me in.”
“But are you safe?”
“Yes,” she assures me, and she pushes on the bag that still rests between us as if that little bit of nudging will force me to step aside and allow her entry. It doesn’t, and yet I find myself easing away from the door, allowing her to enter my apartment. She’s inside in a flash, and the familiar sweet scent of jasmine perfume, ignites a burn of desire in my body, a problem she simply doesn’t seem to understand. She buries her troubles in a pint of ice cream. I’d rather bury mine in her. I shut the door and flip the lock into place.
Chapter Two
By the time I’ve turned back around, the only sign of Bella is her purse and the bag of ice cream sitting on the coffee table.
The sound of riffling about draws my attention toward the archway to my right, which is also my kitchen. Apparently, Bella has made herself right at home, when the only time she was here before, was the day after my father died and that was with her brother for all of fifteen minutes.
I follow the sweet scent of her perfume and step into the doorway, bringing her into view as she shuts the silverware drawer. Clearly aware of my presence, she rotates to face me, holding up two spoons. Already I’m thinking of her on the counter, her skirt to her waist, and my cock buried inside her.
Which really does make me my father’s son, and I don’t like it any more than Bella would me if she knew where my head was at right now.
I catch my hands on the curved archway on either side of me, and will my blood to cool.
“Bingo,” she announces, waving the spoons around. “I found what I was looking for. You’re very organized, which doesn’t surprise me. You’re ridiculously anal. This kind of perfection would drive me crazy. I need a little disorder to feel at home. Good thing I just work for you.” She walks toward me and stops in front of me. “Please tell me you don’t have a problem eating right out of the pint, because somehow that feels like something someone this anal would not do.”
“I’m not anal. I hire a housekeeper who is.”
“Of course, you do,” she replies, a smirk on her pretty lips before she ducks under my arm.
I fight the urge to reach for her and pull her to me, and that one-second beat that I lose to that internal battle is enough to allow her to escape. In her absence I am left with her words, of course, you do. I’m not sure if that is her way of saying the maid explains nothing, or perhaps, a jab at me for not cleaning my own house. It shouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t with anyone else.
I am not in the right state of mind for her to be here right now.
With a grimace, I push off the archway and rotate, already in pursuit of Bella with every intention of sending her on her way. She’s by the fireplace, and with a flip of a switch, it flashes, flames licking at the glass before they settle into a warm steady burn. “Perfect,” she approves, kicking off her high heels, then claiming the leather chair to the left of the couch. “Now we’re ready.”
I pause at the line just outside the living room as she removes the first pint of ice cream from the bag, followed by three more, and the damn journal manages to end up in the center of the buffet she’s created. With a silent curse, I move further into the room and sit down on the couch, in front of the table. I consider ignoring the journal, but Bella is not an average guest who would be polite and ignore what is in front of her. She’s the adult version of the curious kid with the ability to be nosey and still come off as charming.
I reach for the journal and shove it between the cushions to my right, while Bella remains on my left. If she notices my actions, she blows it off, her sole focus on convincing me to eat ice cream.
“Okay,” she says. “I have four flavors, all my favorites.” She indicates pints with the touch of her hand. “Milk chocolate peanut butter. Cookies and cream. Key lime pie. And finally.” She taps the final pint. “Cookie dough. I think chocolate peanut butter fits you. It’s rich and complicated.”
My brows shoot up. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“Depends on the day and if you’ve pissed me off that day, which is fairly often, by your own decision to do so, of course.”
She’s not wrong. I push my employees to be all they can be, even when it’s uncomfortable. I don’t play the game of pretending otherwise. “And yet, here you sit,” I point out, “in my living room.”
“I’m crazy like that,” she concurs. “And you have done a lot for my brother so I owe you.”
She’s talking about Dash’s obsession with underground fighting that he couldn’t control even if the scandal it equaled might have halted the development of his books into Hollywood films. Fighting was a drug, and just as Dash once forced me to let go of the booze as a crutch, I did the same for him with fighting. I forced him to walk away.
“I protected my interests,” I say, dismissing a personal side to this that creates an obligation to me she does not possess.
“And mine,” she replies glibly. “He’s my client, too.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And your friend.”
My cellphone chooses that moment to ring, and the idea that this might be the detective working on Allison’s case, has me tuning out Bella’s relentless attempt to humanize me and reaching for my phone. I grimace as I find my mother’s number on the caller ID, clamping down on the emotional spike that declares me human after all, I push to my feet. “I need to take this.” I don’t look at Bella.
I walk a few feet to the patio door and step outside again, the rain pitter-pattering, with no sign of easing. “Mother,” I greet, at this point using my earbuds.
“You aren’t going to show up, are you?”
“I cannot, in good conscience, go to an event meant to honor that man.”
She’s silent a beat that stretches into two. “Good. Because I’m not going, either. You were right. The memorial was foolish. It only serves to paint me as stupid all over again.” There’s a hitch to her voice that bloodies my heart all over again.
I lean on the table as if it might just hold the burden of life beating down on me and her right now, and offer some form of relief. “You aren’t stupid, Mother. You were a wife who loved her husband.”
“I was a wife who stayed too long. Stop trying to give me an excuse for being foolish. It serves no purpose.”
No good purpose, I think, before I say, “A friend brought me ice cream and lots of it. Apparently, it’s supposed to lift one’s spirits. Why don’t you come over?”
“Thank you, son, but I’m actually headed to the airport. A client of mine has been hitting on me for years. I turned him down, of course, but I was flattered. I called him before I called you. He offered to take me to Europe to escape the press. I said yes.”
Two years ago, my mother left the firm to start an investment firm, in which many of our clients are now involved. The idea that I know this man, isn’t hard to assume. Protectiveness bristles. “Who’s this client?”
“No one you know,” she says. “And he can’t be worse than your father. I’ll call you tomorrow once I’m settled in. Take care of yourself, Tyler. And forget living in your father’s shadow.”
“Easier said than done,” I remind her, not that she needs to be reminded. The press is doing a beautiful job of that for us all.
“That’s why I left the firm to start my own business,” she replies. “To step out from under his dominant presence. But now he’s gone. And I’ve moved on. You’re acting CEO but the ‘acting’ title is a mere formality. I have no idea why your father delayed the reading of his will for sixty days, but it doesn’t matter. That firm is yours. Act like it and you will not fail.” She disconnects.
I let the phone disconnect and stand there, watching the rain pitter patter and bounce off the concrete of the patio wall. If only the impact of my father’s actions were as easy to deflect.
“Tyler.”
At the sound of Bella’s voice, I rotate to face her. She’s standing there, in her hosed feet, the light casting her in a glow, her hair messed up, and I didn’t even help get the job done.
“Everything okay?” she asks, tentatively.
I stand there, mentally planting my feet in the ground when they want to move toward her, aware of her in ways that are not safe for her or me. The curve of her breasts against her fitted bodice. The curve of her hips in the slender cut of the dress.
“It was my mother,” I say. “She called off the memorial. She’s going to Europe with another man. I think she’s looking for an escape.”
Her lips part and then press together before she says, “Yes. I can see how an escape might feel necessary.”
Despite logic and good sense, I step toward her, and as I draw nearer, she doesn’t back away.
The sound of riffling about draws my attention toward the archway to my right, which is also my kitchen. Apparently, Bella has made herself right at home, when the only time she was here before, was the day after my father died and that was with her brother for all of fifteen minutes.
I follow the sweet scent of her perfume and step into the doorway, bringing her into view as she shuts the silverware drawer. Clearly aware of my presence, she rotates to face me, holding up two spoons. Already I’m thinking of her on the counter, her skirt to her waist, and my cock buried inside her.
Which really does make me my father’s son, and I don’t like it any more than Bella would me if she knew where my head was at right now.
I catch my hands on the curved archway on either side of me, and will my blood to cool.
“Bingo,” she announces, waving the spoons around. “I found what I was looking for. You’re very organized, which doesn’t surprise me. You’re ridiculously anal. This kind of perfection would drive me crazy. I need a little disorder to feel at home. Good thing I just work for you.” She walks toward me and stops in front of me. “Please tell me you don’t have a problem eating right out of the pint, because somehow that feels like something someone this anal would not do.”
“I’m not anal. I hire a housekeeper who is.”
“Of course, you do,” she replies, a smirk on her pretty lips before she ducks under my arm.
I fight the urge to reach for her and pull her to me, and that one-second beat that I lose to that internal battle is enough to allow her to escape. In her absence I am left with her words, of course, you do. I’m not sure if that is her way of saying the maid explains nothing, or perhaps, a jab at me for not cleaning my own house. It shouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t with anyone else.
I am not in the right state of mind for her to be here right now.
With a grimace, I push off the archway and rotate, already in pursuit of Bella with every intention of sending her on her way. She’s by the fireplace, and with a flip of a switch, it flashes, flames licking at the glass before they settle into a warm steady burn. “Perfect,” she approves, kicking off her high heels, then claiming the leather chair to the left of the couch. “Now we’re ready.”
I pause at the line just outside the living room as she removes the first pint of ice cream from the bag, followed by three more, and the damn journal manages to end up in the center of the buffet she’s created. With a silent curse, I move further into the room and sit down on the couch, in front of the table. I consider ignoring the journal, but Bella is not an average guest who would be polite and ignore what is in front of her. She’s the adult version of the curious kid with the ability to be nosey and still come off as charming.
I reach for the journal and shove it between the cushions to my right, while Bella remains on my left. If she notices my actions, she blows it off, her sole focus on convincing me to eat ice cream.
“Okay,” she says. “I have four flavors, all my favorites.” She indicates pints with the touch of her hand. “Milk chocolate peanut butter. Cookies and cream. Key lime pie. And finally.” She taps the final pint. “Cookie dough. I think chocolate peanut butter fits you. It’s rich and complicated.”
My brows shoot up. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“Depends on the day and if you’ve pissed me off that day, which is fairly often, by your own decision to do so, of course.”
She’s not wrong. I push my employees to be all they can be, even when it’s uncomfortable. I don’t play the game of pretending otherwise. “And yet, here you sit,” I point out, “in my living room.”
“I’m crazy like that,” she concurs. “And you have done a lot for my brother so I owe you.”
She’s talking about Dash’s obsession with underground fighting that he couldn’t control even if the scandal it equaled might have halted the development of his books into Hollywood films. Fighting was a drug, and just as Dash once forced me to let go of the booze as a crutch, I did the same for him with fighting. I forced him to walk away.
“I protected my interests,” I say, dismissing a personal side to this that creates an obligation to me she does not possess.
“And mine,” she replies glibly. “He’s my client, too.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And your friend.”
My cellphone chooses that moment to ring, and the idea that this might be the detective working on Allison’s case, has me tuning out Bella’s relentless attempt to humanize me and reaching for my phone. I grimace as I find my mother’s number on the caller ID, clamping down on the emotional spike that declares me human after all, I push to my feet. “I need to take this.” I don’t look at Bella.
I walk a few feet to the patio door and step outside again, the rain pitter-pattering, with no sign of easing. “Mother,” I greet, at this point using my earbuds.
“You aren’t going to show up, are you?”
“I cannot, in good conscience, go to an event meant to honor that man.”
She’s silent a beat that stretches into two. “Good. Because I’m not going, either. You were right. The memorial was foolish. It only serves to paint me as stupid all over again.” There’s a hitch to her voice that bloodies my heart all over again.
I lean on the table as if it might just hold the burden of life beating down on me and her right now, and offer some form of relief. “You aren’t stupid, Mother. You were a wife who loved her husband.”
“I was a wife who stayed too long. Stop trying to give me an excuse for being foolish. It serves no purpose.”
No good purpose, I think, before I say, “A friend brought me ice cream and lots of it. Apparently, it’s supposed to lift one’s spirits. Why don’t you come over?”
“Thank you, son, but I’m actually headed to the airport. A client of mine has been hitting on me for years. I turned him down, of course, but I was flattered. I called him before I called you. He offered to take me to Europe to escape the press. I said yes.”
Two years ago, my mother left the firm to start an investment firm, in which many of our clients are now involved. The idea that I know this man, isn’t hard to assume. Protectiveness bristles. “Who’s this client?”
“No one you know,” she says. “And he can’t be worse than your father. I’ll call you tomorrow once I’m settled in. Take care of yourself, Tyler. And forget living in your father’s shadow.”
“Easier said than done,” I remind her, not that she needs to be reminded. The press is doing a beautiful job of that for us all.
“That’s why I left the firm to start my own business,” she replies. “To step out from under his dominant presence. But now he’s gone. And I’ve moved on. You’re acting CEO but the ‘acting’ title is a mere formality. I have no idea why your father delayed the reading of his will for sixty days, but it doesn’t matter. That firm is yours. Act like it and you will not fail.” She disconnects.
I let the phone disconnect and stand there, watching the rain pitter patter and bounce off the concrete of the patio wall. If only the impact of my father’s actions were as easy to deflect.
“Tyler.”
At the sound of Bella’s voice, I rotate to face her. She’s standing there, in her hosed feet, the light casting her in a glow, her hair messed up, and I didn’t even help get the job done.
“Everything okay?” she asks, tentatively.
I stand there, mentally planting my feet in the ground when they want to move toward her, aware of her in ways that are not safe for her or me. The curve of her breasts against her fitted bodice. The curve of her hips in the slender cut of the dress.
“It was my mother,” I say. “She called off the memorial. She’s going to Europe with another man. I think she’s looking for an escape.”
Her lips part and then press together before she says, “Yes. I can see how an escape might feel necessary.”
Despite logic and good sense, I step toward her, and as I draw nearer, she doesn’t back away.
Chapter Three
I halt close to her, near enough that I could reach out and touch her. The jasmine scent of perfume flares in my nostrils and mixes with the earthy scent of nature and rain. The results are sultry, and erotic, stirring a heaviness in my body that as logic serves is trouble, is dangerous, but I’m not feeling logical at all. My cock, now pressing uncomfortably against my zipper, is not one little bit logical.
“Yes,” I say softly, my gaze tracing the plump fullness of her bottom lip. I crave a taste of her, just one taste. Just one lick. But I’m not foolish enough to believe it would be one and done. I’d want more. I’d take more, everything she’d let me take. And I’d kiss far more than her mouth. I also know we’d be changed forever, and I’d be repeating a mistake that left more than one person dead. Still, I don’t move away, I simply add, “I do believe I can understand an escape could be necessary, too.”
I’m no longer talking about my mother’s jaunt across the country with a client. I’m talking about me and Bella right now.
And when her chin lifts and her eyes collide with mine, there is an undeniable punch between us, the air thick with lust. She lifts her hand as if she means to touch me, but pauses mid-air, seems to reconsider, and allows her arm to lower. “I’m not sure there’s anything wrong with that.”
And yet, right here and now, escape, at least the kind I crave, is a problem. It is wrong. “Bella,” I say softly, and it is both a call to her to come to me and a plea for her to walk away.
She never gets the chance. My cellphone rings again. I grimace and reach for it, only to find Dash Black on the caller ID. “It’s your brother,” I say.
Her chest lifts with a heavy breath, her eyes meeting mine again, and the discomfort of the moment is palpable. She laughs a choked laugh. “Of course, it is. I’m not here,” she says softly. “Okay?”
Because Dash wouldn’t approve, now more than ever, I suspect. I know it. The fact that she knows it says to me they’ve had conversations about me. I know this, too, but I still don’t like it. “As you wish, Bella,” I reply, my voice soft, but there’s nothing about anything I feel right now that is as gentle as my words.
I answer the call. “Dash,” I greet tightly.
“Are you going to the memorial?” he asks, and I don’t doubt his concern. He might not want me fucking around with his sister, but we do have a friendship I wouldn’t call it tenuous as much as I would strained.
“My mother called it off.”
He expels a sigh that reads like relief. “I can’t believe she thought that was a good idea. You need company? I can head over.”
Bella’s eyes collide with mine, panic in their depths, an indicator to me that she can hear the conversation. “I’m better off alone tonight,” I say tightly. “I know you get that. I know you know why that feels necessary.”
I’m selling the moment to Dash, ensuring he stays away, but the words seem to punch at Bella, and she physically steps backward. She’s read a message into the words only meant to drive Dash away. She rotates and disappears inside my apartment and I find the idea of her leaving stirs an odd mix of resistance and relief in me. Her brother has now soundly inserted himself between us and he doesn’t even know. He should be the one feeling relief, not me. He has the joy of sweet ignorance while I do not.
I’m ready to pursue Bella when Dash says, “You sure about that?”
I turn away from the apartment and face the city night. “I have my ways of coping, just like you do.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says.
“I’m not a drunk, Dash,” I bite out. “I’m an opportunist and often booze is easier to deal with than human beings.”
“And I’m not a fight junkie. Come on, man. We both know you tip that bottle too easily. If you don’t want to see me tonight, call one of your many women. Better to bury yourself in one of them, than a bottle.”
My lips pull tightly over my teeth. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now if you’re done coddling me—”
“All right, Tyler. I’ll let you go, but you need family now. Bella comes over on Saturdays and makes waffles. Why don’t you come tomorrow morning?”
“I am not the waffle and family kind of guy.”
“Maybe you should be.”
“Or not. Thanks for the check-in. Now goodbye.” I disconnect and rotate back to the apartment.
I never heard the door. I don’t think Bella left.
I walk inside the apartment, and I do so with Dash’s advice on my mind. Better to bury myself in Bella, than a bottle. Not his specific words, but close enough.
“Yes,” I say softly, my gaze tracing the plump fullness of her bottom lip. I crave a taste of her, just one taste. Just one lick. But I’m not foolish enough to believe it would be one and done. I’d want more. I’d take more, everything she’d let me take. And I’d kiss far more than her mouth. I also know we’d be changed forever, and I’d be repeating a mistake that left more than one person dead. Still, I don’t move away, I simply add, “I do believe I can understand an escape could be necessary, too.”
I’m no longer talking about my mother’s jaunt across the country with a client. I’m talking about me and Bella right now.
And when her chin lifts and her eyes collide with mine, there is an undeniable punch between us, the air thick with lust. She lifts her hand as if she means to touch me, but pauses mid-air, seems to reconsider, and allows her arm to lower. “I’m not sure there’s anything wrong with that.”
And yet, right here and now, escape, at least the kind I crave, is a problem. It is wrong. “Bella,” I say softly, and it is both a call to her to come to me and a plea for her to walk away.
She never gets the chance. My cellphone rings again. I grimace and reach for it, only to find Dash Black on the caller ID. “It’s your brother,” I say.
Her chest lifts with a heavy breath, her eyes meeting mine again, and the discomfort of the moment is palpable. She laughs a choked laugh. “Of course, it is. I’m not here,” she says softly. “Okay?”
Because Dash wouldn’t approve, now more than ever, I suspect. I know it. The fact that she knows it says to me they’ve had conversations about me. I know this, too, but I still don’t like it. “As you wish, Bella,” I reply, my voice soft, but there’s nothing about anything I feel right now that is as gentle as my words.
I answer the call. “Dash,” I greet tightly.
“Are you going to the memorial?” he asks, and I don’t doubt his concern. He might not want me fucking around with his sister, but we do have a friendship I wouldn’t call it tenuous as much as I would strained.
“My mother called it off.”
He expels a sigh that reads like relief. “I can’t believe she thought that was a good idea. You need company? I can head over.”
Bella’s eyes collide with mine, panic in their depths, an indicator to me that she can hear the conversation. “I’m better off alone tonight,” I say tightly. “I know you get that. I know you know why that feels necessary.”
I’m selling the moment to Dash, ensuring he stays away, but the words seem to punch at Bella, and she physically steps backward. She’s read a message into the words only meant to drive Dash away. She rotates and disappears inside my apartment and I find the idea of her leaving stirs an odd mix of resistance and relief in me. Her brother has now soundly inserted himself between us and he doesn’t even know. He should be the one feeling relief, not me. He has the joy of sweet ignorance while I do not.
I’m ready to pursue Bella when Dash says, “You sure about that?”
I turn away from the apartment and face the city night. “I have my ways of coping, just like you do.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says.
“I’m not a drunk, Dash,” I bite out. “I’m an opportunist and often booze is easier to deal with than human beings.”
“And I’m not a fight junkie. Come on, man. We both know you tip that bottle too easily. If you don’t want to see me tonight, call one of your many women. Better to bury yourself in one of them, than a bottle.”
My lips pull tightly over my teeth. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now if you’re done coddling me—”
“All right, Tyler. I’ll let you go, but you need family now. Bella comes over on Saturdays and makes waffles. Why don’t you come tomorrow morning?”
“I am not the waffle and family kind of guy.”
“Maybe you should be.”
“Or not. Thanks for the check-in. Now goodbye.” I disconnect and rotate back to the apartment.
I never heard the door. I don’t think Bella left.
I walk inside the apartment, and I do so with Dash’s advice on my mind. Better to bury myself in Bella, than a bottle. Not his specific words, but close enough.
Chapter Four
It should really surprise no one that I have a dominant side and a need for control.
In light of that reality, by the time I’ve shut the sliding glass door, and sealed myself inside, I’ve already conjured an image of a submissive version of Bella at my command. Me on my couch, her naked and lying across my lap, with my palm on her backside. A safe fantasy considering I have no intention of acting on it. Hand to cock is about the only relief in sight on this night, because I have zero interest at this moment in anyone but Bella. But it’s a hell of a fantasy I allow myself because it’s better than all the other places my head has been the past two hours.
As if she knows I’m better off with her than without her, the object of my fantasy is indeed still here. Of course, she is, as I’ve thought before tonight, this is Bella. And Bella never runs from any challenge I offer her, even if that challenge is managing to visit my apartment and leave without ever ending up naked.
She’s now curled up in the chair, a blanket covering her, an open pint, and a spoon in hand. I step to the end of the couch and stare down at her right as she shovels a giant spoonful into her mouth. “I thought about leaving, but the ice cream is perfectly soft right now, and it’s really wet outside.”
My brows shoot up, and her cheeks flush but her lips purse. “That only sounded bad because you have a dirty mind. Which is better than a sad one, I suppose, though I generally think it’s a male disease to turn everything into sex.” She waves the spoon at me and then the table. “Eat the soft ice cream. Believe it or not, some things are better soft.”
If we’re talking about her in my arms, she’s right.
I ease into the space of the sitting area and sit down. “What happened to the chocolate peanut butter?”
“You can try it, but you can’t have it,” she says, lifting the pint in her hand.
“What happened to this being my pity party?”
“Pity is for—” She bites her lips and stops herself.
I supply her answer. “Pussies?”
“Yeah, that,” she says. “And you are many things, Tyler, but not that.”
“Now I’m intrigued,” I assure her. “What am I then, Bella?”
“Eat the ice cream and I’ll consider my answer while you do.”
I’m actually hungry, and while a steak would suit me better, I do like a good helping of ice cream. I pick up the cookie dough pint and pull off the lid.”
“I knew you’d go for that one.”
“Because you took my favorite option.”
She sits up and lets the blanket fall away, leaning close to offer me access to her pint, which is better than no access at all. “You can taste, but that’s all.” She smiles, and I suspect she knows exactly what she’s doing, but it’s hard to read Bella. She comes off that damn sweet, when I know she is far from the naivete that sweetness suggests.
If only she meant I could taste her, and if she was anyone else, I’d do that and more. Instead, I dig my spoon into the ice cream, and then taste it. She watches me, and I don’t miss the parting of her perfect, plump lips as if she’s anticipating my reaction. It’s truly an alternate reality. She should be anticipating where my mouth will go next on her body, not my reaction to ice cream.
I allow the milky sweet richness to melt in my mouth, and it’s better than I expect. Not better than the taste of her, I am sure, but better than I expect. “It’s good,” I declare softly, my gaze falling to her mouth, and lingering as I contemplate how sweet she might be, how soft her moans.
When my eyes find hers again, the rain is splattering the floor-to-ceiling windows, the intimacy of the dimly lit room, of my stare and shared ice cream from the same container, thickens the air between us, and I have no doubt my gaze is pure lust.
She doesn’t play the shy one and cut her stare. Bella is a contradiction of sweet and bold in ways that test my desire to see her submissive, but I’d be willing to teach her. “I was just teasing you about only having a taste,” she dares. “You can have whatever you want.”
There’s an invitation in her words, be it intentional or not, but there are other words in my head, beating down my hunger for Bella. Allison’s words. The words from the journal play in my head, the heart wants what the heart wants. I’d reason with myself that this is about what the body wants, which is an entirely different thing. But I cannot be so blasé about Bella, not when my guilt over Allison’s death might as well be the actual ghost of Allison whispering in my ear—demanding that I be better and do better by Bella than I did with her.
“I don’t think that would be fair of me, now, would it?” I ask, and I’m not talking about taking her ice cream. For all I know she really was, and I’m simply the bastard one would expect my father’s son to become. I sit back and reach for the pint I’ve opened. “This one is good.”
Considering my cock is hard as fuck and ice cream is the closest thing to a cold shower in my near future, I dig in. For long moments, that perhaps stretch into minutes, we eat in silence. In that silence I do not find awkwardness, nor do I find peace. I find accusation and blame. I find the screams of a woman who left this world too soon, and because of me. I cannot touch Bella. I will not touch Bella. If I had just left Allison alone, she might be alive today. And while I’m fairly certain Bella would be the death of me, not the opposite, it’s not a risk I can take. Though it would be a punishment I deserve.
In light of that reality, by the time I’ve shut the sliding glass door, and sealed myself inside, I’ve already conjured an image of a submissive version of Bella at my command. Me on my couch, her naked and lying across my lap, with my palm on her backside. A safe fantasy considering I have no intention of acting on it. Hand to cock is about the only relief in sight on this night, because I have zero interest at this moment in anyone but Bella. But it’s a hell of a fantasy I allow myself because it’s better than all the other places my head has been the past two hours.
As if she knows I’m better off with her than without her, the object of my fantasy is indeed still here. Of course, she is, as I’ve thought before tonight, this is Bella. And Bella never runs from any challenge I offer her, even if that challenge is managing to visit my apartment and leave without ever ending up naked.
She’s now curled up in the chair, a blanket covering her, an open pint, and a spoon in hand. I step to the end of the couch and stare down at her right as she shovels a giant spoonful into her mouth. “I thought about leaving, but the ice cream is perfectly soft right now, and it’s really wet outside.”
My brows shoot up, and her cheeks flush but her lips purse. “That only sounded bad because you have a dirty mind. Which is better than a sad one, I suppose, though I generally think it’s a male disease to turn everything into sex.” She waves the spoon at me and then the table. “Eat the soft ice cream. Believe it or not, some things are better soft.”
If we’re talking about her in my arms, she’s right.
I ease into the space of the sitting area and sit down. “What happened to the chocolate peanut butter?”
“You can try it, but you can’t have it,” she says, lifting the pint in her hand.
“What happened to this being my pity party?”
“Pity is for—” She bites her lips and stops herself.
I supply her answer. “Pussies?”
“Yeah, that,” she says. “And you are many things, Tyler, but not that.”
“Now I’m intrigued,” I assure her. “What am I then, Bella?”
“Eat the ice cream and I’ll consider my answer while you do.”
I’m actually hungry, and while a steak would suit me better, I do like a good helping of ice cream. I pick up the cookie dough pint and pull off the lid.”
“I knew you’d go for that one.”
“Because you took my favorite option.”
She sits up and lets the blanket fall away, leaning close to offer me access to her pint, which is better than no access at all. “You can taste, but that’s all.” She smiles, and I suspect she knows exactly what she’s doing, but it’s hard to read Bella. She comes off that damn sweet, when I know she is far from the naivete that sweetness suggests.
If only she meant I could taste her, and if she was anyone else, I’d do that and more. Instead, I dig my spoon into the ice cream, and then taste it. She watches me, and I don’t miss the parting of her perfect, plump lips as if she’s anticipating my reaction. It’s truly an alternate reality. She should be anticipating where my mouth will go next on her body, not my reaction to ice cream.
I allow the milky sweet richness to melt in my mouth, and it’s better than I expect. Not better than the taste of her, I am sure, but better than I expect. “It’s good,” I declare softly, my gaze falling to her mouth, and lingering as I contemplate how sweet she might be, how soft her moans.
When my eyes find hers again, the rain is splattering the floor-to-ceiling windows, the intimacy of the dimly lit room, of my stare and shared ice cream from the same container, thickens the air between us, and I have no doubt my gaze is pure lust.
She doesn’t play the shy one and cut her stare. Bella is a contradiction of sweet and bold in ways that test my desire to see her submissive, but I’d be willing to teach her. “I was just teasing you about only having a taste,” she dares. “You can have whatever you want.”
There’s an invitation in her words, be it intentional or not, but there are other words in my head, beating down my hunger for Bella. Allison’s words. The words from the journal play in my head, the heart wants what the heart wants. I’d reason with myself that this is about what the body wants, which is an entirely different thing. But I cannot be so blasé about Bella, not when my guilt over Allison’s death might as well be the actual ghost of Allison whispering in my ear—demanding that I be better and do better by Bella than I did with her.
“I don’t think that would be fair of me, now, would it?” I ask, and I’m not talking about taking her ice cream. For all I know she really was, and I’m simply the bastard one would expect my father’s son to become. I sit back and reach for the pint I’ve opened. “This one is good.”
Considering my cock is hard as fuck and ice cream is the closest thing to a cold shower in my near future, I dig in. For long moments, that perhaps stretch into minutes, we eat in silence. In that silence I do not find awkwardness, nor do I find peace. I find accusation and blame. I find the screams of a woman who left this world too soon, and because of me. I cannot touch Bella. I will not touch Bella. If I had just left Allison alone, she might be alive today. And while I’m fairly certain Bella would be the death of me, not the opposite, it’s not a risk I can take. Though it would be a punishment I deserve.
Chapter Five
“You didn’t kill her, Tyler,” Bella blurts as if she is reading my mind.
I glance over at her. “I did my part.”
“Should you have gotten involved with an employee?” she asks, setting her pint down. “No. Does it happen? All the time and no one dies. You’re human.”
“And she’s dead.”
“Because she chose to get involved with your father. Because he chose to kill her. You were not a party to the decisions that lead to her death.”
“I started the cycle.”
“Did you? Because there are rumors that she dated him before you and then went back to him.”
The idea punches me in the gut for reasons I can’t even let myself identify right now. “That’s not true.”
“How do you know?”
I set the ice cream down, reach for the journal and lift it. “Because she wrote about it all. Because the police say so. Because she said so.”
Bella curls her fingers around the blanket and eases back into the chair again. “How long has it been since you dated her?’
“Over a year.”
“That’s a long time, Tyler. Too long for you to wrap yourself in the blame game."
I set the journal on the table beside the ice cream, taunting us both with its presence. “If you read her words, you’d hate me.”
“You try to make me hate you most days at work, and you still don’t succeed. I’m not easily manipulated. Relationships always have two subjective sides, and I have no business inside yours. Neither did your father. He tried to demean your role at Hawk Legal every chance he got. He was getting old, and he wasn’t ready to let you be the king of the castle. No doubt, he wanted what you have. Youth, success, and her. He did this, not you. Remember that. Please.”
I pick up the ice cream pint again, wondering how she’d react if I mixed a shot in with it.
She scoots forward and grabs the remote to the television. Instinctively, I set down the ice cream and reach out and grab her hand. She sucks in a breath. I hold one in, a muscle in my jaw pulsing. I’ve made the mistake of removing the contact barrier and now that I’ve touched her, I want to keep touching her.
Her eyes lift to mine and she clears her throat. “If you don’t want to watch TV—”
I force myself to let her go, not pull her to me, dropping her hand before I lose the resolve to do so. “I don’t want to watch the news. The media can’t seem to talk about anything but my family.”
“I was thinking about torturing you with a chick flick. I saw on my listings earlier that Dirty Dancing is showing. Patrick Swayze.” She sighs and thumps her chest with her fist. “Be still my heart.” She indicates the remote. “Can I?
“I’ve never watched a chick flick in my life. Somehow today doesn’t seem like that day.”
Her eyes go wide. “Never?”
“Never.”
She does this delicate little grunt thing and says, “Just one of the many reasons you’re single at thirty-four.”
That comment shouldn’t jab as badly as it does, but mixed with Allison’s words in the journal, and it downright stings. “By choice,” I assure her, and considering I’m more than a little curious about her love life I add, “And you’re single as well.”
“By choice,” she assures me, offering me not even a tease about her personal life. “And I’m twenty-seven, not thirty-four.” She gives me this little chin tilt, as if it celebrates the perfection of her comeback reply, then adds, “I really thought something warmhearted, rather than murderous was a good idea right about now.”
She’s not wrong. I motion to the remote. “Turn on your damn chick flick.”
She smiles, and it lights up the room, and I swear even a tiny spot in my black heart, right along with it. She turns on the television, and before the news can begin to play, punches in the station of choice. Patrick Swayze fills the screen. I finish off my ice cream, every last bite, and Bella does the same. I gather two additional pints and carry them to the fridge. When I return, her eyes are shut. I sit back down and find myself staring at her. Just staring at her, spellbound by her beauty, which is more than her looks, which are obviously stunning. Bella’s beauty radiates from within.
Thunder claps like heavy hands above and while I jolt with the impact, she does not. She feels safe here with me, and I can’t figure out why. But then, maybe she knows more about me than me, because when I should be stripping her naked, and pulling her onto my lap, I am not. Just as I should wake her up and send her on her way.
But I don’t.
The truth, which I would never admit to anyone, is I don’t want to be alone.
I ease into the couch cushion, low and comfortable, and shut my eyes.
When I open them again, the room is dark, the rain has faded into the night. I blink and sit up, to realize the movie has long ended and Terminator is playing. Clearly, this channel plays old movies. My eyes land on the chair where Bella rested, only to find the blanket on the ground and her missing. The idea that she left while I slept is oddly anger-inducing. Why the fuck did she leave? And why the fuck am I unhappy about it?
I stand, my spine stiff, and that’s when I see her shoes on the floor. She’s still here. Where the hell is she? A sound reaches my ears from my bedroom, and my anger ratchets up tenfold. Why is she in my bedroom? What game is she playing? I step around the couch and walk toward the fireplace and enter my room just to the right of the crackling flame.
The room smells of her perfume and my cock twitches.
The bathroom door is shut and holy hell I’m hot and hard at the idea that she’s naked in there, and planning to surprise me. But I’m still as angry as I am burning alive at the prospect. I can’t protect her from me when I’m battling with what it even means to be me. I’m not in the right headspace for games of the flesh when they pertain to Bella.
I step to the door and knock, the thundering of my fist on the wood no match for the pounding in my chest, or the throb of my cock. The door swings open and Bella appears, still fully dressed. The mix of disappointment and relief is not pleasant and does nothing to eliminate my anger, but rather these things spike it times ten.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?” I demand.
Her eyes go wide, a blush rushing over her otherwise pale skin, creating a blood-red stain. I don’t miss the way it blanches her neck and rapidly travels toward her neckline. Nor do I stop myself from wondering just how far down it reaches.
“I ah—” she murmurs. “I couldn’t figure out where the guest bathroom was. I had to go badly and—I’m sorry.”
It’s as reasonable as it is unreasonable, considering the bathroom is right beside the door. “Coming here was not a smart decision. You need to leave.”
“You’re being a jerk.”
“Yes, well, you can choose if you hate me before or after your legs are wrapped around my neck, Bella. Because that’s what’s going to happen if you don’t leave now.” I step backward and give her room to exit.
Her spine straightens and her chin lifts in defiance. “We’re friends.
“Friends don’t fuck and that’s exactly where my head is right now. I told you. You have two options—”
“I heard you,” she snaps. “I don’t need to hear it again. I’ll leave. You’re being a bastard.”
“Because I am a bastard, Bella. You’ve been warned. I won’t warn you again.”
She steps out of the bathroom and stops in front of me. “I said you’re being a bastard, not that you are one. It’s too bad you don’t understand the difference.” With that, she marches out of the room and without turning, I know when she exits the bedroom. I feel the shift in the air.
I stand there, I don’t follow her, or I won’t let her leave.
There’s shuffling about and then the door opens. The door shuts.
Then I’m alone again. And that’s the way it should be. She might hate me, but she left here before she did something she might regret, even if I would not.
THE END…FOR NOW
***
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***
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