Beautiful Enemy (The Enemies Trilogy Book 1)

by Piper Lawson

  “What is it?” I ask, instantly on alert.

  “At the party, I had bruises on my wrists. A fan got past security the night I played your club and grabbed me.”

  Every muscle in my body goes tight, anger simmering up from somewhere deep and dark.

  “You told me another woman was hurt,” I grind out. “You didn’t tell me you were hurt.”

  She returns to watching the screen, but I can’t.

  Annie laughs in the front row, and Tyler ducks his head to kiss her, making her laugh more.

  “I can’t promise to have every woman’s back,” I hear myself say. “But I will do my utmost to ensure that never happens in my clubs again. And I will damned well have yours.”

  Rae stiffens for a moment, then relaxes.

  I rest my thumb and forefinger at the back of her neck, pressing lightly through the rest of the show.

  18

  Rae

  Dinner is chef-prepared and exquisite, and I wish I could enjoy it fully.

  From the head of the table, barefoot in chinos and a white shirt, Harrison watches me with a protectiveness that’s unsettling. But somewhere between the cool evening breeze, the laughter on the air, and his grin when he brings out the cake, I can’t hate it.

  Beck insists on feeding me cake, and I don’t realize until I’m laughing through a delicious bite that Harrison has gone still.

  Annie groans, bracing an arm on the railing as we sit on the lounging deck after dessert. “That was better than sex.”

  “I came at least twice just from the cake.” Elle rubs her stomach.

  “Where’s the testosterone?” Ash appears from belowdecks, his hair blowing in the night breeze.

  “Drinking at the other end of the boat.”

  Ash’s smile vanishes as he cranes his neck that way. “Hollywood too?”

  I shift forward. “You don’t like Beck.”

  “The guy made us watch his home movie,” he gripes.

  “Come on. It was a screener of his TV show. That’s a little different.”

  Ash waves it off. “He’s the self-indulgent type who does anything for attention. Trust me, I’ve met lots of them over the years at private school and in sports.”

  “Well, you’re missing out,” Annie says. “They’re drinking a new line of bourbon I brought from my dad’s company.”

  “Jax Jamieson’s personal collection?” Ash rubs a hand over his jaw. Annie’s dad is an even bigger rock star than her husband, though he’s semi-retired from the stage to raise two kids with Annie’s stepmom in Dallas while working on his own label. “Fuck, I can’t pass that up.”

  Ash walks in the direction of the other guys, and a moment later, the deck is quiet.

  “Just us girls,” Annie murmurs.

  I cut her a look. “Time to paint each other’s toenails?”

  “Let’s play ‘Never Have I Ever,’” Elle decides as the waitstaff comes to top up our champagne.

  “Annie’s not drinking.”

  “That means I’ll win.” Annie winks.

  Elle starts. “Never have I ever… fucked a musician.”

  Annie and I both drink.

  “Careful of all those bubbles,” Elle drawls, and Annie kicks her.

  “Really? Not even at Vanier?” Annie asks when she’s done.

  Our blond friend cackles. “Just because you go to arts school doesn’t mean you need to make the rounds of majors. Rae, who was yours?”

  “Evan,” I recall. “In second year.”

  “How was it?” Annie leans in.

  “He was a yeller. Like, projecting-from-the-diaphragm loud. You’d think the man had conquered a large fishing village instead of my vagina.”

  The other two crack up.

  “Okay, my turn,” Annie decides.

  “Hey”—I lift my glass—“it’s my birthday.”

  “So shut your mouth and enjoy it.”

  “I am enjoying it,” I admit, looking down the boat to where the guys are barely visible at the other end, as decent as they are handsome. We spent the afternoon on the beach, had an incredible dinner and dessert. I’m so happy it hurts. “I can’t believe you came all this way to see me.”

  “Yeah, the scenery’s crap,” Elle supplies, and Annie slaps her arm.

  “Mostly we love you,” Annie says.

  “Your billionaire boy toy made it easy. The plane tickets were delivered to my door,” Elle adds.

  “Yes. About that.” Annie straightens. “Tyler and I were a little surprised to get an invitation from Harrison for your birthday. You want to catch us up?”

  I turn the glass in my hands, wondering whether its contents or Elle’s words are responsible for the sudden tingling in my stomach. “We started out as enemies. Now I don’t know what we are. I think he’s genuinely trying to improve his clubs, in LA and everywhere else. He had a pretty rough breakup last year, and his ex was part of the reason he lost focus.”

  “They weren’t right for each other?” Annie asks, curious.

  “That, plus he doesn’t trust easily. He’s not the kind of guy to put a relationship ahead of everything else he is.”

  Elle says, “He’s doing a hell of a good impression of caring about you.”

  Her pointed words have that hopeful tingling starting up in my chest again.

  Or maybe it’s the alcohol. I catch the eye of one of the attendants who tops me up without so much as a word.

  Annie takes advantage of my distraction to continue the game. “Never have I ever… slept with someone ten years older.”

  Elle drinks.

  I freeze with my drink halfway to my lips, then lower it again.

  “Seriously?” Elle screeches, loud enough to wake whatever bones have settled at the bottom of the ocean beneath us. “He’s smart, he’s rich, he’s the kind of gorgeous that only gets better with age… though I read men reach their sexual peak in their twenties.”

  She looks to Annie for corroboration, and our friend lifts her hands, surrendering.

  “If Tyler gets any better, I might not survive.”

  I roll my eyes as Elle laughs and says, “Wait. How old is Harrison?”

  They both pull out their phones before I can answer.

  “He’s thirty-five,” Elle declares loudly.

  “Thirty-five what?” a familiar British voice demands from behind me.

  I swallow, shifting on my lounger to stare up at the man in shorts and a linen shirt, the top two buttons open.

  “Nothing.” It’s the most innocent voice I can manage, and it’s terrible.

  “How old you are,” Elle, the traitor, supplies. “Have you read that men’s sexual performance declines after their twenties?”

  We’re joined by Tyler, who sinks onto Annie’s lounger and pulls her against him. Beck drops onto Elle’s, while Ash’s athletic gait carries him to the edge of the boat, where he leans against the railing.

  “Patently false,” Harrison replies. “Men in their twenties have physical stamina but no subtlety. Women are intellectual creatures. You need mental stamina to please one.”

  God, his mouth is beautiful. I want to trace it with my finger.

  Then shove it between my thighs.

  I take another sip of my drink, and the pleasant buzzing feeling intensifies.

  We keep drinking and talking. Tyler shares stories from his tour while Beck presses Ash on his workout routine. Annie talks about pregnancy surprises and their plans to settle in LA once the baby arrives. Even Elle weighs in with cringe-worthy moments from a comedy competition she just finished.

  It’s fun, until eventually everyone heads to bed.

  “I think I’m drunk,” I mumble as strong arms carry me down the stairs.

  “Indeed,” the person carrying me agrees, the word vibrating through his body and mine.

  I scrunch up my nose. “What language are you even speaking?”

  “That would be English.”

  “That wood bee ingleesh,” I parrot.


  I’m deposited on a soft surface, and I sigh as I force my eyes open.

  Harrison’s over me, his shirt unbuttoned enough I can see the edge of his scars. His hair is sticking up, his expression amused and more relaxed than I’ve ever seen it.

  I’m so enchanted that it takes a moment for me to notice Harrison pull away.

  I grab for his arms. “Where are you going?”

  “To bed. You’re drunk.”

  I scramble forward onto my knees, a posture I’m sure looks as sexy as it feels. “And if I wasn’t? What happened to the big, bad billionaire? The legendary ladies’ man?”

  He studies me for a moment before his lips brush across my cheek. “Happy birthday.”

  Anger rises up, along with panic. Maybe I sabotaged this night on purpose, let myself be confused by the big gesture. But I want him. I want this. Tonight.

  I shift up onto my knees, grabbing his bare forearms before he can leave.

  “No,” I protest, knowing in my bleary brain that I’ll regret this. “Don’t pretend you didn’t rent me a boat—”

  “Charter.”

  “—not to fuck me on it. There’s no other possible reason a man like you would do this for a woman like me.”

  My mouth snaps shut.

  It’s quiet here. No soft lapping of the ocean against the boat. No hum of equipment.

  The words hang between us like a gauntlet.

  Harrison’s gaze lowers to my shoulder, where my bra strap is exposed. “I won’t pretend to know what you think a man like me does. But as for a woman like you? There are no women like you. At least as far as I’ve seen. You arrive at a place with an exit strategy. You look out for people you don’t even know, and you demand that others do the same even though God forbid someone look out for you in return. You put yourself on the line every night on that stage, but when you look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the girl looking back. It should be too painful to watch, but I can’t look away. You are an exquisite train wreck. So, if there’s a way a man like me is supposed to treat a woman like you, forgive me. I’ve never met a woman like you.”

  Before I can react, the door shuts in my face.

  I stare at the ceiling and try to sleep for an hour before stumbling to the bathroom to throw up, brush my teeth, and drink a gallon of water.

  Then I stare at the ceiling some more.

  We’re so damn different. He’s older, experienced, at the height of his career while mine is still growing. He’s comfortable in his skin while I’m learning how to wear mine. He’s a billionaire with a vendetta and enough baggage to sink this yacht, and me…

  I have baggage too.

  Despite it all, I want him.

  The alcohol burns off before my insomnia, so I pull out my computer and headphones and grab a light blanket, carrying all three up the stairs as quietly as I can.

  Above deck, night hangs like an indigo blanket. Distant sounds from shore and the soft swish of waves are the only interruption to the silence. In one of the loungers, I open my computer and put on my headphones, opening Ableton Live.

  I’m a few minutes into working on a track when movement by the stairs has me stiffening.

  An intruder.

  Yachts don’t have intruders.

  Unless there are pirates?

  But I recognize the way this pirate moves.

  He grips the railing, grimacing.

  “Are you sick?” I demand, sitting straight up. “How much did you drink?”

  Harrison spins, looking caught out. “Not enough.”

  I’m barely buzzed now, and my brain is functioning far better since I rid myself of most of the alcohol earlier. “You’re seasick. So, why are we on a yacht?”

  “Because you wanted it! And I wanted to give it to you.”

  Oh.

  Oh, no.

  This larger-than-life, rich, untouchable prick. He wasn’t supposed to get me a birthday yacht. Or the cake I like. Or host my friends. Still, he did it all knowing full well he couldn’t relax and enjoy himself. That makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the slight swaying of the boat.

  He braces himself on the railing, a warrior guarding his wound.

  But the vulnerability was one he endured on purpose. For me.

  I don’t know how to respond to that.

  But I try.

  “My parents split up on my birthday. That’s why I hate it.” Part of it, anyway.

  “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen.” The muscles in my chest and stomach knot. “But high school was pretty shit even before that.”

  I lean over the railing a few paces down from him.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  The lights of the harbor are visible from where we’re anchored. Ibiza looks like a fairy island.

  But I only half see it, remembering how many birthdays passed without the friendship and love I felt on this one. How many other days, too.

  I shake my head. “Today was good. I don’t want to mess with it.”

  He’s silent a long time. “I’m not trying to diminish what you experienced. But if you ever think you’re damaged, or broken, or less of yourself because of what happened in those years… you’re not.”

  The backs of my eyes burn.

  I don’t talk about my life with men. Not my life before or now. Hell, I don’t talk about it with my friends.

  Letting him in makes the distance between us feel smaller. I shouldn’t want that, but sometimes I think I’m drifting.

  A boat without an anchor.

  “You asked me why things were weird between us earlier,” I start. “I saw you in the city with a woman yesterday.”

  He shifts off the railing, crossing to me. “You were jealous.”

  “It threw me,” I correct when he stops close enough that when I breathe in, I can’t tell him from the ocean.

  His eyes dance, his hair lifting in the breeze as his tight lips curve. “You were jealous.”

  I exhale an exasperated breath. How is he amused by this?

  “Stop—”

  “You were jealous. Say it.”

  “Why? So you can tell me I can’t have you? Trust me, I’ve already told myself enough times.”

  His eyes flare with heat before he banks it again. “She’s Christian’s daughter. He asked me to take her around town as a favor.”

  He lets that sink in before continuing.

  “The only woman on my mind is a brat who plays in my club. Lives in my house. Is altogether too distracting.”

  His confession cuts my protests off at the knees.

  My gaze drags down to his shirt hanging open to reveal his firm pecs and abs.

  “I still think about that night,” I admit. “Your mom’s birthday.”

  I trace the shape of the scars on his chest with a finger, brushing his shirt back so I can.

  “Tell me what happened?”

  It’s a request, not a command. And when I meet his gaze, I have the feeling he’d tell me anything I wanted.

  “Mischa.”

  My stomach twists, and it’s not from the alcohol. “He did this to you? You told me it was at boarding school.”

  I think again about his words. How everyone’s teenage years are fucked up.

  He nods. “There’s a tradition when you win head boy, you get marked by the boy who lost to you. It’s a sign of mutual respect. Teachers don’t condone it, but they tolerate it. There was only one time in our school’s history it got bad and a kid almost bled out.”

  My eyes widen.

  He says, “Usually it’s a letter. A few shallow scores with a pocketknife.”

  “Yours is a crown.”

  “Thirteen cuts. Prick fancied himself an artist. Took four days for him to complete it,” he says, grimacing.

  “You didn’t complain?”

  “No. Nearly passed out once, but I didn’t say a fucking word.”

  “You’ve hated him since you were a boy.”

  “He
’s hated me,” Harrison corrects. “Since my parents left his parents’ business. They told Mischa to convince me to work for them, to be groomed for the same position my parents held. I turned him down in no uncertain terms. They weren’t happy with him, and he’s hated me since. It’s why he was so intent on taking Eva from me. Now, I want to finish him. Put it behind us once and for all. La Mer is the nail in the coffin.”

  I turn that over.

  The world of buying and selling businesses like they’re moves on a chessboard feels so far beyond me. But at the same time, it’s not.

  Because what they’re chasing isn’t the money.

  It’s the feeling.

  The feeling of being right. Justified.

  Of laying your head on the pillow at night and being satisfied you did the best you could.

  “She’s missing out,” I murmur.

  He laughs. “Trust me, if Eva wants a yacht, he’ll get her one.”

  “Wasn’t talking about the yacht.”

  I press my hand over his heart.

  His lashes tremble as his gaze searches mine in the dark.

  I can’t deny how I feel anymore. It’s not only attraction. I care about him, whether I have any business caring or not.

  I want to distract him from his sadness, the effects of the sea beneath us. “Come on. Let me show you what I’m working on for my final show.”

  He shifts onto the lounger and sits behind me. I move between his legs and tug the blanket over both of us. His hard thighs wrap around me, making it impossible to focus entirely on my computer.

  “I’ve had this melody I can’t get out of my head.” I shift a few clips around, frowning. “There’s an easy kick for now—I’ll figure out the rest of the drum structure later—but I’m working on the frequency. I want to drop the frequency down on this part”—I point at the screen—“probably eighty hertz, close to sub. You don’t really hear it anymore, but you feel it.”

  After making the adjustment, I hit a keystroke to play the phrase again.

  Harry tugs me back against him. “How do you know what to change?”

  “Experience. Intuition. Fucking it up enough times.” I tilt my head up to grin at him, and the expression on his face hits me square in the chest.