Nemesis (Enemies-to-lovers Standalone)

by Maya Rose

  I’m seeing red. Blood red. My chest burns. I’ve never really been a violent person but goddamn fuck I want to use my bare fist on this man and turn him to pulp. “What did he do?”

  “He brought this creepy old guy home. Said I had to entertain him or he would go to the police about the stuff I stole. They would have pulled me out of school and mom would have been kicked out of the nursing home. I couldn’t…” She falters. “...I couldn’t let that happen. And I couldn’t...with that guy…” She looks at the floor and talks, pressing down one foot hard with the toes of the other. “I dragged a drawer cabinet in front of the closed bedroom door, and locked myself in the bathroom. Lost track of time. Not sure for how long. That was the first time it happened. When it passed, I started a fire with a lighter I’d stolen from their kitchen and called 911. A teacher at my school let me stay in her house for a few weeks. I turned eighteen in a month and told my social worker I’m done with the system. Then I begged the lady at the diner next to the school for a job. But after that day...if I feel forced...into something...I...I can’t...it just...it happens...not always, but...every now and then...sometimes it lasts for a couple of minutes, sometimes longer...although I’ve learnt to control and prevent it way better over the last few months...”

  It’s the way she breathes, soft, like she doesn’t want to make a sound. The way she’s going to town on her band, pulling it, letting it go, the snap of the elastic leaving red marks on her pale skin. I want to cross the distance and kiss the pain out of her. Kiss the memory of that man, every man, that incident and every other one, that home, that fear--all of it, out of her, until she’s free. But it’s not what she needs right now. I’ve never been here before. I have to think of something to offer a woman that makes her feel good, and it can’t be sex. It strikes me like a whip.

  I can’t look her in the eyes when I say it, but I start talking anyway. Regrets can come later. “When I was seventeen, I saw my mother sucking the chauffeur's dick, in her and dad’s bedroom. She started going with that guy on his runs to drop and pick up Scotty from school. I followed them one day and they were making out in the car in the school parking lot.”

  When I glance up, her fingers have quieted on the band. But there’s nearly not enough shock on her face like I expected. All frown lines clear like something has clicked into place for her.

  “That’s why you taught him to ride a bike.” She gasps. “So he wouldn’t need a driver. So he wouldn’t ever see what you saw. You were protecting him.” And finishes on a raspy breath. Then immediately, “Why did you get rid of his swim coach?”

  The question is so unexpected that the truth comes out without a second thought. “Our mother didn’t do a background check before hiring her. The woman was on the goddamn registry.”

  “And the Taekwondo?”

  “I found out that some kids in his school were bullying him.” Christ, how does she know so much in a few days? And she’s connecting the dots on the unknown. She’s fucking lethal, so I deflect. “Who suggested the wrist band?”

  She gives a dry half-smile to the band. “Google Search.” Then looks up and asks me, “What was Warren’s wife like? Did she fill in for your mom?”

  Good God. “No. Jenna was a...complex woman. Not really the compassionate motherly type. And she didn’t like us being in their...world. Scotty was little, so she ignored him...but...well, I was fair game.”

  “So you moved out of that house the first chance you got because you didn’t want her to eventually get to Scott.” Ariel cringes her nose. “She must have been a bitch to do that to two kids who lost everything.”

  I try to hold it, but this time a stiff wry smile forces its way out. Jenna was a bitch. Wouldn’t shut up about us fleecing Warren. And Jesus, this girl sees everything.

  “Have you always been this mouthy?” I ask, and if I hadn’t felt my tongue move, I wouldn’t have believed that that teasing voice is mine.

  “Don’t say mouth.” She says testily, but also huskily. With a blush.

  She’s a test study in contradictions. Such an innocent dirty girl. The filthy fucking things I want to say to her. Don’t say it. Don’t you fucking say it. Keep the conversation PG. “Let me guess--because it makes you wet?”

  “No--I’m taking pity on your poor cock, Mr King. I gotta say, it doesn’t look very happy.”

  My upset dick hopelessly stiffens in a salute when her guileless eyes give him an unhidden perusal. I rope my knuckles together so I don’t drop my hands to my balls and give them a tug. “Don’t look at my cock.” I grit out. “And don’t say cock.”

  She bites on the corner of her lower lip and then slowly lets the flesh go. “Fair enough.” She says finally. “She came from money, just like those old geezers, right? Is she the reason why Warren said the board hasn’t accepted you? Because she didn’t like you? She influenced the board somehow?”

  It takes me a few seconds to recoup context. Jenna.

  “Maybe.” I shrug. “Or maybe I’m just not likeable.” What am I saying? Fucking why am I saying it?

  “Then why does Warren trust you?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your theory?” That’s why I’m saying it. I’m actually curious about it. About what she thinks. I’m not having sex with a woman, or discussing work, but this is hands down the most interested I’ve ever been in an interaction with one.

  Ariel pauses, giving it thought. Then dips the tip of her index finger at the side of her lips. “Maybe it’s your shredded abs and cute but manly butt.”

  Cute but manly? My laugh comes unannounced and so does her full dimple, food and fights forgotten. She looks like at least momentarily, the weight of the world is off her shoulders. And I feel like I can take on all of it, if she just sits right here in front of me, revealing her secrets and exacting mine.

  Where the fuck do I go from here?

  Chapter 14

  Ariel

  ◆◆◆

  “...peak season……...pricing strategy……...complementary…”

  Damn that voice. Seductively comforting. I don’t know if I want to curl back under the comforter and relax knowing that he’s out there, or walk towards it because that deep cadence is not nearly close enough.

  I peek out groggily over the edge of the comforter at the window. Through the slats of the blinds, I see that the sun’s barely out. How long has he been up? I remember nodding off last night when there wasn’t an ounce of sleep in his blue eyes. Even after he spent hours telling me about my father’s gargantuan business. His handsome face lit up and passionate as he talked me through operational challenges, interference of board members, problems with competitors, changing customer expectations. Pausing at intervals, asking if I had questions. And my heart wanted to scale the damn Everest, when he closed his eyes and moaned at his first bite of the spaghetti and meatballs that I cooked for dinner.

  Infinite universes with infinite possibilities. Is this an alternate one? Because I’m living with Eli King. I’m living alone with Eli King. And it’s...peculiar. All I wanted was one real moment with him, no caprice, no bitterness. So I told him about the dark in my past. And he let me. He listened when I needed him to. He shared back. He laughed, gifting me smiles that I’m still recovering from. Straight-white teeth flashing, the curve of his lips wide as the lines reached up all the way to his eyes...the man is molded out of a whole other brand of handsome. Is this really my life?

  “I want to review the Twitter campaign before we roll it out. And I’m against reusing the same ad for TV. I want to see a different one before Christmas.”

  He’s working. I can’t hear the other person which means he’s on the phone, not video. He didn’t turn it on all day and evening yesterday. He didn’t even look at it. But it’s Monday, the weekend has ended, and I don’t want to interrupt him now. Getting out of the bed, I opt going for a shower instead. When I’m done and I open the walk-in closet adjacent to the bathroom, I cringe. Eli got Xavier to pick up my clothes from his condo.
And because evidently I’m an inadequate shopper, he had Xavier buy more of everything. Nightgowns, dresses, shoes, jackets, coats, jeans, shorts…

  “Why did you get so much stuff?” I asked him as two people brought it in, secretly floored, but openly irritated.

  “Because you’ll need it. And because you can afford it.”

  Only when he said it, did I actually believe it. “Fine. You do all the returns if all of this doesn’t fit.”

  He licked his lips, looked me square in the eyes, and said, “It will. I know your size.”

  Is he really not going to touch me again? I don’t know where we are anymore. It’s complicated. With the money and the hotels. I see it. It’s not like we can just disappear from each other’s lives when this lust has run its course. He’ll still be running the hotels. And I’ll still be getting money because of those hotels. With the kind of man he is, with the amount of experience he has, how long can he even be interested in me? He’s right. What happens when he decides to move on? When he finds the type of woman he actually wants to settle down with? I keep meeting him and her at social events and make small talk? Mom never got over the rebuff. What makes me think I can? Having sex, taking virginities, is only going to lead to more mayhem. And I don’t want to be that girl. Pining over one man, everything else forgotten. As Warren Walton’s daughter, surely I can find at least one other decent guy that I like? But damn it, is Eli King really going to be nice to me now but not going to touch me again?

  I grab a pair of leggings and pair it with a T-shirt. Like it was the last two days, the fit is perfect and I want to scream. And I want to scream some more when I stop tying my hair mid-way into the action. He likes it down.

  There’s silence outside, so I make my way to the kitchen, and find Eli huddled over his Mac, reading the screen with fierce concentration. He turns immediately when I’m a foot away and his forehead clears. He’s wearing the same dark blue shirt that brings out his eyes. No jacket, no vest, just a tie. Exactly like I left him last night. There are two empty mugs next to his laptop but I can still smell the coffee...and something else savory. His stubble is more pronounced, dark and barbed, and I don’t think there is a man on earth who can carry it the way he is. Looking both dapper and dangerous. Like a highly educated mob boss. A really delicious one.

  “You didn’t sleep.” I don’t even have to ask.

  “I napped.” He says, giving me a stubbed once-over. If he ever makes a comment about getting the size of my clothes right, I’ll kill him. But he doesn’t. “Hungry?”

  “Yeah. I can--”

  “I made omelettes. Ate mine earlier.” His head tilts towards the kitchen counter. And when I don’t say anything, a sly smirk breaks loose. “Do you need my help closing that?” He points to my dropped jaw.

  He’s gotta stop this. The playfulness. That laid-back posture. No acerbity in his gaze or words. Now cooking? This Eli is turning out to be an aberration to the man I first met in every damn way.

  Keep it cool. Keep it cool, you muggle. I span the short distance to find the plate he has kept covered near the stovetop. I expect him to have gone back to what he was doing when I turn, but he’s resting his elbows on the table and watching me. I sit in front of him, my nerves frayed at how intimate this setting is. I’ve never lived with anyone but mom, and she barely noticed me. Now I’m with this man who can thaw my panties with a look.

  And with eyes narrowed in a tease, he seems decidedly amused at the ketchup I’ve poured alongside the omelette.

  “I like it.” I say adamantly.

  “I didn’t say anything.” He says, even though his eyes are saying plenty.

  “Who taught you to cook?” I blab out. Anything to not have to explain my ketchup fetish.

  “The internet. And necessity.” He answers, rubbing his jaw with his thumb. “Who taught you?”

  “The head cook at the diner.” Austere and portly Mr Tanner. Making me throw dough away again and again till I got it just right. “He used to open the diner early for me so he could teach me every single recipe on the menu. He even let me add some of my own when I got good and I wanted to experiment.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy.”

  “He was.” Eli lifts his brow, so I explain. “He died of a heart attack last year. He was seventy five.”

  “Your mother didn’t cook?”

  “Before she was diagnosed, sometimes. But for the most part, I lived on mac and cheese insta dinners.”

  “Does she hit you every time you go to see her?”

  It’s jarring, but also...oddly soothing...the way he goes straight for the jugular. “Seven out of ten.” I tell him, but I look at the omelette and keep my hands and mind busy cutting a piece out with a fork and a knife. Another thing Mr Tanner taught me.

  “Did she hit you before she got diagnosed?”

  I told him the worst yesterday. Why is talking about mom somehow harder? “Not physically.” I say and shove the bite in my mouth.

  “Ariel?” He prompts cautiously, and I look up to meet his unflagging gaze. “You know that it wasn’t because of you, right? Warren would have left her regardless. He loved Jenna too much to ever get a divorce. He strayed, that’s all it was. None of this was your fault.”

  I’ve always sort of known it. But hearing it again saddens and lightens me. Do I celebrate that my father didn’t leave my mother because of me? Or do I mourn that he never loved her in the first place? “Regardless, her life would have been better off without me, Mr King.”

  “She made her bed, Ariel. When she decided to have you.” He bristles. “And call me Eli.”

  Eli. Shit. That takes me to all sorts of dirty places. Mom. We’re talking about mom. “Actually, she tried not to have me. And if she hadn’t had a fever or something, it would have all worked out.” I ramble dryly.

  He sits up straight, his face ashen, and his jaw flexes as he stares at me hard. “She told you she tried to abort you?”

  “Do you blame her? Warren left her, her family turned their back on her--how was a 25 year old with no support system going to make it as a single mother?”

  He throws me a sharp look. “You still have that cut on your face and you’re defending her?”

  It hits me what this is. He’s outraged. For me. I feel this ache to the pit of my stomach, my heartbeat skyrocketing. Nothing in my life has ever felt like this. It’s hard to brook and it hurts so much, but I feel so damn alive that I’ll have no regrets if it kills me. “I’m just saying I understand her reasons for resenting my existence. There’s always another side to every story, right? Always a good reason why anyone does anything. People aren’t bad. Just...human.”

  His expression undergoes a complete overhaul. Like he’s seeing me for the first time. When he doesn’t stop his ardent visual cross-examination, I squirm. “What?” I ask.

  He just shakes his head and keeps watching me like a damn hawk.

  Taking another bite, I break the silence with the first thing that pops in my mind. “Why are you such a dick to Scott?”

  “I’m a dick to everybody.” He sits back more comfortably, and comments flatly.

  “My mouth disagrees.” I say without due diligence, after working on another bite. Not bad, I think. Right before I realize what I just said. Shit. I flick my gaze up at him, and sure enough, his eyes are alight with humor, his lips quirked up so very slightly. And something else. Heat and sex. Jitters spurt everywhere--on my arms, the inside of my thighs, the back of my neck, the middle of my back…”I didn’t mean...not like...I was just...the omelette...” I find the word in my mouth eventually. “I mean I like the omelette. That’s all I was...” The damn man just keeps waiting for me to dig the hole deeper, stretching his legs out in the chair, and clasping his hands behind his head, like I’m putting on a show. His arms. Holy Jesus, his arms. Why didn’t I take the chance in that bathroom when I had it to see that muscled torso? Oh for heaven’s sake. “I assume you need to work all day today? And all week?” I ask him hurr
iedly.

  He levels up on the table again, unlocks his phone, and slides it to me. There’s an article already open. I look at the title in bold. The power couple of Walton Hotels? What? I move my gaze back up at him.

  He fills in. “They’re speculating that you and I are a couple. So Warren’s going to set the record straight, and give a statement today to the press that it’s not true. Request them to respect your privacy.”

  It’s that simple? “And they will?”

  “No. Your life in the shadows is over.”

  That’s so...definite. “Why are you making it sound so ominous?”

  “I’m preparing you, Ms Walton.”

  I recoil inwardly. Only half because of the name. “Why? Should I be scared?

  “You should be careful.” He says fixedly.

  “Careful how?”

  His face is grim, a far cry from a minute ago. “In the friends you make. The people you trust. Things you do. Choices you make.”

  “Shouldn’t every girl?”

  “Yes, but you have more to lose.”

  “You mean the money.”

  His head shake is forbidding. “I mean the right to fail, Ariel. To fall. Make mistakes. You don’t have that luxury anymore. If you slip up, they will tear you down.”

  If he’s trying to intimidate me, he’s going about it the right way. “So now I have to be perfect all the time?”

  He bores his blue gaze into mine, and it’s understanding but agitated yet matter-of-fact all at once. “You have to try. And if you don’t think you can, then you need to be okay with that. Either way, you will need a thicker skin and a stiff upper lip. We’ll manage the information leaks as much as we can, but a lot of it is out of our control. They’ll talk about your mother, your jobs, your foster care history...people will be coming out of the woodworks saying they know you or have pictures of you or juicy tidbits on you, and they will sell that to whoever is buying. Folks from your mother’s family, people you worked with, boys you dated, babies you kissed...everyone will have stories about you. Some good, most bad. You will be expected to set examples. Women are going to want fashion tips from you and men are going to want to fuck you.”