by Marie James
“You’re home.” I don’t turn at the sound of Remington’s voice as she descends the stairs at my back, but every cell in my body is on high alert.
I watch for their reactions, expecting some happiness from her mother from not having seen her for days, or some creepy lustful look in her stepdad’s eyes, but I get neither. Charles Blair turns on his heel and leaves the room, while his wife stares past me to her daughter with a look of disgust on her face.
“You should be more presentable before coming down,” her mother huffs before making her own exit to the opposite side of the house.
Something I don’t think any tabloid has discovered is that America’s sweetheart couple keeps separate bedrooms. It’s not my business and I haven’t asked. I don’t know what it’s like to be in a long-term committed relationship, but it just seems odd to me. Maybe she snores, or he farts in his sleep, who knows, and who cares?
I focus on this line of thought even though I couldn’t care less what goes on in their bedrooms because if I think about what her mother said, I’ll be tempted to turn around and face her daughter. Considering what she was wearing the first time I met her, there’s no telling what she is or isn’t wearing right now.
“Were they reprimanding you for my bad behavior?”
I keep my eyes forward until I can tell she’s fully dressed in my periphery as she walks toward the kitchen.
“I didn’t mention anything to them. They did bring up some pictures in the tabloid. I haven’t looked yet but—”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she mutters as I follow her to the fridge.
“Are they bad?”
“There have been worse.” She walks around me to get a spoon after pulling a yogurt cup from the fridge.
“I won’t look if you don’t want me to,” I offer, “but can you at least give me the context?”
Her cheeks pink, and as much as I like the look of heat in her cheeks, it bothers me that she’s embarrassed.
“Up the skirt?”
“What? No! There are a series of shots of me stuffing my face.”
I grin remembering how she voraciously devoured her meal yesterday.
“Why are you smiling?”
I shrug. “You were hungry.”
“I was,” she agrees. “And by this time next week, I’ll either be on bump watch for those thinking I’m pregnant or in a follow-up story with an eating disorder.”
I scrape a hand over my face before joining her at the same table she threw her sexy leg up on last night. “I don’t even know why it’s news.”
“It’s not really. My parents have their people constantly searching the internet for new stories about me—fires they’ll have to have their people put out. Only people really looking will find it.”
Which means Wren probably has a search running as well. It’s to be expected, but I hate knowing the guys back home have more information than I do.
“I should’ve had a salad,” she muses, stirring the yogurt until the fruit on the bottom is mixed throughout.
“You should eat what you want.”
She huffs but refuses to look up at me.
“What are you eating for breakfast?”
“I already had breakfast,” I lie.
Actually, I didn’t feel like eating this morning, and even my normal coffee tasted a little off. I blame the war going on inside of me with wanting to leave yet needing to stay.
“What are the plans for the day?” She looks up at me for the first time in what seems like forever.
“You make the rules. You tell me.”
“A little game of cat and mouse?”
My stomach clenches as she wraps her lips around the spoon.
“I prefer not to have to explain it to your parents, especially after I just assured them we were getting along so well.”
“Hmm.” She taps her spoon against her lips but doesn’t say another word.
Making her parents happy isn’t on the top of her list, and after seeing the way both of them reacted to her moments ago, I can’t blame her. What I do know is that her feelings were hurt by both of them and that means she has no choice but to act out at some point today.
Chapter 8
Remington
I’m once again by the pool. Once again fully clothed because Flynn has ruined my ability to seduce. Plus, my parents are home. It would just be creepy for either one of them or a member of their staff to see my boobs.
Charles is talking to Flynn outside, and with the way the sun reflects off the glass surrounding the indoor pool, I know neither one of them can see me. It doesn’t keep Flynn from glancing in this direction as if he knows I’m in here watching him.
I hate it when my parents are home. When they’re away, it’s easier to imagine they’re busy and that’s why they don’t call or check on me. With them in the same house, there’s no excuse. Mother telling me to be more presentable earlier today was the most words she’s spoken to me in months. Yes, they’re gone all the time, but they were home a couple weeks ago and neither one of them uttered a single word to me. I can’t even walk into a store without chatting with people. How they manage that in their own home with their daughter is beyond me.
Flynn had to see just how unimportant I am. Add to it the photos online of me with Caesar sauce dripping down my chin, and my day was ruined before I even got out of bed.
Headlines like Is Remi on Another Binge? and Remington Blair: Is She Replacing Drugs with Food? make me want to scream.
How about Remington Blair Wants to Get the Attention of a Hot Guy with an Americanized British Accent Even if It Means Grossing Him Out by Eating Too Much? Or Henry Cavill Look-alike Watches the Girl of His Dreams Devour a Pita Pocket with the Same Enthusiasm She Sucks His—
You get the point. Either of those last two captions would be more fitting.
But the tabloids never get it right. The truth hardly ever sells better than the lies they generate.
Unable to stay around the house while my parents are here and ignoring me, I fire off a couple of texts in desperation looking for some other place to be besides here.
***
The music in the house is loud enough to literally change the rhythm of my heart. Less than a year ago, I lived for nights like this. House parties are a little more intimate, a little more controlled than clubs and I could drink without a fake ID. I could snort lines off the coffee table with limited risk of it ending up on the front page of STAR magazine or as a plug on TMZ.
Tonight, however, the entire vibe just feels off. I’m no stranger to drugs, alcohol, and strangers getting intimate in dark corners of the room.
The difference is I’m sober with no desire to change that. I don’t want to take shots with the douchey frat boys in the den. I don’t want to slip off to the bathroom to snort lines with Sasha because her boyfriend is on her ass about her drug use while he does keg stands and pops various pills. I don’t even want to be here, but here is better than home.
“Don’t feel bad!” Sasha yells over the din surrounding us. “Just bring some next time.”
She must’ve found someone to accompany her to the bathroom because she’s grinning up at me with pinpoint pupils.
“I no longer do drugs,” I remind her, not for the first time tonight, and it only makes her smile wider.
“Me either.” She makes some sort of scout sign I’m certain is wrong and holds it to her forehead. “Sober as a judge.”
I nod, giving her a fake smile. Stepping around her, I walk toward the front door without saying goodbye. She wouldn’t remember it if I did. This was a very bad idea, and how I managed to sneak away from my house without Flynn catching me, I don’t know.
“You ready to go home now?”
I startle, my hands coming up to my chest when he speaks.
Even in the moonlight, he looks like a bad-boy mafia boss. He’s dressed too nice for this part regardless of the social status of the people inside.
“Do you ever wear jeans?”
H
is head tilts to the side as he watches me walk down the steps toward him.
“Jeans? Not often. Why?”
“No reason. Just wondering if you’re always so serious all the time.”
“I take my work seriously.”
I know he does, but I still can’t get the sound of his laugh from last night out of my head. I want to hear more of it. I want to know how he looks when he’s completely vegged out and relaxed.
“How did you find me?”
A small smile plays on his lips as he ignores my question, and I feel like I’ve won some sort of exclusive contest. Have I ever seen a smile from him? Not that I can recall. My night just got a million times better.
“I don’t want to go home.”
He doesn’t frown, but he steps back when I try to inch closer to him. I struggle, swallowing down the lump of disappointment in my throat.
“No one said you have to go home, but I’d prefer it if you weren’t at a party filled with drugs and alcohol. Are you struggling?”
I give him credit for not assuming I went in there and drank or used drugs. “Not really, but I don’t want to stay. This really isn’t my scene anymore.”
“Let’s find something else to do then.” He sweeps his arm in the direction of the street where I find my car idling.
He opens my door, just like he always has, and I’m thankful he assumes I’m going to sit in front with him rather than the back. I try not to read too much into it because thinking he wants me up front and closer to him would make my mind spin with all sorts of ideas I don’t think entertaining would be healthy. I pull my seatbelt and latch it as he settles into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say a word as he pulls away from the curb and begins driving.
Classic rock plays through the speakers quietly as he makes his way out of the ritzy neighborhood, and he doesn’t initiate conversation either. Somehow, the near silence isn’t uncomfortable, and I’m left wondering if trusting him is the right feeling to have. I trust him with my safety of course, but at the end of the day, he works for my parents. They have their best interests at heart, not mine.
“I just couldn’t stay in the house any longer,” I confess, and he nods as if he understands I’m talking about my parents and not the party we just left. “Do you get along with your parents?”
“I do.” Another smile plays on his perfect lips, and as much as I like seeing it, the action also makes me jealous.
I’ve never been happy with the mention of my parents, not even when it was just Mom and me before Charles popped into our lives. The people I associate with don’t really interact much with their parents either, all of them being raised by nannies as well.
“Brothers or sisters?”
“One of each,” he discloses, the gentle smile growing wider.
“Do you boss them around as much as you boss me around?”
“Hardly.” A laugh bubbles out of his throat. “I’m the youngest, so I’m usually the one getting bossed.”
“So you’re projecting that irritation on me?” The question is asked with humor, but his smile fades away.
“I’ve been hired to keep you safe.”
“To keep my parents’ reputation safe,” I clarify.
“You,” he repeats, turning his head to face me as he slows at a red light. “I’m not here for them, Remington. I’m here for you.”
“Me,” I muse, breaking eye contact because looking at him while he’s so serious makes my head spin.
“If you want to leave the house in the middle of the night, just wake me up and I’ll go with you. If you want to run around New York, just tell me and I’ll make arrangements for you to do so safely. If you want a little danger, I know a company that will abduct you all the while keeping you safe. There are ways to get your thrills without putting yourself in harm’s way.”
My jaw drops. “Things like that exist?”
“Safe adrenaline rushes?” He scoffs. “Of course it does.”
I don’t know how to explain that it’s attention I’m after. I don’t want to pay someone to give me thrills. I want someone in my life that wants to be there, someone that shows me attention because they need the same from me. Someone who is around by choice, not because they’re being paid to be there. Just feeling this way makes me feel desperate and pitiful.
Conversation dries up as I get lost in thoughts of what it would feel like to be wanted by anyone with sincerity. Not particularly in a sexual way, but just a friend who doesn’t expect anything from me. Someone who smiles when they hear my name and wants to call me the minute something exciting happens in their life.
“Interested?”
I jolt from my thoughts at the sound of his voice. “What?”
He points to the building in front of my parked car. “Think you can handle it?”
The marque on the side of the old building touts a horror movie marathon, and a slow smile spreads across my face.
“I love scary movies.”
I hate scary movies. Since I’m always alone, lost in my own head, watching things that traumatize people are no fun for me, but I’d never admit it out loud. I’ve spent the last couple of days pretending to be brave and unstoppable around this man, and now isn’t the time to stop.
“If you’re too scared, I’ll understand.”
“Scared?” I scoff. “I’m not scared.”
“Let’s go then.”
I climb out of the car before he can make it around to my side, ignoring the frown on his pretty lips.
He pays for our tickets at the counter, adding two large drinks and a bucket of popcorn without even asking, placing it on the armrest between us when we settle into our seats. The theater is nearly empty but I wouldn’t expect any less this late in the evening on a Wednesday night, especially in a dated theater showing decades-old movies back-to-back.
The first movie isn’t so bad, and I’m having enough fun that when I excuse myself to use the restroom, I find myself actually returning to the theater and sitting down beside him.
The second movie on the other hand hits a little closer to home, and I’m tense from the opening scene. The woman running for her life through the darkness is enough to prevent me from pulling another stunt like last night.
I screech when the killer jumps out and tackles her to the ground. Flynn doesn’t laugh at me or tease me for being a pansy. He simply places his palm on my bouncing knee and continues to watch the movie.
He hasn’t touched the popcorn, and he’s barely sipped from his soda since we sat down.
Heat radiates from his palm, and although it’s a simple, non-sexual touch, it does make me feel safer.
The credits roll without him pulling his hand back, and when I look over at him, it’s easy to see how exhausted he is.
“Wanna watch the next one?” he asks, his voice slow and tired.
“There’s more?” I turn to face him, careful not to shift the weight of my lower body so he doesn’t feel obligated to pull his hand back.
“They’re showing movies back-to-back through the end of the weekend, but the tickets are only good if we stay.”
“I’m tired.” He blinks, his eyes slow to reopen, and it’s clear that he’s losing energy fast. “But I don’t want to go home.”
His fingers flex and the next second he pulls his hand away.
“We could get a hotel room.”
“Remi.” He shakes his head, the movement looking like it takes a lot of effort.
God, I love the abbreviation of my name coming from a man so serious all the time.
“Not for that. I just don’t want to go home. There’s a nice hotel four blocks up. We don’t even have to move the car.”
That’s the great thing about New York, everything is within walking distance when you’re in the city.
“Think you can walk a couple blocks?”
His head pulls back like I’ve lost my mind to even ask, and I have no doubt the man would attempt a jog around the block if he was challenged.
>
“Come on.” I slap the inside of his thigh before standing. “You’re not going to last much longer.
“I’ll last all night long if you need me to.” He coughs when he realizes just how sexual the words sound, quickening his steps to move to the aisle.
Chapter 9
Flynn
It’s not the movies that exhausted me. I used to watch those same shows with my dad all the time.
Even though I’ve seen them a million times each and the scary parts seem cheesy now compared to more modern movies, I still get a sense of nostalgia watching them.
I’m just… off.
Blaming it on lack of sleep, I don’t even argue when Remington insists on putting the suite in her name. I opt to lounge on the sofa in the lobby and wait, having to be woken up by a tap on the shoulder when she’s finished with check-in. She could’ve easily bolted. Hell, she could’ve done that when she went to the restroom earlier. I’d like to say I have faith she’d stick around, but I glared down at the app Wren had me add to my phone while waiting for her cell phone to track outside of the building. It never did, and she came right back. She could be luring me into a false sense of security or maybe she’s smart enough not to take off on foot in the middle of the night since her car keys are in my pocket. Either way, the night has been predominately uneventful.
“There are two rooms, both with en suite bathrooms, but I’m going to pull the diva card and insist on the one on the west side. I don’t want to wake up at dawn and hotel curtains aren’t always reliable at keeping the sun out.”
“S-fine,” I mumble, my head growing heavier by the second. “Are you going to take off? I’m so fucking tired, Remi. Can we call a truce for one night?”
“I’m pretty tired myself,” she whispers, her eyes locked on the elevator button panel. “I’m not taking off. Feel free to sleep in front of the door if you don’t believe me, though.”
Honestly, I think I’d be able to sleep anywhere at this point, but I just don’t have the energy to open my mouth with that confession.
When we enter the suite, I loathe the thought of her heading in the opposite direction of me. I don’t want her in my bed. Okay, that’s mostly the truth. Her in my bed breeds a million horrible outcomes, but even in my exhaustion, I’m just not ready to be apart from her. If I were more rested, I’d probably lose my shit over how clingy I’m feeling.
