Sarah snorted, as if it was a given that he’d do something dumb. The irritating thing was … she was likely right.
CHAPTER TEN
Over the next few days, I kept my phone on me at all times—even at work—just in case Ricky tried to reenter my apartment and tripped my alarms in the process. I waited, totally on edge, for a notification from the alarm app. Waited and waited, but there was nothing. Not a damn peep.
On the off-chance that Ricky might have lengthened his story or written another, I checked the online writer’s community … only to find that he’d deleted his profile and stories. I didn’t know what, if anything, that meant.
Clear would have said that it was a sign that he was backing off, particularly since he hadn’t returned to my apartment. But I wasn’t so sure, which meant it played on my mind and fucked with my concentration as I worked on the final draft of my book. As such, I was making slow progress and that ate into the time I needed to spend on social media, checking emails, and updating my blog.
The guy was fucking with not just my job, but the thing I loved to do most. He was taking the ‘buzz’ out of writing. For that alone, I’d smack the shit out of Ricky when I got my hands on him. And I’d do it with utter pleasure.
“I’ll have a vanilla latte to go, but I don’t want her to make it.”
Pausing in stacking the dishwasher, I turned at the sound of that bitchy voice. And there was Libby. She made me think of a porcelain doll—large blue eyes, button nose, pale skin, strawberry-blonde ringlets, and a mouth that seemed to be always set into a small pout. All that was missing was the frilly dress.
I sincerely admired Libby’s skill with makeup. The woman was a whizz with every product—eye liner, mascara, eye shadow, lipstick, foundation, blusher, eyebrow liner, and lip liner. You name it, she used it.
She knew how to make the most of her features, and knew how to style her hair so there wasn’t a fake curl out of place. I didn’t have the patience or skill to sit in front of a mirror for hours while working to achieve that level of perfection.
I would like to say that the woman was just some spoiled, one-dimensional, overgrown brat, but Libby had her own scars. Many things could be said about Clear Lyons, but she could never be called ‘neglectful.’ She’d always been a hands-on mother; supportive, caring, and protective. She’d never forgotten to pick me up from school, never failed to attend school plays, and never left me at home alone while she swanned off to do her own thing. The same could not be said for Libby’s parents.
I’d gotten the feeling that her father, Hendrix, did care for her, but she’d always been more of an afterthought to him. Libby’s mother, Gilly, seemed to have two missions in life—screw as many guys as possible, and make Hendrix’s life hell for leaving her. Gilly had no compunctions about using Libby to achieve the latter.
Being used to hurt your father had to be hard enough, but it had to be even harder when said father didn’t push to see you or show the kind of interest that might have compensated for your mother’s lack of it. So, yeah, I felt bad for Libby in some ways. That didn’t mean I had time for her bullshit. “Libby, good to see you. Vanilla latte, right?”
She pointed a long, red acrylic nail at Reed. “He’ll take care of it. I don’t want you making my coffee. I don’t trust you not to spit in it. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you had oral herpes.”
“The results were clear last time I was tested,” I said, deadpan. Reed snickered.
She flicked me a condescending, princess-to-peasant look and then turned back to him. “I’ll have the latte to go.”
“Click your fingers all you want, but Reed isn’t going to jump. He doesn’t make the coffees. I do. Now, do you want one or not?”
Libby didn’t look back at me. She carried on talking to Reed. “What’s it like to work with the stepdaughter of a killer? Have you noticed she’s as fucked up as he is yet? I’ll bet you have. It’s hard to miss it. She does try to look normal these days. But then, wackos do that, don’t they? Try to blend and stuff. It’s pointless. Everyone knows that Kensey and her momma are totally screwed up.”
Really, the woman’s material hadn’t changed at all.
“I don’t know how you can stand working with her,” Libby told him. “If I were you, I’d go on strike until she was fired. No one would blame you for it.”
Beyond bored, I sighed. “I don’t suppose this drama of yours has an interval soon, does it? Because I have a life to get on with.” The girl should really get herself one of those, in my opinion.
Libby’s gaze sliced to me. “Drama? The person with the drama is you. Always has been, always will be. You get off on it.”
“Now you’re just projecting.”
“Bitch, your conception wrecked a marriage. Your mother tore a family apart—”
“Then I guess she has something in common with your own mother.” Okay, that was a low blow, but it was also true—Gilly had slept with several married guys.
Libby’s mouth tightened. And when her eyes slid to the empty glass on the bar, I honestly thought she planned to grab it and attempt to smash it over my head.
Removing the glass, I demanded, “Do you want the damn latte or not?” It came as little surprise when she barged out of the bar, head held high.
Reed puffed out a long breath. “That girl needs help. But I really hope she doesn’t get it.”
Yeah, I often felt the same way.
Later that same day, I received a call from Blake, asking me to meet him Friday night at the Vault. Naturally, I had no issues with that. At Sarah’s suggestion, I chose my white strapless dress and paired it with my red heels and red accessories.
Rossi picked me up at seven to drop me at the club. Well, he appeared at seven—I kept the poor guy waiting twenty minutes. Punctuality just wasn’t a trait I possessed. Luckily, he wasn’t pissed about it.
As I stepped off the elevator on B1, I found Blake waiting for me. As always, he looked far too edible for his own good in a white shirt, slate-gray slacks, and gray tie that had thin red stripes running through it.
He breezed toward me, eyes drinking me in. “Stunning.”
I smiled. He never said hello, bye, or bothered with any pleasantries at all—not even during phone calls. I didn’t mind that, though. I wasn’t good at small talk; I’d never quite mastered the art of it.
Like last time, we had a drink in the basement’s lounge before heading off to ‘play.’ I was surprised to hear that he’d booked a standard room again. Apparently, he meant to ease me into things. Honestly, I was a teensy bit disappointed that I wouldn’t get a peek at one of the themed rooms, but the mind-blowing sex totally made up for that.
Saturday evening went pretty much the same way. As did the following Friday, only we also had a meal at the lounge—the food was seriously nice. We met up again the next night and spent some time in the dome, dancing and drinking, before heading to a standard private room.
Later, as we lay on the bed after a round of phenomenal sex, I asked him, “Are you ever going to take me to one of the themed rooms?”
“One night, yes,” Blake replied, fingers idly tracing patterns on my back while I was sprawled comfortably on my stomach. It was no surprise that he didn’t elaborate. Very self-contained, it wasn’t often that he gave lengthy answers.
“Why haven’t you taken me to any yet?”
“I need to be sure what your limits are, what you like, what you don’t like, and that you’re comfortable with me before I thrust you into any of my fantasies.”
“It’s not that your fantasies are deep and dark, right? Because I have no interest in being whipped or anything.”
His mouth curled. “I have no interest in whipping you. I meant it when I said I’m not into BDSM. I very much doubt that any of my fantasies would scare you or send you running. I just want to be sure you’ll be with me all the way, because they’ll be my fantasies, Kensey—that means I’ll expect them to go exactly how I want them to go.”
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It made sense, but I couldn’t guarantee that I’d follow his every order. It wasn’t just that my reflex to authority was to challenge it. It was that I was still uncomfortable with him having a level of power over me … which, of course, was the point he was making. He’d clearly sensed where my head was at, and it was uncomfortable just how good he was at reading me.
I didn’t think I’d ever met someone who was as acutely perceptive and observant as Blake. He had a laser-sharp mental focus. Missed absolutely nothing. Yet, he was quietly observant—not whatsoever obvious about it. Didn’t make you feel like you were being studied. He just paid extreme attention. When at the club, he often scanned his surroundings, as if to ensure that everything was running smoothly. But his mind didn’t wander like that if we were talking. No, I always had his complete attention at times like that. It was … heady.
I was pulled out of my thoughts by the ringing of his cell phone. Rising from the bed, he fished it out of the pocket of his pants and answered, “What is it?”
At least it wasn’t just me who didn’t get a ‘hello.’
He walked into the bathroom to take the call, but I could hear him clearly enough as he said, “At the Vault, why?” A pause. “Can’t. I’m busy … No, the other kind of busy. Call Bastien, he might be free … Then it will have to wait until tomorrow … What’s so damn important that it needs dealing with at two in the fucking morning?” A long pause. “Son of a bitch. You’re absolutely sure? Dig deeper. I need to be certain before I make a move … Right. Tomorrow.”
Moments later, Blake reentered the room and tossed the cell on the desk. He was no longer loose and relaxed. No, he was tense as a bow and looked ready to go to battle.
As his eyes met mine, there was a distance that hadn’t been there before. He looked at me like he didn’t know me. And right then, as he stared at me through flinty eyes that made him seem totally unreachable, I didn’t feel that I really knew him either. This wasn’t the person who’d been lying beside me minutes ago—he wouldn’t doodle patterns on my skin or touch me gently. He’d fuck me stupid, though. I knew that, because I’d met him fleetingly once before.
See, Blake had received a call the previous weekend from someone by the name of Bastien, wanting his aid with something. Whatever Bastien said had put Blake in the same cold and remote state he was in right now. Still, he’d blown the guy off and ended the call. I’d offered to get a cab home so that he could help his employee deal with the situation, but he’d clipped, “Bastien’s a friend, not an employee, he can handle it.” When I’d asked how he’d met Bastien … it was like the shutters went down. No, slammed down. Such a simple question had created an ocean between us. And then he’d fucked me so hard, I was sore for two days straight.
Blake had this way of focusing on me so utterly that I felt the center of his world in that moment, but he could switch to distant in the blink of an eye. A personal question, a phone call, even some inane comment I made—any of those things could slam up a wall between us so fast it was disorientating. And maddening. I’d then later find myself wracking my brain, trying to figure out exactly what it was about what I said, asked, or heard that pushed a hot button for him.
Those walls he often slammed up highlighted just how literally he’d meant it when he’d said that our worlds wouldn’t mix. He hadn’t just meant physically, he’d meant mentally. I could accept that. I could. But when he abruptly switched from attentive to distant like that, I felt … cold. Alone. Unwelcome.
Sitting upright, I said, “I’m going to get dressed. Need to head home.”
“Why?” he asked, tone flat.
“It’s late.” And whatever demons haunted him had a tight grip on him right then. I pushed myself off the bed, but I didn’t take a single step because he stalked toward me. I stiffened. “Blake, no.” But he just kept coming. “No, you don’t get to touch me in anger. Not ever.”
That brought him to a halt. A muscle in his cheek ticked. “I need you right now.”
Shit, how was I supposed to ignore the torment in those words? I couldn’t. So I didn’t fight him as he pushed me back, hooked my legs over his shoulders, and—after a minimal amount of foreplay—fucked me stupid.
Dropping me at my apartment an hour later, he kissed me hard. “Be safe.”
I blinked, surprised. “I will.” Hopefully.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I wasn’t sure what annoyed me more. The dig of the bag handles on my palms, the aches in my feet, or that Sarah was such an indecisive shopper. Redwater City Mall was huge, selling everything from cigars and books to furniture and computer hardware. It was also busy as hell, and what seemed like thousands of voices echoed all around us.
After a long day dealing with crowds, long lines, bags bumping my legs, and the incessant beeping of bar scanners, I just wanted to rest. My feet hurt, my palms stung, and I was seriously hungry.
My nose wrinkled at the smells of hairspray and chemicals coming from the salon nearby. Right then, I stood at a fashion jewelry kiosk, waiting as Sarah debated which bangles to buy. She didn’t ask my opinion, knowing I’d tell her whatever it took to make her hurry the fuck up so that we could leave.
For her, today had been therapeutic. For me, it had been tiring. Online shopping was more my thing—everything was in the one place, which meant there was no traipsing around on foot that got increasingly sore. You didn’t have to leave home, didn’t have to line up, didn’t have to deal with crowds. And considering shop assistants often said, “Sorry, we don’t have it in stock, but we can order it online,” it just seemed easier to cut out the middleman and do it all online yourself.
Out of habit, I glanced around, looking for any sign of Ricky. There was none. Two weeks had gone by, and it had been an uneventful two weeks. He hadn’t made contact again by email, nor had he tried to get back in my apartment. Maybe he’d noticed the alarm sensors on the fire window or something, I didn’t know.
I probably should have considered the lack of activity to be a good thing, but it instead left me feeling antsy. Left me waiting and wondering if, what, and when he’d act again. That in and of itself was mentally draining. If his intent was to make me paranoid and cause my mind to torture me that way, it had had the desired effect.
Was it any wonder that I was again having trouble sleeping? Worse, my book wasn’t going well at all. Whereas before it had been my escape, I now couldn’t plunge myself fully into it. Couldn’t focus enough to fatten the draft with real life. Not while the need to be on my guard pounded at me. Writing was usually morphine for me, but I didn’t even have that now.
That left me more irritated than ever, because I got insanely restless when my head was full of ideas. If I didn’t empty them out onto a piece of paper or my laptop, I was like a woman who’d had way too many expressos—full of inner energy, twitchy, and increasingly intolerant.
I tried not to let that irritability bleed over into my emails, blog, or social media posts, but I wasn’t sure I was successful. I certainly wasn’t successful with that during face-to-face interaction. That was bad, since I wasn’t particularly social at the best of times.
Hearing my cell phone beep, I fished it out of my purse and swiped my thumb across the screen. My stomach fluttered. It was a message from Blake.
Meet me at the Vault at 7
Anger slammed into me hard. Motherfucker. Why was he a motherfucker? Simple. Because Ricky Tate wasn’t the only one who’d gone silent. I hadn’t seen or heard from Blake even once since the night he left me at my apartment with a “Be safe” two weeks ago. He hadn’t called last weekend to arrange another meet, despite telling me that he would. Nor had he answered the text I’d sent, asking if there was a change of plan.
Sure, he was a busy guy. I understood that. Still, he’d found enough damn time to push me for sex before we agreed to our arrangement. It wouldn’t have killed him to send a quick text to let me know that he wouldn’t be able to meet with me, would it?
It wasn�
�t that I was expecting regular texts or calls from him to check-in. This wasn’t a relationship. Our worlds would stay separate—I got that. I even preferred it, since my world was kind of complicated right now and I didn’t particularly want to share those complications with him. But if a guy said he was going to call, he should call. It was about basic respect and common decency.
I’d started to wonder if maybe he was bored now that the chase was over. That happened with some guys—they were all about the thrill of the chase, the challenge, and things were no longer fun when they’d run down their prey. I’d met men like that before. Blake didn’t seem to be one of them, but it was hard to tell for sure, since he held so much of himself back. It made him extremely difficult to read.
Another possibility was that he was behaving this way to make some kind of point—communicating what expectations I should and shouldn’t have of him and, thus, staying in control. But that seemed a little childish. Blake had never struck me as childish. And he was far too straightforward to passively make a point. Again, though, I just couldn’t be sure.
Whatever the case, he was one bold fucker to break his two-week silence with a text that didn’t even include a ‘hi.’ He hadn’t asked how I was. Hadn’t apologized for not being in touch or for not replying to my text. Hadn’t asked if I was free tonight. No, he expected me to jump at his order. Not only that, he’d told me to meet him at seven, which was in an hour’s time.
“You okay?” asked Sarah, brow pinched.
“Blake just texted me.” I showed her the message, and her expression hardened.
“What kind of advanced notice is that?”
“The kind of notice that says he thinks I’m sitting at home twiddling my fingers, just in case he calls. And look, he hasn’t called. He sent me a text, summoning me.” Had I really struck him as the type of person who jumped at anyone’s order? If so, he wasn’t quite as perceptive as I’d thought.
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