The look on Jesse’s face is worth whatever I have to put up with by letting Hubert’s men protect me. His face doesn’t betray much, but his eyes are slightly narrowed and his nostrils are flared. I can practically feel the hot anger radiating off him. It feels good to get him back, even if I’m being a little childish to do it.
But as quickly as the anger in his features came, it’s gone. His lips curl at the corner and his eyes relax, as if something funny just occurred to him. “Of course, the more the merrier,” he agrees.
“Well, thanks Hubert,” I say, knowing he still wants me to call him dad. I see him flinch every time I use his name, but I can’t make myself do it. He’s not my dad. He has been nice to me and I don’t have anything real to complain about, but calling him dad wouldn’t feel right. It would be a betrayal. My dad was one of the few good things in my life before he passed. Hubert can be overbearing, possessive, and ruthless, but he does love me in his own way. It’s just impossible not to compare him to my father, not to catalogue every shortcoming.
“Be careful out there. Call me if there’s any trouble.”
We’re met by two members of my “team” right outside the door. They are the big beefy types, like men I would expect to see watching the door of a club. One is bald and the other has a closely shaved head.
“I’m George,” says the bald one. “I’ll be your driver.”
“I’m Rafal,” says the one with the shaved head. He has a thick, almost Russian accent. “I hurt anyone who try to hurt you.”
I glance at Jesse and don’t like the way he’s still smirking. I’m sure whatever he thinks is so funny isn’t going to amuse me, and I’m not looking forward to figuring out what it is.
“This way, Miss Pierson,” says Rafal. “We take back exit.”
I look at Jesse, but he only waves me on, falling in behind us. Rafal holds the door for me and I’m followed into the staircase by George. The staircase is bringing back memories of the man in the gold mask, but I push down my fears. I want to get under Jesse’s skin by doing exactly what these men say. I want him to see I was only obstinate with him. It’s a small punishment for what he did, but I feel the need to lash out in some way.
I hear an abrupt shuffling sound from behind me and the door closes. There’s a dull thump and a grunt. A second later, the door opens and Jesse strides through, straightens the sleeves of his jacket, and winks at me. He’s alone. Where’s Rafal? I frown at Jesse, but he only watches me with eyes full of laughter. Rafal probably just took the elevator to check downstairs before we get there. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that Jesse is up to something.
Climbing down the thirty flights of stairs has me huffing and puffing by the time we’re done. George looks even worse than I do. His bald head is shining and dripping and his cheap suit is stained through with sweat. To my annoyance, Jesse isn’t even out of breath. We’re about to step into the building’s lobby when Jesse steps in front of the door. He bumps into me as he pushes past and I can’t help noticing how unbelievably hard his body is. It’s like bumping into a life-sized G.I. Joe.
“You said you’re the driver, right?” asks Jesse, pulling a set of keys free and twirling them. My keys. How the hell… “Catch,” he says, tossing the keys in a high arc to George.
George’s eyes follow the keys up, and Jesse takes a quick step in, spinning George around in a complicated maneuver. In a split second, Jesse has George from behind, forearm pressing into George’s neck. Jesse reaches up casually and catches the keys he tossed, then lowers George to the ground as George’s reddening face goes slack and he loses consciousness.
“You can’t--” I start.
“He’s just taking a nap. Thirty minutes or so and he’ll be up and good to go.”
I fold my arms. “No. I’m not going with you. You can’t just do that and expect me to walk away with you. Where’s the other one?”
I suck in a breath, ready to call for Rafal, but Jesse steps closer to me, planting a hand on the wall behind me so he has me pinned in, unable to escape. Fear and attraction swirl in my chest.
“You will come with me. I can carry you out over my shoulder, kicking and screaming, or you can leave with some dignity. Your choice.”
“You’re a fucking asshole,” I say.
“You don’t have to like me. You just have to do what I say. Do you understand?”
I want to fight it, to run, to scream, or to make a scene, if for no other reason than to teach him he can’t talk to me like that. But the only one that would hurt is me. Someone would snap a picture on their phone and it would end up plastered all over the tabloids by tomorrow morning. I’d have to deal with Frank’s disappointment and questions from the paparazzi.
I follow him through the lobby, feeling pissed off and helpless. He makes me sit in the passenger seat and gets behind the wheel. I fold my arms under my breasts, looking out the window. It annoys me that I can still see the ghost of his reflection as he drives, looking stony and handsome. A wave of nostalgia rips through me, but it only brings sadness, because this isn’t the boy I loved in high school. Jesse is someone else now, something else. Whatever happened to him in the years we’ve been apart changed him.
He drives us past the road to my apartment, showing no sign of slowing down. “You just passed my--”
“We’re staying at my place tonight. It’s safer.”
“No way. All my things are at my apartment. I can’t just stay at your place without notice.” I frown, voice growing hard. “I won’t. Take me to my apartment.”
“No,” he says simply.
In a moment of desperation, I reach to grab the door handle, even though we both know I wouldn’t actually jump out of the car, but he casually flicks the child-protection locks and prevents me from even unlocking my own door. How fucking appropriate. He is controlling me as easily as you might control a child. Well fuck him. I’ll wait until he lets his guard down and get him back for this. Somehow.
I resume looking out the window and say nothing for the rest of the drive. His apartment building is modern and obviously expensive. He parks in a valet spot and tries to help me from the car, but I stand on my own, ignoring the hand he extends to me. I hate the way he just smirks at my rudeness, like he doesn’t think it’s real, like he thinks this is a game. It just makes me want to get him back even more, to get him back harder.
God, he’s turning me into a spiteful child. I know he is, but I can’t help it. I’ve spent so long rebuilding my life after him. As stupid as it was, by the time we had been dating a few months, I was already planning my life around him. I only applied to the colleges I knew he’d want to play football for. I spent all my free time studying so I would have the grades to get into those schools. I thought we would get married and have kids. I let my social life fall to pieces around me because I knew he was the one. I knew it so absolutely that at some point, the idea of us breaking up stopped being a possibility.
Then it happened. He showed me I never really knew him at all, and he broke my heart. At first I was just devastatingly sad. I thought maybe I had done something to deserve it, or I could have been a better girlfriend. After that, I thought maybe I had just misunderstood, that he really was planning to come back to me after he finished his overseas tour. Eventually though, all I felt was anger. It wasn’t the kind of anger that makes me want to throw things or yell. It was a slow-burning, smoldering anger that settled in my stomach and never quite left, touching every emotion I’ve felt since with just the smallest hint of bitter heat. He marked me, and I hated him for it.
I look at him now and wish he had let himself go in the years since we were together. It would be easier to forget the past if he was a shell of his former self, unsure, remorseful, and broken. Instead, he looks more put together than he ever was, despite what I said to him after we ran into the woman in the elevator. He’s frustratingly competent, unbelievably fit, and even more gorgeous than I remember. My traitorous body can attest to the last. Just be
ing near him makes my heart pound, even if I want to hurt him as much as I want to kiss him. The only flaw is the glint of pain in his eyes that surfaces at random, in the moments when he’s quiet and doesn’t think I’m looking.
Once we’ve parked and gotten out of the car, Jesse jogs up the stairs to the building, glancing behind to make sure I’m following. I try really, really hard not to look at the way his dark pants pull against his tight ass and hugs those long, lean legs of his. I mostly succeed, and I’m grateful when I’m no longer slightly beneath him so that his jacket covers most of his ass again.
I raise my eyebrows at the luxurious lobby of his apartment building. It’s all sleek, polished wood and dark reds. It has an old money, sophisticated kind of vibe, and I have to admit, a little bit of a sexy atmosphere. Just the kind of place I would imagine a man like Jesse living. There are several large rooms set off from the main lobby. I can see workout equipment beyond one door, elegant cursive lettering labeling a spa in another area, and a strange windowed area with what must be artificial grass and even hills. A small swarm of dogs runs by my view and I smile a little. Really? He lives in an apartment with an indoor dog park?
To my surprise, he heads straight for the dog area. When he opens the door, a young blonde girl gives me an appraising look and doesn’t bother hiding her jealousy. She must think I’m with him. I don’t know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. She can have him for all I care. He’d probably love to fuck some young pretty thing like her. He probably already has…
I’m annoyed when the thought makes my stomach turn a little. It’s not jealousy, it’s just… disappointment. The Jesse I knew wouldn’t do things like that, but this new man might. I don’t know what he’s capable of anymore, and that scares me.
The girl turns her head, not letting her eyes move far from Jesse. “Makayla! Come here, sweetie!” she calls.
I feel a jolt of confusion. It’s only when I look to Jesse and see the way his cheeks are actually flushing with red that I realize. He named his freaking dog after me.
I give him an incredulous look, but he only shrugs. “She came with the name,” he says with uncharacteristic quickness. “Got her from a shelter.”
“Right,” I say, starting to grin.
He turns to leave and the girl takes two quick steps after him. “Have a good day, Mr. Slade!”
He nods, pushing back through the doors and heading for the elevator with his panting bulldog in tow.
“Do you make her call you Mr. Slade, or was that her idea?”
He half-turns to look down at me, quirking an eyebrow in an irritatingly sexy way. “You’re jealous? Of her?”
I laugh a little too loud. “Yeah. Totally. Look. It’s your life to do whatever you want with. You made that perfectly clear ten years ago.”
He says nothing, but tries to guide me into the elevator by the small of my back. I quickly step in, avoiding his touch, though I don’t know how much of that is because I’m furious with him and how much is because I don’t want my bastard emotions to cloud my judgment. Why is it so hard to completely hate him? Even if he wants to play tough guy and act like I have no choice in this, I know I could just walk. He’s not going to throw me over his shoulder and drag me back into his apartment in front of all these people. He’s not going to punish me for disobeying him.
I shift on my feet, pressing my thighs together a little tighter. Thinking about him punishing me is doing all the wrong things to me. I just need to leave. But I can’t. As immature as it is, I know if I leave it will be like admitting defeat, like he won. If I leave, it shows him that I never got over him. It shows that I didn’t take control of my life after he left and I never moved on. Well, screw that.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
The dog pants happily, but she’s so overfed she might as well be a zeppelin with four furry legs. “I see the dog doesn’t take fitness as seriously as you do?”
Jesse glares at me with unexpected hurt in his face. “She has a slow metabolism.”
The way he defends her is cute, but as soon as I feel myself softening again for him I think back to that day at Donovan’s and the way his face was blank when he told me he was leaving.
“How long does this elevator take?” I snap suddenly.
“A minute and fifteen seconds.”
I roll my eyes. “You would know exactly how long.”
“Paying attention to details is part of what makes me the best. For example, you’re wearing a thong.”
The doors open and he walks down a long hallway covered in matte-finish gray tiles, leaving me standing there, mouth hanging open while his bulldog stands dutifully beside me. How did he…
I follow him down the hallway, self-consciously pulling at the back of my dress and feeling to see if it’s really so tight that he could see. I know I should feel mortified or violated that he was staring at my ass enough to notice, but I can’t quite push down the thrill of excitement at the flirtation of his words.
The doors to the apartments on his floor are silver and modern, giving the whole hallway an expensive, clean atmosphere. He unlocks his door, using three different keys to open three different locks.
“Three locks?” I ask.
“Like I said. My place is safer.”
He opens the door and I can’t help raising my eyebrows in appreciation when I see his apartment. It’s airy with high ceilings, and the far wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that give a spectacular view of the city and the sparkling ocean behind it. The furniture is modern and sleek, reeking of money and cleanliness. The place is so spotless I’m sure he must have a cleaner, and so tasteful there’s no way he put it all together himself. He strips off his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I ask, breath catching in my throat. I can see the smooth crease between his chest muscles and I anticipate seeing more.
“Taking a shower. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Make yourself at home. Just don’t leave.”
“What, am I your prisoner now?”
He strips his shirt all the way off and I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. There isn’t an ounce of fat on his body, just slabs of perfectly sculpted muscle. I can’t help letting my eyes wander from his broad shoulders to the perfect line of division between his abs and then to the diagonal cuts of his obliques. I’m fascinated by the way his muscles cord and relax as he slips the shirt off. I would think he was stripping in front of me to show off, but there’s no hint of it in his face, as if he’s completely unaware how mind-numbingly perfect his body is and what seeing it would do to me.
“No,” he says, turning to walk to the shower. “You’re just my guest who can’t leave.”
I watch his chiseled back until he rounds the corner. I finally suck in a breath once he’s out of sight, only now able to fill my lungs completely. “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath with less conviction than I would like.
I hear the shower start and I realize I’m alone in his place. Out of idle curiosity, I start to wander through the apartment, first moving through his kitchen. I’m surprised to see that it’s professional-grade with gas ranges and a temperature controlled glass case filled with dozens of potted herbs. I purse my lips. He either takes his cooking seriously, or he has someone he pays to do it for him. Probably the latter.
I wander into another room set off from the kitchen and realize it must be his bedroom. I nearly turn and leave to avoid being more of a snoop than I already have been, but something compels me forward. I’m not sure what I expect to find… panties? Maybe even some floosie he forgot was still sleeping at his place? I try not to imagine how many women he’s had in the luxurious bed that fills the center of his room.
I’m about to turn and leave when my elbow bumps a fancy display with an expensive watch to the ground beside his dresser.
I wince, falling to my knees to pick it up when I notice a seam beneath the lowest drawer. There’s a small, almost imperceptible ridge w
here I can fit my finger. I put the watch back on the dresser and focusing on the ridge. I hook my finger in and tug, pulling out a thin drawer. There’s just a single composition book inside. It’s leather-bound and a little battered. I lift it carefully, noticing one of the corners is torn.
I know I should close it and walk away. I try to stop myself, but my curiosity overpowers everything else and I open the book.
October 27th, 2004
Apparently I have to actually write in this thing. I tried blowing it off and they threatened to drydock me for the next mission if I didn’t start playing along with the therapist. I’m supposed to talk about my feelings in here. What the fuck is there to talk about? I’m pissed off and it doesn’t seem to matter how many of them I kill. I’m still pissed. They took my father from me, they made me leave my girl…
I clutch the journal a little tighter. 2004… that was three years after he left me. He couldn’t be talking about me. After all, he said he never loved me in the first place, that he was trying to get laid. I take a deep breath and read more.
The doc wants me to speak my mind, well, fuck it. I put my fucking knife in a kid’s heart back in Tajikistan. It was a night mission. A simple grab and go for some journalist that command considered an asset. We almost got out clean when I saw someone trying to get to the landline to call for help. A few seconds and he could’ve brought dozens of insurgents down on us. So I grabbed him by the mouth and stuck my fucking knife in his chest.
It was only after he stopped twitching that I dropped him and saw how young he was. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, and I killed him. The worst part was how they all patted me on the back for saving the mission and told me what a big fucking hero I was.
Is that enough fucking emotion for one day? I don’t feel any better. A lot of good this fucking journal is doing.
My heart aches for Jesse. I realize suddenly how selfish I’ve been. While I thought I was living a hard life because I had to face rejection after rejection auditioning for parts and playing in small, shitty roles to work my way up, he was dealing with all this? It doesn’t completely excuse what he did, but it helps, and I’m already regretting how I’ve treated him so far. At least a little bit. I hear the shower stop running and hurriedly put the journal back in place, feeling a stab of guilt for invading his privacy.
Knocked Up and Punished Page 38
