The Opposite Effect

by Shandi Boyes

  She squares her shoulders and looks me dead in the eyes. “Certain.”

  Not thinking of the repercussions my actions could cause to my business, I seize Clara's elbow and drag her towards my bike. The clicking of her heels drowns out a small portion of her incessant rant on my beastly demeanor. The angry sneer of her tone changes to panicked when I snag my helmet out of the saddlebag and place it on her head.

  When squealing brakes shrieks over her blubbering, Clara cranks her head to the side in just enough time to see bus 57 pulling away from the curb. Realizing the next bus doesn’t arrive for another forty minutes, she swings her eyes back to me. Her pupils are massive, nearly swamping her entire cornea.

  “I can’t, Brax. . . Oh god. I can’t,” she mumbles with her eyes fixated on my bike.

  She shakes like a leaf when I ignore her continuing protests by lifting her in my arms and plopping her on my seat. She looks prepared to flee, but her panic has rendered her motionless. I open my mouth, planning to deliver some reassurance to the dark cloud of fear forming in her eyes, but my words fail when my eyes zoom in on the indecent amount of her smooth thighs her new straddled position has exposed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as provocative as a princess on the back of a Harley—my Harley.

  Dragging my eyes away from the mouthwatering visual I have no right to be perusing, I climb on my bike. “If you don’t want to fall off, you better hold on tight,” I warn.

  Any objections spilling from her lips are drowned out by the loud rumble of my engine when I kick over the motor. As I pull into the heavy flow of traffic, Clara plasters her torso to my back and wraps her arms around my waist. It should feel wrong to have her sitting on the back of my bike—very, very wrong—but this feels right. Actually, it feels fucking great.

  Clara remains quiet the entire twenty-mile trip to her apartment building. There isn’t much chance of holding a conversation between the warm May wind whipping past us and motorists honking their horns as I glide my bike through the densely populated roads.

  When I pull into the driveway of Clara’s apartment building on Hyde, she wastes no time scampering off my bike. “Are you a goddamn lunatic?!” she screams, yanking my helmet off her head.

  I slide down the kick stand, then dismount my bike. “I did the speed limit. . . just,” I reply with a chuckle.

  A winded grunt escapes my lips when Clara shoves my helmet into my chest with brutal force. “You could have killed me.”

  “I’ve been riding these streets for years, Princess. I know them like the back of my hand.”

  “You could have killed me, Brax!” she screams again, her eyes teeming with tears.

  Although I’ve imagined for weeks what she'd sound like screaming my name, I don’t want to hear it like this.

  “I'd never. . .”

  When her eyes stray to the ground, I grip the top of her arms, forcing her to lock her eyes with mine. “I would never let anything happen to you, Clara.”

  I stare into her eyes, ensuring she can see the truth in mine. "I shouldn't have forced you onto my bike, and I'm sorry if I scared you. But I promise you, you were safer on the back of my bike than on the bus."

  Gritting her teeth, she yanks out of my embrace and storms into her apartment building. I run my hand over the top of my head, vainly trying to gather some of my scattered composure. It’s a fruitless effort considering the reasoning behind my skittish demeanor just stormed away from me. After gesturing to the valet that I’ll be back in a few, I take off after Clara. I only just make it into the elevator before the doors snap shut. Clara maintains a quiet front, but I can tell she has noticed my presence. Not only did she intake a sharp breath when I first entered the cramped elevator car, but her scorching eyes also haven't left mine for the past ten floors.

  For each floor the elevator rises, the number of occupants dwindles. Once we reach the 30th floor, Clara and I are the only remaining riders. When I take a step towards her, she cranks her head to the side and spears me in place with her furious gaze. Even with her composure screaming annoyance, her pupils are massive, exposing her earlier panic is still firmly clutching her throat.

  “Clara—”

  My words halt when the elevator dings, announcing we have arrived on the penthouse floor. My strides out of the elevator car come to a dead stop when Clara suddenly spins around to face me.

  “I can take it from here,” she mutters, her words shaking as badly as her composure.

  "I just want to make sure you don't pass out in the hallway.” My tone relays the honesty of my statement. She looks beyond rattled that I don't feel comfortable leaving her unattended.

  Her wide eyes bounce between mine, but not a word escapes her hard-lined mouth.

  "I've come this far; what's a few more steps?" I gesture my head to a set of double doors a measly few feet from us.

  Clara’s eyes follow mine before she faintly whispers, “Okay. But you’re only walking me to my door. You can’t come in.”

  I gesture with my hand for her to lead the way. Although annoyed at the bitterness of her tone, I’m also grateful she's lowering some of the impenetrable walls she has placed between us.

  My thankfulness is short-lived.

  Any panic left on Clara's face from the ride on the back of my bike turns to absolute fury when her eyes drink in the eviction notice taped to her apartment door.

  Snatching the document off the polished hardwood door, her eyes speedread the notice. “You bitch!”

  Her hair smacks me in the face when she abruptly spins on her heels and storms to a door directly across from her apartment. Her abrupt movements infuse the corridor with her rich floral scent. Loud bangs on a wooden door bellows through my ears when Clara whacks her fists on her neighbor’s door. Her pounding is so hard, I won't be shocked if she turns up to Inked on Tuesday with busted knuckles.

  Clara stumbles forward when the door is suddenly yanked open. I grab the top of her arms, ensuring she doesn't kiss the pristine marble foyer of her neighbor's entrance. After gathering her footing, Clara pulls out of my embrace and locks her angry eyes with the blonde who just opened the door.

  Following Clara’s irate gaze, my eyes bulge. Damn! I'm living in the wrong neighborhood. With long, wavy platinum blonde hair, fierce green eyes, and a body any man would happily spend hours exploring, Clara’s neighbor is a knockout, an easy ten out of ten.

  “You can’t do this.” Clara shoves the piece of paper she snatched off her door into the chest of her neighbor. “I still have another two months remaining on my lease.”

  The blonde grins a ball-clenching smile that nearly has the same effect on my cock as Clara's feistiness. "Chapter 83 of the Florida State landlord statues clearly state Isaac is acting within his rights by issuing you an eviction notice," she replies, her words as strong as her stance.

  Clara takes a retreating step, bewilderment evident all over her face. She isn’t the only one surprised. The last time I was confronted with the name Isaac was when Clara wanted it inked on her skin nearly six months ago.

  “Isaac approved this?” Clara queries, her voice hindered with shakiness.

  The blonde crosses her arms under her impressive rack. "Isaac is a businessman, Clara. His priorities remain focused on his empire, leaving me the task of ensuring the trash is placed on the curb."

  “Trash?”

  “Yeah. Trash," her neighbor replies, drawing out the derogatory word in a long hiss. "You are nothing but a vindictive little bitch who is about to be taught a precious lesson."

  Ouch! Even my ego got slapped by that catty remark.

  Though she copped a low blow, in true Clara style, she straightens her spine and gives as good as she's getting. "Well, I have news for you, sweetheart. . .”

  I grin, loving that she used a term of endearment as if it is an offensive word.

  “The only person going to be taught a valuable lesson is you. You can act all high and mighty in your designer pantsuits sipping expensive wine
from a crystal flute in your fancy top floor penthouse, but at the end of the day, you're no better than me.”

  Clara takes a step closer to her neighbor, meeting her eye to eye. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Regan, because when Isaac finds out about the special guest you’ve been entertaining the past two months, it’s all going to come tumbling down, one Chanel suit at a time.”

  Flashing a sly grin, Clara spins on her heels and enters her apartment without a backward glance. I remain motionless, standing in the foyer with my mouth gaped open and my cock as hard as stone. There's nothing as compelling as a feisty princess standing her ground.

  I’m not the only one who has been rendered into silence by Clara’s gutsy tirade. Her neighbor stands just as muted as me.

  Several seconds of dense awkwardness passes before Regan shifts her eyes to me. “You should be cautious about messing with a woman like Clara,” she warns, her tone not as snarky as the one she used while tussling with Clara.

  A grin tugs my lips higher. “I could say the same to you.”

  Regan doesn’t attempt to refute my statement because you can’t deny the truth.

  Chapter Ten

  I jerk my chin up in greeting to Penny—the nurse my grandma tried to set me up with three months ago—before I continue striding down the corridor of Caramine Care.

  Although Penny has the naughty nurse getup down pat, I'm glad I steered clear of her tempting offer. I've got enough on my plate with a certain feisty little princess to be adding any more into the mix.

  I knocked on Clara's door for a good ten minutes last night, only to be asked to leave through a crack the width of an inch. I only left when she guaranteed me she wouldn't take the bus to work on Tuesday. Even though she agreed to my demand, I have an inkling she won’t adhere to my advice. She better or she will find out the hard way that I'm a man of my word.

  Just as I'm about to enter my grandmother's room, the quickest glimpse of a profile stops me in my tracks. Clara has just exited a door a few spots down from my grandma's room. She stops halfway down the corridor to chat with a man in a navy-blue suit and a white doctor's coat.

  A woman of Clara's caliber could never be referred to as dowdy, but with her pale face and the red rims around her eyes, her usually bright appearance is a little more tarnished than normal. Even tired, her beauty can't deter her male companion’s longing glance at her backside as she saunters away from him.

  Clara’s composure is so off-kelter, she doesn't notice me gawking at her as she strides down the narrow hallway. Even stepping into her path doesn't slow her brisk pace.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, her voice barely recognizable as she sidesteps me and continues for the door.

  Her brisk pace only falters when I ask, "Why are you in such a hurry, Princess?"

  Her hands dart up to rub her face before she slowly spins on her heels to face me. I take a step back, uneased by the look on her face. Bitchy, hormonal women I can handle. But a crying one? Not so much.

  Acting purely on impulse, I draw her into my chest and guide her into my grandma’s room. Thankfully, the room is empty. Clara stiffens like a board the instant I curl my arms around her shoulders, but surprisingly, she doesn’t fight against my hold. I expected her to shove me away, or to yell at me to “get my filthy beast hands off her.” But she does nothing. She just accepts my comfort without a single qualm spilling from her lips. Hell must have frozen over.

  I'm confident she can hear my heart hammering my ribs, but I don't care. I continue to hold her in as tightly to my body as I can, relishing a moment of reprieve from the bickering we've endured the past three months.

  My bliss doesn’t last long.

  “Let me just grab my coat then. . . Oh, hello, Brax,” my grandma greets me with her rheumy eyes bouncing between mine before they lower to Clara plastered against my torso.

  Clara freezes before pulling away from my embrace. Her red-rimmed eyes stare into mine for numerous heart-clutching seconds before she swings them to my grandma standing in the doorway. The whiteness of her face grows when her eyes absorb my grandma's flushed cheeks and gaping mouth.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Not waiting for a reply, she bolts for the door.

  “You don’t need to leave, dear,” my grandma advises Clara’s quickly retreating frame.

  Either not hearing a word my grandmother spoke, or choosing to ignore it, Clara continues for the door.

  “Clara!” I shout when she flees into the corridor without a backward glance.

  By the time I make it to the hallway, being extra attentive not to bump into my grandma, Clara has already exited the double automatic doors of Caramine Care and climbed into the back seat of a taxi idling at the curb. Although I’m grateful she was smart enough not to take the bus, I’m not sure how her bank balance will handle the forty-mile cab fare from here to her apartment building.

  Once Clara’s taxi disappears from my view, I walk back into my grandmother’s room. She has seen Mrs. Porter off and is sitting on the edge of her pale blue bedspread-covered bed. Her face looks as shocked as Clara’s did when I told her she had secured a two-week trial at Inked.

  “I didn’t realize you knew the McGregors.”

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I take a seat on the recliner next to my grandma. “Yeah, Clara’s been working with me the past few months.”

  My grandma’s eyes rocket to mine. “Clara works at Inked?” Her voice is smeared with uncertainty, and she looks the most dumbfounded I’ve ever seen her.

  "Yeah.” I nod my head. "Don't look so shocked, Grandma; we aren't all tattoo-covered Neanderthals."

  My grandma slices her hand through the air. “It’s not that, Brax; I’m proud of you and the crew at Inked. They’re my family. I’m just surprised a sweet young thing like Clara would be seen over that side of town, let alone need a job.”

  “You’re not the only one surprised. I’ve been asking myself the same question the past three months.” I scoot across the leather seat and rest my elbows on my knees. “Do you know who Clara was here visiting?” My voice is shaky, hampered by the guilt I feel for prying into Clara’s personal life.

  My grandma locks her glistening baby blues with mine. “When she wants you to know, Brax, she will tell you.”

  I sink deeper into my chair and run my hand down the front of my tired face. I shouldn’t have expected a different response from my grandma. She’s never seen politeness in snooping.

  After giving myself a few minutes to gather my strewn composure, I ask, "Do you know if Clara has any family out this way?"

  When my grandma’s eyes thin, I add on, “I’m not prying into her personal life, Grandma; I’m just trying to keep an eye on her. She had her car towed last night, and when I rode her home, there was an eviction notice taped to her front door.”

  The concern in my grandma’s eyes intensifies with every word I speak. “Oh, Brax, you’ve got to help her,” she requests, her words pleading.

  "I'm trying, but she's the most guarded woman I've ever handled. Unlike you, she holds in her inner dialogue and protects her secrets with an iron fist. . . Or knee.”

  I confessed my prior run-ins with Clara to my grandma the Sunday following the knee-to-my-balls incident. It wasn’t that I felt forthcoming. It was the fact I couldn’t walk without grimacing that had me spilling the beans. It was only my crippled status that stopped my grandmother from issuing her own form of justice.

  My grandma's lips tug into a wry grin, but the concern in her eyes doesn't dampen the slightest from my witty comment. "The McGregors were based in Hopeton up until a few years ago. When Clara's momma got sick, they moved her to a superior care facility in New York City. Since most of the children were young, they moved right along with her."

  A niggle hits my chest. “Is her momma still sick?” Concern for finding out Clara’s mother is unwell is evident in my voice.

  My grandma nods. “There's no cure for dementia, Brax. No matter how much money you throw at the
fancy doctors.”

  The niggle in my chest turns into a full stab. “How old is her momma?”

  Clara is only twenty-five, so even if her mom had her late in life, she’d still only be mid-fifties to sixties now.

  “Way too young to be dealing with dementia. Some days she'd recognize her kids; others, she couldn’t tell them apart from the nursing staff.”

  I run my hand over my recently clipped hair. “Tough break.”

  My grandma connects her sorrow-filled eyes with mine. “Yeah, especially after everything Clara has been through. She needed her momma, but unfortunately, her momma needed her more.”

  The pain in my chest turns catastrophic.

  A bead of sweat rolls down my back as my head cranks to the side in super slow motion. My teeth smacking together shrills into my ears as I plummet to the ground. While I’m distracted by my conversation with my grandmother yesterday, Diesel’s right-swung fist connects hard with my left jaw. He knocks my jaw into the next century, right along with my ego. I spit out my mouth guard before running the back of my hand across my mouth, removing a smear of blood his hit produced. Diesel stands in the corner of the ring as instructed by Hank. His grin is smug, but his eyes show his true response: regret.

  Hank, Diesel’s trainer, squats down in front of me. His nearly black eyes assess my face as he runs his thumbs along the edge of my jaw. “Nothing appears broken, although you may end up with a nasty bruise in a few days,” he advises.

  He stands from his crouched position and offers me his hand. His strong yank on my arm has my feet lifting from the ground. For an older guy, Hank is ripped and extremely fit. He has dark afro hair clipped close to his scalp; his mocha skin is covered with a collection of tattoos Ryder inked on him, and his eyes are the darkest I've ever seen. Hank's son Derrick was not only a customer of mine, he was also a longtime friend. I was devastated when I was informed he was gunned down four years ago as he and Hank left a boxing tournament. It's one of those moments I will never forget. Derrick was set for greatness, all to have it snatched away by a man who couldn't grasp defeat. It was a truly senseless tragedy.