by Gemma James
As I set the bag on my bed, I reach for my phone and shoot Cash a text telling him I need an hour. He replies seconds later.
Cash: An hour seems like forever.
Me: I’ll make it worth the wait.
Cash: You’re worth it regardless.
A smile teases the corners of my mouth, and a flurry of butterflies takes flight in my belly. Anticipation zings through my blood as I strip and get ready to jump in the shower. Before I make it to the bathroom, another text comes through.
Cash: How does Thai sound for dinner?
Me: As long as it comes with you, it sounds great.
Forty minutes later, smelling of vanilla body wash, I’m dressing in my new lingerie when I detect a knock on the front door.
Shit, he’s early. I already finished my light makeup, but my hair is falling down my back in long, wet strands, and I’ve barely buttoned up my top. I pull on a pair of distressed jeans over the new lace thong I bought—because I want to make him work for it and wearing a dress is too easy. I zip my pants, finger-comb my hair the best I can, then rush to the door and pull it open.
My heart plummets at the sight of the man standing before me.
“It was easier to avoid me when I was halfway across the country.” Chris crosses his arms, and with that cocksure stance of his, my hope for the night withers.
I dart a glance down the vestibule, but we’re alone. “You can’t keep showing up like this.”
“What else am I supposed to do? You won’t answer my calls. Hell, I can’t even get you to text me back.”
“Because I’m not ready to talk to you.” My voice rises, and casting another surreptitious look around us, I even out my tone. “You should’ve stayed in Oklahoma.”
“No, Jules, I should’ve followed you here two months ago. I should’ve fought for you.”
My heart skips a tortuous beat. If I’d answered his texts and made plans to meet him somewhere to return the ring, then maybe I could have avoided this situation. The disappointment on his face is almost too much to bear. Part of me still responds to the hurt in his brown eyes. I do my best to squash that part of myself that wants me to relent and take back the hurt I just caused him, to find a way to smooth it over. Some habits are hard to break and doing whatever it takes to make Chris happy is one of them.
“Well you didn’t,” I say, eyes downcast, “and now it’s too late.”
He steps forward, placing one hand on the open door behind me, and cages me in. “You can’t turn your feelings on and off like that. It doesn’t work that way.”
“You didn’t give me a choice. You packed up your shit and left. Remember?”
“I also remember calling you the next day to work things out, but you’d already hopped on a plane. What the hell was that, Jules?”
“That was me doing what I should’ve done a long time ago.” I draw in a deep breath then let it out. “Neither of us wanted to admit that we were over way before I fucked up with Perry. That was just the catalyst.”
“I don’t buy it. I know you still love me.”
“Part of me will always love you. We’ve known each other for years. How can I not?”
“Then how the fuck can you give up on us like this?”
I flinch at his harsh tone. “It’s not a matter of giving up, Chris. It’s about moving forward.”
He clenches his jaw, and his eyes darken, causing my chest to tighten. As his face comes closer, I forget how to breathe. Next thing I know, his mouth is on mine, the pressure of his lips familiar and insistent as his tongue works past my resistance and darts inside.
He groans, but my throat is a vise silencing even the faintest of sounds. I slam my palms against his chest, meaning to push him away. Instead, I’m paralyzed.
There’s something comforting in his kiss—a hint of the stability I’d grown used to while we were together—and for a few agonizing heartbeats, I give in, returning lick for lick as I grip his shirt in my hands. It’s like being transported back to Oklahoma, to simpler times when he was mine and I was his. We might have fought too often, but at the end of the day I knew I’d have him to come home to.
Until the day I didn’t.
Reality slams into me, and I break the kiss before it can go any further. “I can’t do this.”
“Tell me you didn’t feel that, Jules.”
There’s triumph in his eyes, and I’m about to set him straight when I catch sight of the figure standing behind Chris.
Cash is motionless, his gray eyes narrowed and turbulent as a brewing storm. He’s clutching a takeout bag in his fist, and in the other, I spot a bouquet of tulips.
I open my mouth to speak, but Chris takes one look at my stricken expression and whirls to find my boss standing behind him, staring back with a harsh glint in the steel of his eyes.
“Can we help you with something?” Chris demands, attempting to block my view of Cash.
I step out from behind my ex and find Cash swinging his gaze between Chris and me. He ensnares me in his sight for a few heavy beats, perhaps waiting for me to tell him that what he saw was nothing.
No big deal. A misunderstanding, even.
But this is a conversation we can’t have in front of Chris. The last thing I want to do is cause him more trouble when he’s already dealing with so much. I try to relay to him silently that there is an explanation, but the turbulence in his eyes is a dark gunmetal gray—as overpowering as the weight of the air between the three of us.
There’s no mistaking his anger, and behind that, mistrust.
He’s been betrayed before, and he knows I’ve betrayed someone before. Even knowing that, the way he’s staring at me fucking hurts. He turns away, and I have to bite my lip to keep from calling after him. With Chris here, we can’t afford a bigger scene.
“Who was that?” Chris asks after Cash disappears down the stairs that lead into the alley.
“Just some guy Les set me up with.” My voice wobbles too much, and I can’t meet his gaze because I’m certain he’ll see through the lie.
“That wasn’t a random hookup, Jules. That dude was so fucking territorial, I’m surprised he didn’t piss on your doorstep.”
“It was nothing, really.” I retreat into the sanctuary of my apartment, and Chris follows, letting the door slam behind him.
“It wasn’t nothing. The guy brought you tulips, so don’t even try to play this off as if it’s no big deal. Who is he, Jules?”
“He’s none of your damn business.” I stride through my bedroom and into the bathroom where I left his engagement ring on the counter.
Chris is on my heels the whole way, and when I turn to confront him, I bump into his chest. He steadies me by gripping my arms. “Tell me he doesn’t matter.” The challenge in his voice is unmistakable. So is the hurt and anger.
“He matters,” I say, words mangled as I try to put a lid on my emotions. Stepping back until he lets go of me, I hold out the ring. “And this…” I falter, heartbeat throbbing in my chest. “It doesn’t belong to me.”
He shakes his head, stubborn as ever. “Who else does it belong to? I bought it for you.”
“But you didn’t give it to me until now. Why do you think that is?”
“Don’t hold the past over my head like that. You don’t see me holding Perry over yours.”
Taking his hand, I push the ring into his palm and fold his fingers around what could have been. “What I did that night shadows me no matter where I go. I know I hurt you.” I pause, swallowing hard. “But you were right to leave. We should have called it quits a long time ago.”
He grabs me by the nape, breath shuddering across my lips. “I should have grown the fuck up and put you first. There is so much shit I should have done, but leaving wasn’t one of them. Leaving was the biggest fucking mistake I ever made.”
I close my eyes and breathe, willing my body to stop trembling—to search for strength, because the truest depth of honesty is a bitch, and it stings something fierce.
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br /> “And staying would have been the biggest mistake I would have made.”
His expression crumbles. “Jules…”
I push past him and head to the front door with him on my heels. “I want you to go back to Oklahoma.”
“Don’t do this. You’re reacting out of fear. Or he’s gotten inside your head. Just think about it. This guy can’t be so important that you’d throw us away like this.”
As I swing the door open, the finality of this moment hits me.
The harsh truth of it.
Cash is more important to me than Chris ever was, even in the midst of our happiest times. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I can’t deny the irrevocable pull I feel toward Cash.
“I’m sorry.”
“So that’s it? You’re sorry?” he seethes. “Are you seriously not even going to try to work this out?”
“We can work on being friends, but that’s all I can give you.” I pull the door open wider and give him a pointed look, but behind my cool facade, I’m shaking inside. Confrontations with Chris never fail to drain me, and I already feel myself sinking into despondency.
For several seconds, he doesn’t move, too busy grinding his teeth. Then he storms out of my apartment, and after he disappears from sight, I let the tears fall.
10. Love and Logic
Cash
Something dangerous stirs my blood. Rage toward the guy I found kissing Jules. Possessive anger toward her for searing that image into my head. Underneath the anger, my heart is shredding, and I don’t like it.
I’d have to be blind to miss the plea in her eyes. The silent offer of explanation. Despite only meeting her two months ago, I know her. So I know she’s beating herself up right now for what I saw. I know that she’s conflicted, caught between her feelings for me and the asshole who suddenly decided to fight for her.
I enter the lobby of my building, nodding toward security on my way to the private elevator. This is the last fucking place I want to be right now, but I don’t feel like getting a hotel room or crashing on my brother’s couch again, and Jules is obviously…
Busy.
The thought of what they might be doing wrecks me, and I’m tempted to turn around and storm her place. I’d toss that guy out on his ass, except I don’t want to do that to her.
She needs closure. She needs to move on from him before there can be an us.
The elevator doors open, and I drop the flowers and food onto a table and wander further into the darkness. As I stall in front of the wall of windows in the great room, I can’t help but wonder if I’m just a rebound for Jules. The possibility is a jolt to my gut, a slam to the heart. At the center of my being, I don’t believe it’s true. I refuse to believe it’s true.
We connect in a way I’ve never experienced with anyone. That has to count for something.
The penthouse is silent and still, which is weird since it wasn’t much different with Monica here. All the lights are off, and I’m not inclined to turn one on. By way of illumination from the city lights, I take in the disarray of our home.
Even in the darkness, I note the evidence of the authorities. Yellow tape, disrupted furniture, fine powder from dusting for prints.
The bloodstain where Lydia was found.
With a shudder, I move into the kitchen and grab a bottle of whiskey before pouring three generous fingers. This night calls for a drink. Maybe two or three. I toss back the first, pour another, then make my way back into the great room where I sink into a chair to sit and stew and drink alone. I don’t know how long I sit here. Long enough for it to start raining. Long enough for my brother to show up.
Not bothering to be quiet about his arrival, he strides into the place as if he owns it. He’s so much my carbon copy that security probably didn’t even stop him on the way in, and that takes my mind right back to that photo of Monica screwing around in our bed with someone else.
Anyone going over video footage could have mistaken Kaden for me, just like the authorities did.
“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here,” he says, breaking into my dark thoughts.
“Forensics finished up this afternoon. Got the all-clear to come back.”
“Has there been any news yet?”
“Not from the police. The private investigator I hired discovered that Monica paid Hirsch a large sum of money about three months ago.”
“Seriously?”
Several long moments pass as I study my brother, searching for any hint that he’s hiding something. “Did you ever meet Lydia Hirsch?”
He shakes his head. “No, never.” His forehead creases. “Do you think this Hirsch woman threatened Monica in some way?”
“I’m not sure. Whatever she got caught up in, it’s not good.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. “How are you holding up?”
Propping my elbows on my knees, I look up at his towering form in the darkness. “Whiskey happens to be my best friend right now.” I sound pathetic. Probably look more so, but I can’t muster the energy to care. The last forty-eight hours are catching up to me. I take another long sip of the amber-colored alcohol.
“I got a visit from two detectives today.” He settles into the chair next to me, content as I am to have this chat in the dark.
“Are they considering you a suspect?”
“I don’t think so. Surveillance footage proved I never came up here to the penthouse that day.” He glances around the space, taking in the mess. “You should’ve stayed clear of this place until after the cleaners come through.”
“That was the plan. I was supposed to be with Jules tonight.”
“What happened?”
“I found her in a lip-lock with her ex.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Yep. Seems to be a reoccurring theme.” I shoot him an accusing glance.
He chooses not to rise to the bait. “Maybe she’s not ready to move on yet. She shot me down pretty quick.”
The reminder of his date with Jules threatens to boil my blood, and I’m tempted to tell him that she rejected him because he’s not me, but I bite my tongue. Taking cheap shots at my brother isn’t going to fix shit even if it would make me feel better.
“Maybe she just needs some time,” he adds.
I don’t want to give her time. I want to go back to her place now and pin her to the damn wall. I want to bend her over the couch and fuck her hard from behind. I want to withhold her orgasm so long that she’s in tears as she begs to come with every breath.
Yeah, I’m definitely angry, and there’s no denying it, but I can think of no better way to exorcise that anger, to claim what every fiber of my being knows to be true…
Jules Harley is mine.
My cell vibrates from inside my pocket, and my heart jumps with a shot of adrenaline.
It could be news about Monica.
More than likely, it’s Jules.
Both options split me down the middle. Kaden remains quiet, a curious glint in his eyes as I reach for my phone. Two deep breaths later and a swipe of my thumb, and I have my answer.
Jules: Please come back so we can talk.
Relief crashes over me. If she’s asking me to come back, then that means she’s alone. My thumbs hover over the screen, and I’m so close to replying, but I can’t find the right words. Every time I close my eyes I see her in his arms. And then I see her in mine.
I wish like hell I could rewind time, go back to Saturday morning before we fell into bed together. I’d do so much differently, starting with opening my eyes to Monica’s complete downward spiral.
A knife slices through the pieces of my heart. I’d change so much…yet I wouldn’t change a thing.
Another text comes through, and I startle, coming back to the here and now.
Jules: You left before I could explain.
“Is that Jules?”
I nod at my brother.
He makes a point to look at the time on his cell. “I should get to the club. Go talk to her. A
ir that shit out,” he says, rising. “At least give her a chance to explain.”
Jesus. I let out a breath, and some of the tension in my body dissipates. I’m not sure there’s anything to explain. No matter how I look at our relationship, I can’t find solid ground. We gave in when we should have stayed strong.
We fell in love knowing we’d face a bumpy road full of baggage, so how can I blame her for seeking closure—or whatever it is she’s looking for—with her ex when I’m still wearing a fucking wedding ring?
When my wife is still missing, not to mention possibly responsible for murder?
I can’t.
Not logically.
But that’s the screwed up thing about love—it defies logic. Love turns logic on its pathetic head.
Fuck logic. I want her with every breath inside my lungs, with every drop of blood in my veins. Nothing will quench this soul-burning thirst until I have her underneath me, hot and naked and begging for more.
11. Nirvana
Cash
She doesn’t know I’m coming. Instead of replying to her texts, I headed out the door, driven by urgency and possibly a little lunacy. Because I’m done waiting. We danced around each other for two months before giving in, and ever since then it seems like the world is conspiring to keep us apart.
My wife.
Her ex.
Too much baggage.
Reaching her door, I announce my presence with three loud raps of my fist. My heartbeat does an erratic, thunderous, dangerous dance in my chest as the soft pad of her footsteps narrow the distance between us.
I can already taste her, feel her, smell her. Hear her throaty cries when she comes. God, she’s in trouble. Heaven and Earth can’t stop me.
She swings the door open, and our eyes meet. She sucks in a breath.
I do too, but it does nothing to calm this disastrous storm inside me. It’s not the product of anger, though that emotion is wreaking havoc somewhere in the trenches of my gut. No, this is the consequence of agony, the result of Fate’s merciless fuck you.
This is the by-product of not only catching her in another man’s arms, but reliving the burned image every time I close my eyes.
