“So why don’t you do that?”
“What?”
“Advertise and market for businesses?”
“I graduated in finance. I only took one class in marketing.”
“So?”
“So… the money is better in finance and marketing/PR is extremely hard to get into. I mean, anyone can start their own company, but it’s difficult to survive in the industry with such a flood in the market, especially when I don’t have a degree in that.”
“You’d rather spend your life doing something you hate?”
“No.”
“Okay… design my logo. What would it look like?”
“For you?” She squinted up at me. “I’d make it different from everyone else. A little sexier.”
“What?” I snorted. “Me without my shirt on?”
“Do you know how much business you’d get?” She motioned to me. “But no. Though probably not too far off.” She tapped her lip. “Maybe a dark outline of a guy…” She coughed. “You. A shirtless guy with hot, toned body with a construction hat and hammer over his shoulder walking out from a built house like he just slayed the bitch, and S.B. Construction underneath.”
“Shit.” I blinked. “You came up with that off the top of your head?”
“I was joking.”
“Joking?” I sputtered, my mind racing with the idea of it. “That’s a perfect logo. Especially in Los Angeles. Jesus, be like chum in the water.” All the bored, rich Hollywood housewives wanting to build their next house or an expansion on their huge mansion. They were actually the ones hiring and working with the contractors, while their husbands sat in an office, his name attached as some producer to a film.
“Don’t think you’re getting it for free.” She leaned in, nipping my lip. “There will be a heavy price tag.”
“Since I have no business yet, no money coming in, how do I pay off my bill?” My hand slid over her ass, pulling her into me. Already hard, my dick screamed to be inside her again.
“Hmmm… guess we’ll have to work out a payment plan.” Her voice was low and taunting in my ear; her leg hooked higher onto mine, her mouth claiming mine. “Might take a while to pay off. Like years.”
Shit! Tell her. She needs to know the truth. You’re being a spineless bastard.
“Kins…” I tipped away, breaking the kiss. Shit, was I going to do this? Would she understand or run as fast as she could, despising me?
“Shhh.” She pushed me on my back, crawling over me, straddling me, racing the blood straight to my already hard cock. “Too much talking.”
“And here I was trying to have a meaningful conversation with you.” I feigned hurt.
“Later.” She dragged her hips over me, curving my head deeper into the pillow. “Right now, shut up while I ride you.”
Damn. Who was I to argue with that?
“Come on.” I reached for her hand crossing the street, dodging both the horse carriages full of tourists and the cars on Decatur Street, the prominent St. Louis Cathedral spiking up into the blue, hot summer sky behind us. “If I don’t feed you soon, I think your stomach will attack me like in Alien.” I winked over at her.
After another round of mind-blowing sex, we jumped into the shower, where her stomach started to demand nutrients. She only had half a po’boy, and we burned a shitload of calories last night.
It was late morning after a night of drinking and amazing sex, and there was only one place to go.
“It will.” Her fingers laced with mine as we jogged around the traffic. The smell of fried dough, coffee, and sugar had my stomach rumbling just as loud. “I wouldn’t risk it. It’s not pretty if it goes unfed.”
“Really?” I tugged her into me on the sidewalk. “Good thing I am about to fill it with the best beignets in the city.”
“Very lucky.” She went up on her toes, her mouth brushing mine.
If I expected awkwardness between us, I was wrong. It was so comfortable and natural with her, turning me into a guy I never imagined. Touchy, flirty, holding hands, and staring at her like a fool, knowing all I wanted to do was take her back to the room.
For fuck sake, I was smiling, and I wasn’t really a smiling kind of guy. But here I was, grinning like a giddy douchebag.
I had been with a lot of women, but very few were more than once, and most less than a few weeks before I was out the door, having no desire to go back. Even at eighteen with a goddess like Angie, I never got giddy or felt like this. With Kinsley, I wanted more, feeling I hadn’t even scratched the surface.
This woman was screwing with my head, and I knew it would only end one way.
You can tell her tonight. Let yourself enjoy the day.
The odd hour let us grab a table outside on the patio of Café Du Monde. Ordering us double beignets and café au laits, my legs stretched out under her chair, her smooth legs knocking against mine.
“After coming here, where did you go?” She leaned back in her chair, her long hair still damp and falling down her arms, her face bare and stunning. Really looking at her, I saw the young girl I used to know, but Kinsley had grown into such a gorgeous woman. Smart, strong, with a sense of humor like a whip. But it was far more than just looks. Beautiful women were a dime a dozen in LA. Before Becca I dated several models and actresses. None had me feeling like this. The girl had a power over me that scared the shit out of me. “Smith?”
“Oh. Sorry.” I shook my head, breaking my trance off her. “I went a lot of places, like Chicago, Denver, Seattle, and San Francisco where I met someone who lived in LA and told me to come visit.”
“A woman,” she teased.
I gave her a look.
“What? Am I wrong?”
“No.” I laughed, grabbing my glass of water, sipping it. “She was the one who showed me the spot in Joshua Tree, who took me to the art place. But that one was a mistake.”
“Why?”
“Crazy… but you know what they say? The truly unhinged ones tend to be magnificent in bed.” I nudged her calf, lifting an eyebrow.
“Oh really?” She leaned forward, her mouth twisting with a playful smile. “Unhinged, huh?”
“Total psycho.” I took another drink, eyeing her intently. “But damned if I can’t stop thinking about being inside her again.”
She sucked in sharply, her cheeks flaming with my insinuation.
“How are you doing today?” The waitress picked that exact moment to place down our food, making me chuckle at Kinsley, who was pretending she wasn’t flushed red from my declaration.
“Fine.” She forced a smile, grabbing for the coffee.
“Well, enjoy.” The waitress winked at me before taking off.
Kinsley snorted derisively, her head wagging.
“What?”
“Poor Smith… wanted by every woman he encounters.” She picked up a beignet. “Must be awful.”
“What? I was just sitting here innocently.”
“Nothing is innocent about you.”
Fuck if it wasn’t the truth.
Kinsley bit down, the powdered sugar billowing off the warm dough, a deep groan rumbled from her throat, going straight to my dick, her eyes rolling back in her head.
“Oh my god… This is sooooo good,” she moaned.
“Better stop that or I will be tossing you over my shoulder again and taking you back to the hotel,” I muttered. “Actually, it will be the bathroom here.”
“Soooo good.” She licked the sugar, provoking me, causing me to shift in my chair.
“Dammit, woman.” I grunted, swiping up a fried pillow and shoving the light fluffy dough in my mouth. “Oh god, I forgot how good these are.”
“See?” she exclaimed. “I think we should take an order of these back.” She coyly took another bite, filling my head with ideas of powdered sugar covering her body. This girl was going to kill me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, drawing my attention away from her. My face scowled at seeing ten missed calls from Becca, two f
rom Kasey, one from Kyle, and pissing me off even more was one from my dad’s sister, my aunt Meg. Since my dad’s funeral, the one she claimed she paid for, she had been contacting me, wanting “help.” They were cut from the same fucking cloth.
“Do I ask?” Her voice filled with uncertainty, her flirtiness vanishing in an instant.
“My dad’s sister.” My hand brushed through my hair with aggravation. I had never been close to her. Her popping into my life now was deliberate.
“What does she want?”
“Money,” I snipped.
“Oh. Do you talk to her much?”
“Not if I can help it.” I looked out at Jackson Square, resentment burning my throat. How fast my father’s family could shift my mood.
My father’s death was another “fuck you,” life screwing me even worse.
Growing up had been hell, but still, I carried the guilt of his death like a weight. What people saw on the outside was vastly different from what happened behind the scenes. After my mother died and we moved to North Kingston, we got a small but decent house. My father was manager of an electric company, which is where I learned how to wire buildings. He showed up to my football games, acted like a stand-up guy. To his friends and co-workers, Dan Blackburn was the salt of the earth, never missing a day of work, never complaining. Maybe he liked to drink, but really, who didn’t, right?
Well, the guy who had a few too many beers at the bar came home and realized his life was shit, his wife was dead, and his son would amount to nothing. Then he’d take his suppressed rage, self-hatred, and misery out on me. I took it, like I deserved it, until one day I hit back, having enough. From then on, I didn’t exist for him unless it was to tell me what a disappointment I was.
I spent more and more time at the Maxwell’s house where they actually liked and cared for each other. It didn’t matter if they drove each other nuts at the end of the day. They had parents who gave a shit, had food, a safe, warm home, and love. They had it so good, and they took it for granted. I resented and needed that family with the same force. The only thing that got me through besides the Maxwell home was the idea that the moment I graduated I was gone. Never to look back.
Four years after I left, my dad got hurt and went on disability, but the checks didn’t cover his growing drinking problem, the medicines, and the bills.
The old man still knew how to get to me, bringing up Mom. I deposited monthly into his account to pay for his medication and house bills, which he probably spent on booze. But when my life fell a part, the money stopped. Falling into debt, he chose alcohol over his medication.
And he died.
I proved him right. My failure and guilt for his death grew over me like moss.
“Will you go visit his grave when you’re home?” Kinsley pulled back my focus. Sympathy was etched on her face. The Maxwells saw me enough with black eyes and broken ribs I’d blame on football, but they all knew. It was unspoken, but when Kay Maxwell would give me extra meatloaf and dessert, I knew it was her way of hugging me, telling me she was there.
“No.” I wagged my head.
She nodded. “If you change your mind, I will go with you.”
A reflex of anger lashed out, furrowing my eyebrows, my voice sharp and cold. “I don’t want or need your help or pity.”
“Good.” She held her ground against me, her voice challenging me. “I wasn’t giving you either.”
I stared at her.
“My friendship comes without pity, though support and compassion are always on offer.”
Fuck. I was more than a massive a-hole. Blowing out, I tapped my fist against the metal chair, my shoulders relaxing. This girl was utterly amazing. And in a blink, she knew how to whip my ass and put me in my place.
“Thank you,” I muttered.
“You’re welcome.” She went back to eating her third beignet. “Is it possible to live off these? Bathe in them?”
A smile twitched my mouth, Kinsley flipping my bad mood like a switch.
“Live? No.” I sat up, grabbing one off my pile. “But you naked in a bathtub with just these around you? Hell, yes.”
“Wonder how many we can take away?” Her eyes lit up with mischief.
“Fuck, girl, I really like how you think.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the French Quarter, playing tourist, investigating the tiny voodoo and art shops, getting silly souvenirs. She stopped at every band playing on Royal Street, dancing with kids and old men, drawing in more people and bewitching everyone around. Me most of all. She was carefree and relaxed, her dry humor shined even brighter.
We took goofy pictures, ate, drank, and enjoyed the afternoon, my hands never leaving her body for long. I had never laughed so much; my cheeks ached. It felt so good letting myself forget about the world outside of us. The day with her was the best I ever had.
But I should have known good things come with a price.
We walked through our hotel entrance, Kinsley’s hand in mine, the sun setting on the horizon. I was already mentally ripping her insignificant shorts from her body before we even got to our room, needing to be inside her like air. “Fuck, I can’t wait to have you on my tongue,” I muttered in her ear.
“Smith.” A figure rose from a table in the courtyard. Ice poured in my veins, her voice feeling like a bullet in my chest. Fuck no. Please. No.
My head jerked to the tall blonde, my mind and eyes wanting to reject what it saw. This can’t be happening.
Her hair was longer, and she definitely had a lot more Botox but was still unbelievably beautiful. Cold. Aloof. How did I not see there was nothing warm about her?
She wore a slim blue dress and heels, her straight blonde hair sleek like pure snow. Her parents were from Belgium, giving her a more European look—blue eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones, which had made me once a whipped fool. Her face and nails were painted to perfection, her designer bag sitting by her side like an obedient puppy.
“Becca?” I gaped, my head shaking in denial.
“Hi, sweetheart.” She took a step closer, paying no attention to Kinsley.
But I was. Her hand slipped from mine, her head going between us like a ping-pong match.
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
“I told you I would come for you. You wouldn’t see me otherwise.”
“How did you find me?”
“Private investigator. Tracked our phone call.”
“Private investigator?” I could hear my voice rise.
“You are being stubborn, like you can be. I had to. You gave me no choice.”
“How about not coming at all,” I growled.
“Smith.” She tilted her head, pleading. “Please. We have so much to talk about. I miss you so much. I know we can work this out. I love you.”
I felt Kinsley jerk next to me, taking a step back. I twisted for her, my hand reaching out. “Kins—”
“Kinsley Maxwell, right?” Becca cut me off, stepping up to Kinsley, her manicured hand reaching out.
“Ye-yeah.” Kins looked at me and back to her in confusion, not taking Becca’s hand. I knew Becca enough to know her private investigator found out every little detail of my trip, including who I was with.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Rebecca.” A false pleasant grin curved her red mouth, telling me my world was about to crumble.
The secrets of my past had final tracked me down.
“I’m Rebecca Blackburn. Smith’s wife.”
Chapter 17
Kinsley
Smith’s wife? Smith’s wife!
Her claim rang in my head like a shrill alarm.
“Wha-what?” The room spun around me as I stepped back away from both of them, my gaze darting from the stunning woman who looked like she just stepped off a runway, to Smith, hoping this was somehow a joke they were playing on me.
His face told me it wasn’t. Panic, guilt, fear.
My stomach dropped to the ground. I felt the gumbo we had shared earlie
r coming up my throat, and my feet shuffled back.
“Kinsley. Wait. You don’t understand.” His blue eyes pleaded with me, his hand reaching for me.
“Are you married to her?” I whispered hoarsely, moving away from his reach. “Is she your wife?”
Becca flicked at a huge diamond on her ring finger. “For four and half years now.”
My gaze shot to Smith, begging for the possibility this was all a mistake. “Smith?”
“Yes, she is, but…”
“Oh god,” I whispered, feeling bile fill the back of my throat, pain slicing through my chest.
Rebecca Blackburn.
Not his ex-girlfriend or ex-wife. Current. Now.
“You don’t understand.” Agony sliced across his face, moving toward me. “Please listen to me.”
“And that is all I’m asking of you, baby.” Becca grabbed Smith’s hand, lacing her fingers through his. He wrenched it away, fury stacking up his shoulders.
“Don’t touch me.” He leaned into her face, snarling. “And there is nothing you can say that will change my mind. Nothing.”
“Smith. I love you.”
“Fuck you, Becca. You don’t know what love is.”
I couldn’t stand there anymore. Listening to them.
Husband and wife.
I treaded back again, the need to run crawling up my legs, turning me toward the stairs.
“Kinsley! Wait!” Smith bellowed, running after me. He caught up to me, tugging my arm back. “Listen to me.”
“Let go!” I yelled, ripping it back.
“Kins…”
“How could you?” My lungs struggled to breathe, pain grinding my chest. “You slept with me, and you’re fucking married?”
“Kins, you don—”
“No!” I batted away his hands. “There is nothing you can say to make this better.” I tried to stop a tear from trailing down my face. “Jesus, I knew you were a bastard, but this is beyond cruel.”
“Kinsley, please.”
“Stay away from me.” I turned again for the stairs, but he caught me again.
“Fuck. Let me get one word out.” He turned me to him, his eyes wild. “We are in the process of getting divorced. She just needs to sign the papers.”
Smug Bastard: A Hero Club Novel Page 16
