Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  If she tipped her head, she could keep her eyes angled at Wesley, but still watch Callan as he wiped down the tables.

  He moved like poetry, rhythmic and smooth. So graceful. So agile. So strong.

  Yet, at times, she caught him unconsciously massaging his muscles or favoring one leg over the other. Perhaps he’d been a soldier in Scotland, or in some sort of accident.

  Three years of working across from him and she still didn’t know his exact age, so she’d likely never find the courage to ask the cause of his injuries. His dark hair and distinguished jaw made her guess he was somewhere between his mid-twenties and early thirties, but his eyes seemed much older. Crystal blue, and hauntingly sad, as if they’d seen a million untold tragedies.

  He was a far cry from traditionally handsome, but still the most beautiful man she’d ever met. His flaws were the makings of a masterpiece, even his crooked nose, which looked like it broke more than once and had never been properly fixed. His face was a battleground of scars, each one a story she longed to hear.

  She’d never seen him clean-shaven but suspected he left the scruff to cover the nicks along his jaw. But such blemishes never mattered to her. Once she’d asked how he got the scar above his eye, and his gaze turned distant.

  “Scotland has good areas and bad. I don’t come from the good,” he’d said, hardly explaining anything at all.

  She glanced at Wesley’s unblemished face, then dropped her gaze to his phone as he slid through pictures from a recent vacation. Why did people torture other people with slideshows of things that were only interesting when seen first-hand?

  His thumbnail looked bitten painfully short. “Here’s our last trip to Aruba. You ever go scuba diving?”

  She shook her head.

  After graduation, she’d gone as far away from home as financially possible, but the distance between New York and Kentucky cost her. Her independence came with expensive responsibilities. Lavish vacations and deep-water excursions weren’t in her budget.

  “You’d love it.” How would he know what she loved? “You’re not supposed to touch anything, but last time we went down I couldn’t resist snatching a piece of the reef as a souvenir. It’s that pretty.”

  She frowned. “Doesn’t coral die if you touch it?”

  “Who’s gonna know?” He dragged his thumb through another slideshow. “Here we are on the catamaran.”

  Entitled people bothered her. Here was a golden Adonis, everything a woman should want in a man, and yet she felt nothing. The implied assumption that she should care what he looked like on a catamaran cruise only enhanced her disinterest.

  He was one of many athletes staying at the hotel for the annual conference, refined specimens who had golden futures in the next Olympics. There had to be something wrong with a woman who couldn’t appreciate all that beauty in one place. There was definitely something wrong with her because every single one of them couldn’t hold a candle to Callan MacGregor.

  But it was her job to politely converse with the guests who approached her desk, so she smiled. “I guess, as a swimmer, you’re at home in any body of water.”

  “Definitely. Been taking lessons since I was a baby. Competing since I was ten. How about you? Any sports?”

  “I ran track one year in high school.”

  His gaze dropped, measuring her in ways that made her uncomfortable. “You look like a runner.” Blond lashes fringed his hooded gaze. “So, anything fun happening around here tonight, Emery?” He tacked on her name implying a sort of familiarity they didn’t share.

  “Things shut down pretty early in town.” She adjusted the checkout forms, tracing her finger over the corner of the stack until every sheet fell perfectly in line.

  The back of her neck tingled and her fingers fluttered to where a wisp of hair slipped free. Her gaze shifted past Wesley, and all sound fell away.

  Warmth bloomed in her chest, bursting like champagne bubbles, as Callan’s gaze collided with hers, piercing her composure from a hundred feet away. Sometimes, when he looked at her like that, she felt so connected to him she wondered if he could hear the catch in her breath from all the way across the lobby. Her trembling fingertips gripped the marble countertop as chills danced over her skin.

  He gave a subtle nod, and a smile spread across her face, too emphatic and too genuine to disguise. Drunk from one simple glance, she flushed and dropped her gaze.

  Wesley, noting her grin, looked over his shoulder and frowned. “It must get pretty boring around here then,” he said, vying for her attention and winning it out of pure hospitality.

  “Not really.” Her attention flicked back to Callan, but he was no longer smiling. Unease darted through her as he glared at the reception desk.

  Her fanciful heart wanted to believe jealousy formed that scowl. Callan’s possessiveness challenged at the sight of another man speaking to her. But that was insane, being that she and Callan only ever shared polite, co-worker small talk.

  But she wanted to play along with the fantasy—even if only in her own head. “I should really get back to work.”

  She had a lot of slips to deliver. One hundred athletes and their coaches, managers, trainers, and physical therapists put the hotel at maximum capacity. And they were all scheduled to check out tomorrow.

  “What time do you get off?”

  She logged out of the open computer program. “I’m here until four.” She wanted to look back at Callan, but not until Wesley left.

  He checked his phone. “So, in two hours?”

  Her gaze jumped to the computer clock. Was it already that late? Callan would be leaving soon. “Around then.”

  “We should meet up.”

  Not expecting an invitation, his words caught her off guard. She quickly camouflaged her surprise with a soft laugh so he wouldn’t take her rebuff personally. “You’ll be asleep by then.”

  “I’m wide awake. Maybe I’ll hang out and keep you company.”

  Impatience gnawed at her insides. On Friday nights, Callan left right after two when the bar closed. Today was Friday.

  So much energy went into anticipating his visit to reception, missing that exchange would be a devastating loss. She’d have to wait twenty-four hours for the opportunity to talk to him again. And she had a feeling, if Wesley didn’t leave, Callan wouldn’t approach.

  Her cheeks pinched with a polite smile. She needed to get rid of him. “Aren’t your friends waiting for you?”

  “They’re fine.” He rolled his eyes. “They’re all wasted anyway.”

  It wasn’t just his friends who had been drinking. “The bar’s closing. They’ll probably be looking for you.”

  “I’d rather be here, talking to you.”

  Right on cue, a gaggle of tall men shuffled into the lobby, their athletic agility skewed by too much liquor. Their voices echoed off the marble walls, profanities and rowdy laughter punctuating every sentence.

  A knot tangled in her belly. Callan was already wiping down the taps. “I have to deliver these soon.” She adjusted the stack of forms.

  “What are they?”

  “Check out slips.”

  His head cocked, his clipped blond curls staying perfectly in place. “Can I come with you?”

  Take a hint! Her smile fit like waxed lips over her mouth, artificial and stiff. “It’s really boring.”

  “We can talk. Make it fun.”

  “Sorry.” She bit her lower lip and lied, “I’m not allowed to do that.”

  Hooded, hypnotic eyes looked back at her. “I won’t tell.”

  Just like the coral reef he stole...

  His lack of respect for rules pissed her off. He wielded his charm so easily it would surely open doors for him—probably already had. He’d grow up to be one of those men who needed little words like no spelled out every time.

  “Sorry. Cameras.” She pointed to the computer, knowing he couldn’t see the screen. “My boss would see.”

  “There aren’t any cameras in the
halls.”

  “S—sure there are.” How did he know that?

  He smirked as if silently calling her a liar, but too polite to speak the accusation out loud. And it wasn’t necessarily a lie. There were some security cameras around the doorways and in the stairwells.

  His teammates stumbled toward the elevators, tripping over their own feet and fumbling as they tried to navigate the open space. It was time for them to go. All of them.

  She took a step back. “Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

  An obnoxious burp ripped through the air, pelting off the walls with ripping acoustics, and the group of drunken athletes laughed. “Wes,” the burper yelled. “Where you been all night, bro?”

  She glanced at the bar. Callan was stacking chairs on top of tables, swinging each one up with one hand as if it weighed no more than a feather.

  His glare drilled into the group of men, and her heart jolted with a spike of urgency. “You should go. And maybe tell your friends it’s quiet hours.”

  He chuckled, a strange vide ricocheting between them. “Wouldn’t want the hotel police to come after us.”

  Did he know the worst that would happen was a call from the front desk—from her? If things got too out of hand, which they never did, she could call the police. But guests would have to be belligerent and damaging property to go that far.

  Flies with honey, she thought, reinforcing her smile. “Hotel police can be very threatening.” Not a trace of vinegar in her tone.

  He winked. “I better see that they make it to their rooms quietly then.”

  He stepped away, his arm stretching as his fingers clung to the marble countertop as long as possible.

  “See you later, Emery.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She silently counted to ten, holding her fake smile, as Wesley rejoined his friends. His gaze found her one last time as he huddled into the elevator, and something tight and sharp pinched her chest, gone before she had time to examine it.

  The elevator doors glided shut, cutting off the obnoxious shouting, and finally severing her from her hostess façade. She sighed and rolled her shoulders. Big groups like this one always made the nights longer than they actually were.

  Her head turned toward the bar, finding Callan’s familiar blue eyes watching her again, and all her tension melted away. When she smiled with true emotion, so did he.

  His striking size and battered beauty rendered her mute on most days, but she welcomed their quiet method of communicating. It saved her from babbling like a first class idiot, and he never seemed bothered by her shyness.

  They were both reserved—Callan sometimes painfully so, as if afraid to speak to her at times. While masculine men weren’t supposed to have obvious fears, there was something achingly fragile about Callan. One look in his soulful eyes and she was lost in a sea of vulnerability. Stark. Afraid. Alone.

  He was her dark secret, a consuming part of her life no one knew existed. A decadent treat she never wanted to share. Crumbs of his attention were worth a feast from other men. Exactly why she emotionally starved herself for this moment every day, hoping to eventually get a taste of all that was Callan MacGregor.

  Emery patiently waited for him to wrap up. She discreetly checked her makeup and snapped the compact shut, tucking it in her purse under the counter.

  A shaky exhalation trembled over her freshly glossed lips as the bar lights dimmed then flickered to black, extinguishing all the shadows. It was her favorite and least favorite moment each night, those last few seconds of his shift when they shared more than a few stolen glances and actually talked.

  Her fingers smoothed down the front of her blouse as she tried to calm her nerves. Anticipation tumbled like a freefalling summersault into the pit of her stomach—heady with excitement and deaf to any instinctual fear.

  Maybe she was a fool for wanting him. Callan’s secrets, whatever they were, were dark. His reserved mannerisms seemed a deliberate mask meant to hide a savage nature, a shield that protected him from the world as much as it protected the world from him.

  But she sensed his innate goodness, a defining code that guided his moral conduct on the safe side of right and wrong. His kindness called to her, promised he’d respect her and never hurt her. So while something warned Callan MacGregor was a man to be feared, the most she could dredge up was a respectable degree of caution.

  And despite the brutality she sensed hiding under his surface there were also hints of vulnerability, and he treated her in an almost protective way. On the nights he stayed, he always walked her out. And when it snowed, he cleared off her car.

  Callan claimed to hate the heat of the sweltering summers in the States, but never minded the cold—said the rain reminded him of Scotland. And ever since the night he straightened the buttons on her coat, she loved winter, too.

  “It’s cold,” he’d murmured, his sure fingers gently fastening the clasp. So simple and strangely natural, yet probably one of the most erotic moments of her life. A button. “Has no one taught you how te properly button a coat, Em’ry?”

  Her heart stuttered every time he dropped the middle syllable of her name, the first half pulling from deep in his throat, the R rolling over his tongue like a passionate kiss.

  The few words he’d spoken to her over the years could be collected and kept in the palm of her hand. The small number she had, she treasured, each little moment as subtle as a breeze carrying the vigor of a tornado, sweeping her clear off her feet.

  She sometimes worried he had a woman, perhaps a family, back in Scotland. Irrational jealousy could burn a hole through her belly, but three years and a button hardly gave her possessive license.

  Last New Year’s she’d thought he might kiss her, but as always, something held him back. That had been nine months ago, and nothing since. Like a boxer pulls a punch, every time he reached for her, he drew back.

  It messed her up because sometimes longing seemed all she could read in his eyes. But after all this time, those silent, hungry stares never amounted to more. Yet here she was, balanced on the threshold of desire and need, wanting him again. Still.

  Her heart lurched as she watched the dark cavity of the bar, waiting for the moment he’d reappear. Tugging at the hem of her blazer, she did a quick inspection of her skirt and sucked in a deep breath. Awareness tingled low in her belly, and she swallowed a shallow breath, her lungs twice as tight as usual.

  Unlike other nights, he left immediately after his shift finished on Fridays. She didn’t know where he went or what his life outside of the Imperial entailed, but the thought of him possibly meeting a lover tortured her on a regular basis.

  And there he was.

  Her breath held as his dark figure sliced into the light. Denim-clad legs and heavy black boots contrasted with the lobby’s white marble floors. His black T-shirt blended in with his black, wool coat, but neither disguised his bulk.

  With the strap of his bag crossing his broad chest and his hands wedged into the pockets of his coat, his attempt to make himself appear smaller showed. He failed.

  Her breasts pressed against the thin fabric of her blouse as she breathed deep, waiting for that precise moment when she could hear the rasp of his clothing over his skin, the air pulling through his lungs, the smell that only belonged to him.

  His gaze held her in a tight grip as he crossed the lobby, a long-practiced goodbye she waited for every day from the minute she first opened her eyes, akin only to the first smile he gave her when she took her post at the desk each night. As his purposeful strides closed the distance, she balanced on the razor-sharp edge of desire, exposed and thirsty for a mere taste of him. A sip. A drop.

  Locked into those eyes, powerless under his spell, she always let him speak first. “I’ve come te say goodnight te you, Em’ry.”

  Her entire being shivered. His gravelly voice penetrated her senses, sending her nerves on a rollercoaster ride of endorphins and desire. He withdrew his hands from his pockets, resting them on the
counter, and she breathed deep.

  His hands fascinated her. Strong. Large. Nails clipped to the quick with broad fingertips and strangely blunt thumbs.

  Black ink always stained the first knuckle of his index finger, as he constantly wrote in the leather-bound book he kept with him. Wide, somewhat deformed knuckles, bleached of pigment, pressed into the countertop separating them. Her pulse thumped wildly as he grinned at her in all his unrefined glory.

  Sheer masculinity. A wallop of capability. A taste of sorrow. A hint of roughness. A touch of danger. A heap of carnality.

  She wanted to know how hands could get that way but never dared to ask. More than her discovering the cause, she wanted permission to touch the scars, trace the discolored spots, soothe any painful memories. An impossibility, when she’d never been invited to hold his hand.

  “How was your night?” Her voice always came out a little breathy at first.

  “I did well enough. Should be a slow weekend once the conference clears out.”

  Her lips trembled as she tried to retain her smile without appearing overzealous. Sometimes when he spoke to her she smiled at the wrong times, so she learned to filter her emotions. “The bar was packed tonight.”

  Thankfully, the athletes were mostly men. There was nothing quite as wretched as watching beautiful women throw themselves at Callan—not a rare occurrence.

  “Aye. I’ve got a banger of a headache. It’ll do me lovely te get some rest.”

  She loved his unique vernacular and phrases. Despite his sometimes unfamiliar words, Callan spoke slowly enough for her to understand, and often more eloquently than American men.

  “They were loud.”

  His gaze shifted from her eyes, dropping lower and quickly returning. When he watched her the way he was now, she grew painfully self-conscious of her flaws, wondering if he noticed how her lower teeth were not quite as straight as the top ones. Or if he found her face unremarkable. If only he knew how much he invaded her routine at home, how every stroke of mascara over each lash was placed for him.

  “I saw ye had company.”

  Recalling the way he’d glared earlier, she made light of the situation and rolled her eyes. “I thought he’d never leave.”