Another picture loads as I stare at the first, fighting back memories that want to surface. Mom coming home, weaving through the door to plant a messy kiss on my forehead. How she smelled like booze and sex and cheap perfume.
The second picture is darker. Once my eyes adjust to the bare skin and a hairy ass, I slam my phone face down onto my lap and swallow the murderous fury welling up.
London glances up from her screen. “I’m sorry, I’ll wrap this up.”
“No. No. It’s not that.” It takes a few words to make my voice stable. Anguish and rage spin stronger than a tornado in my gut. I’m amazed that I’m coherent at all. “Just a problem at the company and they’re bugging me on my vacation.”
“Don’t worry about me. If you need to deal with a situation, take your time. We still have a signal.”
I need air more than anything. “I’m going to step out to the deck for a minute.”
She relaxes in her seat and crosses one knee over the other, content to continue messaging her friends. “Sure.”
Away from her and the crowd, I lean over the deck and drag in a hard breath. Letting it out slowly, I check to see if another picture came. There’s no way I was looking at the most recent one again. If the man’s face was visible, I might recognize him from the ones coming and going after Dad died. But enough of Mom’s face was clear. The empty stare and mascara smudged eyes are more than I need to see for the rest of my life.
I want to hunt the man down and castrate him, but if I open that door, there’ll be a lot of balls hanging from my rearview mirror. Sully worked Mom to death and all because he claimed that she was liable for Dad’s gambling debts. Sully strung her out and made her even more dependent on him.
My phone vibrated again and I nearly dropped it in the water. A third photo. I’m afraid to look, but I have to know if it gives me clues as to what Sully is up to—or confirms that it’s really him. The day I let that man win a single battle over me is the day that Mom’s death means nothing. I pull up the picture.
My fury drains, replaced by grief so strong it’s like I’m once again across from the desk of the neighborhood pastor, telling him that I couldn’t afford more than a cardboard box to bury Mom in.
The picture is of my parents together. Her eyes are bright—and lucid. She’s standing next to Dad in a plunging V-neck top, wearing only enough makeup to highlight how naturally beautiful she was. The skin cream that made her look luminous was probably her own formula. Dad’s smile is the same one you’d find in a used car parking lot. Dad thought he could sell anything and he had the personality if not the sales skills to back it up. But his vices were stronger.
They were happy. I faintly recall this time in my life. I was young, but I’ve also seen enough pictures to know this is shortly before they got screwed over by Dennis Vanderbeek. This was probably what they looked like in the moments after they made the deal, when they thought Mr. Vanderbeek had drawn up a contract that was equal and beneficial to both parties.
Where were those pictures now? I left our old house and most everything behind. Any photos were probably in a plastic shopping bag shoved in a nook in my new house. Who took these? It was before the digital age. So where were the photos now?
I know no one got into my house and that I’m not the only one in the world that might have pictures of them. Sully’s not a sentimental guy and I doubt prison made him one. Did he hold on to these for future retribution?
I hate to give him that much credit.
But he insinuated himself into Dad’s world and encouraged each gamble he took. In those days, Dad covered his own debts. Then he’d gotten screwed out of a company that went on to dominate its place in the market and he took riskier bets—and lost more often.
Sully made sure of it.
I’m going to destroy him.
And this little dinner cruise is the first step in honoring the memory of my parents.
Chapter 10
London
I don’t know what happened to Jake last night during dinner, but he’s taking dark and brooding to a new level. People passed us as we strolled through the town back to the resort and gave him a wide berth. Somehow, I just want to get closer, to ease that crease between his brows that hasn’t gone away since he checked his phone on the boat.
After we got back to the hotel room, I wasn’t sure how the night would go. He laid in bed and stared at the ceiling. I never thought IT could be such a stressful field, but whatever it was ate at him. I curled into his side and fell asleep, wondering if he’d get any rest at all.
And this morning, I suspected he didn’t. He was still on his back, his arm behind his head, and didn’t say more than “Let’s go get something to eat.”
I ordered huevos rancheros and he only said “same.” He didn’t talk, but at least he ate half of his plate. We’re wandering back to the resort, but he’s squinting in the sun and turning into a granite wall next to me. He needs rest and relaxation and I don’t know what else.
I spot a shop with familiar goods inside and tug him toward it. Swirling dark eyes land on me.
I give him a smile, wishing I could brighten the darkness swimming in the depths of his brown irises. “I want to grab a few things.”
There wouldn’t be another stop if this place had everything. I couldn’t shake the feeling he needed to get out of the sun and into a quiet, dark room. I could borrow a few things from the suite’s kitchenette for my concoction.
Inside, I find jojoba oil and two different types of coconut oil. Chewing my lower lip, I sift through the bottles of essential oil. Would he think lavender is too girly? Would bergamot be too strong? Not strong enough? Tension radiates from his shoulders to the rest of his body and he doesn’t have to tell me that he has a headache. It’s at the pinch in the corner of his eyes and the hunch of his shoulders.
I’ll get a variety. The shop has a nice collection. We won’t even have to stop anywhere else.
Peppermint and grapefruit essential oil. Yes to the bergamot, but no to cedarwood. On second thought, why don’t I get that?
Jake’s scowl deepens with each item I collect. I expected a bemused look, but his shoulders grow tighter and he doesn’t ask questions.
I gather a few small round containers and a marker.
“This place is heaven. I could buy everything here.”
Despite his inner and outer turmoil, he takes my armload from me with nothing more than a grunt in response.
“You can talk to me, you know,” I say quietly.
His expression flattens, which I didn’t think was possible. “Not about this.”
I nod, trying not to be hurt. It’s business. I get it. It’s not like I can talk to him about the inner workings of Natural Glow that make me throw a bubble bath pity party. But… I can always say something. Like a deal went bad. Or a supplier’s going out of business. Or that a product idea failed.
I purchase the supplies and he carries the bag all the way back. His eyes are nearly closed and his head is down the whole way. But he says nothing.
In our room, I go to the kitchen and get right to work. He leans against the counter watching me even though it looks painful for him to be upright.
I prepare the head massage oil. I’ll start on his head and shoulders. “Sit.”
He eyes the little tub in my hands, and I don’t think he’s going to listen.
I’m not giving up. “Sit and take your shirt off.”
His brows drop farther and he glares at what’s in my hands. It’s a battle of wills and I’m armed with massage oil. Finally, he tugs his shirt over his head to reveal his expanse of bronzed skin and takes a seat on the stool, propping his elbows on the counter. How can a computer nerd be in such good shape?
I drizzle some peppermint and grapefruit oil into my left hand and set my container down. Rubbing my hands together, I can’t wait to see if this works. He’s been so good to me these last several days. I want to help.
Going around him, I start at h
is temples. As soon as my hands touch his skin, he jerks. “Where did you get that recipe?”
Startled by the glare he’s throwing over his shoulder, I stammer, “I-I-It’s a common one. Good for headaches.”
I hold my hands up like I’m under arrest. He twists to look at my face. Indecision flares in his eyes and his mouth works. I’m not sure which one of us is going to speak first until he does. “My mom used to use it on me.”
The pain resonating in his voice goes straight to my heart. I wanted to help, but I’m bringing up heart-wrenching memories instead. “I can quit.”
He blinks as if coming back to himself and faces forward. “No. It just caught me off-guard. That’s all.”
“What happened? To your mom?” My question is too invasive. Will he answer?
“She was depressed. And it killed her.”
“I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t reply. If I thought he was tense before, his shoulders turn into marble. This week isn’t about us getting emotionally close, but I can’t stop from wanting to cross that divide. How old was he when she died? Did his dad pass away first, or later? I lost a parent. Technically two, but my birth mother is likely alive and well somewhere. But Jake isn’t sharing and I stifle my hurt.
I began again at his temples.
He doesn’t relax. Won’t even close his eyes. Would switching to the lavender solution work better? I don’t want to overwhelm his senses.
Swirling my fingertips around his ears, I make my way down to his neck. I spread the oil around and use a little more muscle, digging into his knots. A low groan leaves him as I dig into tight muscles below his hairline. Success. He’s loosening up. He drops his head and rolls his shoulders. I’ll get to those.
Taking my time, I stroke up and down his neck. At last, success. He’s looser. I lean over to get more oil.
He stiffens. Dammit.
The scent must be triggering some powerful memories. He must’ve been close to his mom.
I’m back at his neck since the muscles are again rigid. He’s easier to loosen up this time. Once I’m satisfied, I massage his shoulders. Having no formal training, I go with what he seems to like. Long, hard strokes. He likes his massage like he likes sex.
I’m rewarded with a groan as I press into knots on each side of his body, in the same spot over his shoulder blades.
“Fuck, London.” He adjusts his body, trying to guide my hands to where he wants them the most.
Using all my strength, I grip his flesh and rub hard circles on each side of his spine. He dips his head farther and moans. My breath hitches. This is intimate. I’ve had massages from both men and women before, and it was never like this.
He spins around on the stool, knocking me back. Catching me by both arms, he hauls me to him, crushing my mouth with his.
The kiss is raw and demanding. He releases me long enough to say, “I need to be inside you now.”
I can only nod. The pain is still simmering in his eyes, and I only managed to help trade one tension for another. But I know how to relax him and I’m willing to do it.
Jacobi
My head is pounding, but that doesn’t stop me from burying my face between London’s thighs. She cries out and arches up into me. Her shirt and bra are still on. I stripped her shorts before we hit the bed.
Before, when my migraines hit, I would’ve sworn that there was no way I could get it up. The pain was too severe and I just wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
That was the case earlier this morning. I woke up to London’s backside pressed into me. But between the photos and my throbbing head, sex was the last thing on my mind. One of the only things that crowded into my haze of pain was that this migraine didn’t hurt as bad with her nearby.
Then she used the exact same scents my mom used when I got headaches as a kid. The shock of my olfactory senses firing off memories of her leaning over me and massaging my temples nearly pushed me off the stool.
But it wasn’t my mom. It was London and she was trying to take my pain away. London’s floral scent mixed with the oil she used, turning the experience into something new and very different.
She’s about to come and I’m so hard that it’s difficult to concentrate on the pain in my head.
I didn’t tell her I had a headache, but she bought everything because she sensed I wasn’t feeling well.
No one takes care of me. I pay my housekeeper to clean, and while lately she seems to want to do more than Swiffer my floors, she doesn’t do anything more than what she’s paid to. My chef cooks to my specifications, and the groundskeeper outlines the best plan to take care of my property and that’s what I pay him to do.
Cannon and Kase are my only two friends, but I doubt they know I get migraines.
London has known me for ten days, figured out I was hurting, and did something about it.
Now, she’s really helping. She’s at the brink and I pull away, shoving my shorts down. I impale her and rest back on my feet, yanking her closer to me by her thighs. The throb in my temples matches my rhythm and the more her body strokes mine, the less I care. I might set off a stronger headache when I come, but I don’t care. The way her body milks mine will always be worth it.
She’s thrown her arms over her head, like she’s turned herself over to me for my own use. Today, sex is medicinal. The only way she’ll ever be able to help me is to give herself over to me. She might as well learn that now.
My name echoes off the walls. It’s not my real name, but right now I don’t care.
I grip her hips so hard I’ll probably leave fingerprints and I rear up, kicking my hips out hard and empty inside her. I let the relief and pleasure wash over me, doing more to ease my tight muscles than any massage oil.
As soon as I’m done, fatigue slams into me. It’s all I can do to pull out and move her legs over. I sink beside her and stretch out. She rolls onto her side and spreads her hand out on my chest.
“Do you want to talk about it at all?” she asks softly.
I can’t. I can’t talk about it as Jake and I couldn’t talk about it as Jacobi. But for some reason words spill out of my mouth. “It wasn’t a work issue.”
She rolls to her belly and gazes at me, concern darkening her eyes.
“Someone who…” I let out a breath, unsure of how to go on, only knowing that I want to. “Was close to my mom contacted me. They didn’t—they weren’t friends. He was awful to her.”
“Did your dad pass away before your mom?”
I nod, grateful that the pain is less severe. “I was eight when he passed away.” I save her the gritty details. It would trigger more questions.
“Did she date this guy?”
“Him and many others.” But not willingly. “I blame him for her depression. He was emotionally abusive to say the least.”
“Your mom… did she commit suicide?”
“Yes.”
“Jake, I’m sorry.”
I hate that fucking name. I want her to know exactly who I am and why. The pounding in my temples increases.
That’ll come later.
“What does he want?” she asks.
“To get to me. To remind me how much power he had over Mom.”
“Why now?”
Isn’t that the question to answer? Why now? Sully’s been out of jail for months. Did he just get the resources to buy a cheap phone and digitize those pictures? I close my eyes, seeking relief from the pain. “I don’t know.”
She feathers her fingers over my forehead. “You’re hurting again.” She rolls off the bed and grabs that damn oil. I can’t tell her it only reminds me of the reason why I don’t have my parents around.
And I can’t deny that when she rubs it on my temples, the pain ebbs.
I lay still while she works. When she’s done massaging me from my head to my shoulders and across my chest, she covers me up and burrows into the blankets next to me.
“Rest,” she says. “I’ll order in tonight and we can resume vaca
tion activities tomorrow.”
If this was one of my normal migraines, then I wouldn’t be hungry and I might not be up to resuming regular activities tomorrow.
Since sex made me feel better, I could keep her in bed and on her back to get through the day without telling her how shitty I really feel. I’d also be in bed and could contact both Cannon and Kase to start the search for Sully and try to figure out what the hell he’s up to.
Chapter 11
London
Jake’s finally up and moving. We stayed in bed yesterday, but unlike the earlier sex-filled days, he rested and I tried to keep as quiet as possible. When he was awake, he was on his phone, his expression masked. The waves of discontented energy rolling off him isn’t as easy to hide.
He’s a man on a mission.
Despite all that, he managed to have two rounds of vigorous sex that left me spent and boneless.
The morning dawned bright and Jake’s eyes are clear of pain. He’s back on his phone, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back toward me.
I’m hesitant to ask, but he’s going to get himself all tensed up again if we stay here. “Do you want to go to Lover’s Beach today?”
“What?” he asks distractedly as he punches out a message.
“Lover’s Beach. It’s an amazing place, just beautiful, and it might help get your mind off that guy.”
He takes a measured breath and clicks his screen off. The smile he gives me is obviously forced. Does he think I can’t tell? “Lover’s Beach. Sure.”
“If you need to keep doing whatever you’re doing, go ahead. I just hate for him to ruin this for you, too.”
His look softens as if he commanded his body to relax when his mind is going a hundred miles an hour. “Sorry. I’m not holding up my end of the deal very well. You wanted to get your mind blown for two weeks and here I am glued to my phone.”
“You’ve already blown my mind. I’m more concerned about your vacation getting ruined.”
Ruined (Ruined and Redeemed Duet Book 1) Page 10
