Come On (Coming Together Book 2)

by Poppy Dunne

  I wonder if I can open my window and yell at Rafe to come back up here without waking the neighbors.

  Groaning, I stalk into the bathroom, flip the lights on, and start getting ready for bed. Five a.m. is going to come much sooner than I want it to. I turn on the faucet and stare at myself in the mirror. My lips are swollen from kissing, my chin and cheeks a bit red from where Rafe’s stubble scraped me. I think I even still have his scent on my clothes—a perfect, woodsy combination of fresh soap and musky cologne. I wonder if I can bottle that scent: essence de Rafe.

  Now I know I’m losing my mind. I wash up, pull on my nightshirt, and climb into bed. I’m hoping sleep will carry me away, but it’s more like it squats at the foot of my mattress and refuses to cuddle. The springs squeal as I toss and turn, and I can’t help but think how they could’ve been squealing in a much more fun way. Which makes me toss and turn more. It’s a vicious cycle.

  Finally, I drift off to sleep. My dreams are spectacularly vivid and surreal: one moment I’m carrying a banana cream pie through the kitchen while Becca and Gabe try to knock it out of my hands (and they’re both flying monkeys now, I forgot that part), the next minute Rafe’s standing by the side of my bed, shirtless and asking if I know where he put his thermometer. Also, in this dream his torso is gleaming with oil. I wake from that one covered in sweat, groaning in frustration.

  And then, after all the pies and shirtless bosses, I still have to think about what I learned tonight. Scott McCarthy isn’t doing anything illegal, but it’s sure as hell immoral.

  How many people like my family and me is he going to wear down like this, with no one to hold him accountable?

  When my alarm goes off at five, I want to send it kamikaze style through the window and go back to sleep. But that’s not the way responsible adults do. No, responsible adults get up, put the coffee on, then nearly bang their head on the shower door when they get in. I’m toweling off and picking out my clothes for the day when my phone rings.

  Rafe? Is he calling to let me know he’s outside, lonely and shirtless? That’s how people get frostbite, after all. If that’s the case, the only reasonable thing would be to invite him upstairs to warm up with some wild—

  Oh. It’s Becca. My horniness evaporates on the instant, and fear takes its place. It’s six in the morning; this can’t be good.

  “Hey.” She huffs into the phone. “Sorry to call so early, but I wanted to talk about Gramps.” A pause. “You got my email, right?”

  “Ah, no.” No, I was illegally reading someone else’s hacked emails last night, sis. Less said about that the better.

  “Good news, bad news time. Good: we’ve got a new prescription that should knock him out in the early evening so he’s not so ornery. Bad: it’s not covered, at all.”

  My stomach sinks. “How much?”

  “Well I haven’t been to the pharmacy yet, but based on how the doctor was saying he hoped I didn’t have a lot of Christmas shopping left, probably a lot.” A beat. She sighs. “Tess, I’m so sorry, but—”

  “It’s fine. All I wanted this Christmas was a box of nothing anyway.” We’re both kind of quiet. This is why I haven’t quit my job to become a roaring stand-up comedy success. “You take a couple extra shifts at the bar, I’ll cut corners. We’ll survive.”

  But that’s all I can think of as I finish dressing, as I take the train to work, as I organize and file and brew coffee and watch Scott and Brad walk past me on the way to their offices. Scott does his scowling routine at everyone when they have the audacity to wish him good morning, and Brad tries feeling up Caroline at her desk. My life, and my family’s lives, are in the hands of these…scumbags. Sure, Becca and I will survive no matter what, but it would be so nice to live a little bit. If Rafe means what he said about making life a little bit easier on the rest of us, isn’t that something worth getting involved in?

  Even if it means being around the sexiest man on the planet and not being able to touch him?

  My mind says yes; my libido yells at me, slams the door, then comes back in to shout “and another thing.” Ah well. Can’t please everyone.

  When Rafe glides into the office at—yep—twenty minutes past ten, I’ve got my mind made up and am waiting. I go into his office and shut the door. Lounging behind his desk, he watches me with wary interest.

  “Ms. Snowe?” Ah, so we’re back to the formalities. Good. That’s the way it has to be.

  “Two things.” I count on my fingers, lowering my voice to a whisper. “One, I was wrong. I want to keep helping you.” He says nothing in response, merely watches me closely. I feel like a gazelle tripping up to a lion on the savannah and giving it orders. “And two, we can’t do…that which must not be named.” I take a deep breath, regretting it.

  Rafe pauses. “Voldemort?” he deadpans. I screw up my mouth.

  “You know what I’m talking about. That can’t happen again, no matter what.” Again, my libido is kicking at the closed door and screaming about how I’m not being fair. Then it goes back to its bedroom and plays My Chemical Romance at top volume. My libido is very much an angsty teenage Reylo fan. I clasp my hands together, trying to look as officious and not horny as possible. “Okay?”

  “What about your family?”

  “They’re the reason I want to help.” That much is true. I don’t add that I want to spend all the time I possibly can around him when he has that sexy pharmaceutical Robin Hood thing going on. No one needs that much honesty.

  Rafe considers, leaning back in his chair. A beam of morning sunlight breaks through the window, highlighting the gleam of his black hair and the sculpted perfection of his cheekbones. Jesus, Mother Nature, I get it. He’s gorgeous. Don’t rub it in.

  “All right.” He leans forward, resting his clasped hands on the desk. “There’s something I need you to remember,” he whispers darkly. A cocksure smile graces his mouth. “I can’t stand tea.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” I hold out my hand. “Do you have the zip drive?” Off his startled look, I explain. “I can do a little work at home on my own time. See if we missed anything. Besides, it’ll be safer at my house than yours. Scott and Brad never drop by.”

  “Good. Because if they did, I’d beat the shit out of them,” he growls. He slides the drive out of his pocket and slips it to me. “All right, Ms. Snowe. We’re partners now.”

  Oh God, don’t say partner. It only makes me think of two people naked and in bed together. I palm the drive, and nod.

  “Okay. In the meantime, we need to keep your act going like nothing’s changed. That means leaving early today, probably forgetting the board meeting, and.” Here I swallow. “Uh, you’re still taking Ms. Morokovna to that Balenciaga thing tomorrow night.”

  Rafe leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He looks, at that moment, like the high emperor of Madison Avenue, and it’s enough to make a girl weak at the knees. Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of weakness.

  “Guess it’s a date, then.” He nods at me, unsmiling. “Thank you.”

  The rakish, Rafe-ish charm has been dimmed; he knows I know what he’s really about now. No point in acting a part. As I troop back to my desk, I try to convince myself that this is all for the best. I’m doing the right thing for the right reasons, and excising the wrong thing altogether.

  If only I didn’t feel so damn sad about it.

  Six

  Rafe

  Music vibrates through me while I sip my third bourbon and try to focus on the second conversation I’m having with Svetlana Morokovna so far this evening. She’s not really the type of girl for conversation. No, she’s a much more visual type of woman. Instead of talking, she’s been selfie-ing in the town car, on the dance floor, probably in the bathroom. Her fans need to know that Saudade, the newest, hottest club in New York has gold leaf toilet paper, I guess.

  I suppose the picture taking shouldn’t surprise me. Considering she’s a former runway model and current handbag designer, I imagine she n
eeds to keep checking her face at different angles to make sure she can still go out in polite society. The red hot second she gets below a 9.75 on the scale of beauty, she might as well be an old crone cackling off in the woods somewhere, living off the blood of campers and perfume samples from magazines. She’s taken pictures of our cocktails and other women’s designer handbags. The only person here who hasn’t gotten his picture taken is me, and I’m fine with that. The buzz from the bourbon is taking me away from all the bullshit flying around at this party.

  Sorry, like I said: back to our second conversation.

  “Do you like baked potatoes?” Svetlana asks me. I blink slowly. No, that can’t have been the booze; I must’ve heard her right.

  “Baked potatoes robbed me at gunpoint and stole my wallet. I hate the bastards,” I reply. She blinks, her Botox-ed and admittedly gorgeous face going vacant with confusion. I can’t fault her for that. I’m not in the best form tonight. I’m too busy thinking about my zip drive and the woman who has it. The woman, especially. It was one thing to fantasize about the way Tessa tasted, or how she’d feel quivering beneath my hands. Now that I know, though, it’s impossible to imagine anyone or anything else. It’s like saying to someone “don’t think about elephants.” Well, all they do is picture elephants. So Tessa is a particularly sexy elephant, with a tumult of long blonde hair and fine, pert—

  I just thought of an elephant with breasts. I think I need to drink myself into oblivion.

  Sorry, we were talking about baked potatoes. I’d better get back to that.

  “Baked potatoes are fine.” I lean my elbow on the table, rub my forehead. “Why do you ask?”

  “Is very resilient form, the potato. Like a handbag.” She’s always working, this one. “You think someone would want a handbag shaped like potato?”

  “I think you should sprinkle a crusting of dirt over it to authenticate the experience.” I lean in closer to whisper conspiratorially. “Then you should bake it in the oven for two hours before putting your wallet inside. Deters purse snatchers.” I take a deep swallow of bourbon. Jack Daniels, my old friend. “They try to grab it, it burns their hands.”

  This is the sanest conversation I’ve had all day. I’m not kidding. Working for Scott McCarthy drives you a little nuts.

  “You are so smart.” She says it like she’s impressed and surprised. “I thought you were sexy, stupid drunk son of billionaire.”

  “Sexy? Yes. Stupid? No. Drunk? Currently. Son? Never.” I look out at the crowd of A-listers and asskissers that comprises my social circle. There are a gaggle of assholes with whom I went to Harvard, along with some other trust-fund babies that got kicked out of Yale. Most of them float by on Daddy’s money while complaining about how hard they have to work at a job that requires the bare minimum of breathing and maintaining a functional body temperature. They’re all here for a charity event they can write off on their taxes while cozying up to the richest men and sleeping with the hottest women. Then they go home feeling good about themselves. I look back at Svetlana, and keep imagining that under the lights and in the semi-darkness she’s become a few inches shorter and a bit blonder. “So. Besides potato bags, what do you do?”

  She shrugs. “My manager says we need one million Instagram followers to move to next stage of career.”

  “And that is?”

  “Wealthy husband. Must be billionaire or related to one.” I get the feeling from the way she’s sizing me up that I’m on the shortlist. Great news. Let’s tell the town.

  “You know, I have other qualities besides my staggering handsomeness, debonair charm, money, and big name.” I grin as she sidles up to me, looking to get closer.

  “You have naughty secrets?” she purrs.

  “Mmm.” I put my lips to her ear and whisper, “I read books.”

  Svetlana shies away like I just whipped my dick out and started describing it in exacting detail to the rest of the table. Ah, who am I kidding? If I’d done that, she would’ve just been impressed at its length.

  “What books? Like the Harry Potter?” she says, trying to figure out why anyone with an enormous bank account would bother reading. I mean, when you can spend a shit zillion dollars on private jets and high-profile divorces, who needs fiction?

  Tessa, of course, reads a lot of books. Her apartment was filled with them. And thinking of Tessa’s apartment only makes me recall her pristine, un-fucked-in bed, and that’s something I can’t dwell on too much without either getting sullen or excusing myself to go jerk off in an alley somewhere. I’m too classy for that. Barely.

  “No, not Harry Potter. History. Ever heard of this old Roman emperor named Claudius?” Fuck it, I’m drunk and Svetlana’s a semi-captive audience. Might as well wax poetic for a minute. “His family was messed up, to put it mildly. His grandmother, Livia, kept poisoning everyone around her in order to put her son on the throne. Sisters, brothers, grandkids, house pets, they all got axed. You know how Claudius stayed alive?”

  “Is this Percy Jackson book?” She is clearly lost.

  “He pretended to be an idiot so no one in his conniving, terrible family ever felt the need to kill him.” I smile, clinking the ice in my glass. “But he was probably the smartest of them all. They dropped like flies; he stuck around. Then one day? Boom. He was emperor.” I swallow the dregs of my bourbon. “I learned a whole lot from old Emperor Claudius.” I push back from the table and manage not to fall into anyone’s Chilean sea bass. I’m on fire tonight. “I’m going to drown myself in more booze. You want anything?” I gaze at her plate. “You want another fish?”

  “You are strange man.” She sighs, shaking her head. “Shame. I assume your cock is enormous.”

  “You assume correctly.” I weave my way through the crowd and towards the bar. Some rapper has taken the stage, and everyone’s crowded around him with their phones raised high to get some video for their social media. Later, a bunch of pasty-faced hedge-fund overlords will probably try to get their picture taken with him so they can brag about it to their kids’ au pairs.

  What a world I live in.

  At the bar, I shoulder my way through a crowd of braying, obscenely rich jackasses and finally get another few fingers of bourbon in my hand. I drink, hoping this whole night becomes a blur of half-formed memories. I’m counting the minutes until I can get home, and hopefully find out if Tessa made any progress. Until I can hear her voice on the phone again, that soft, sexy whisper. Until I can drive myself insane with wanting her.

  Sounds great.

  I know I could take Svetlana home tonight and fuck her brains out, but I don’t want it. After last night, I don’t want any of the supermodels or reality show heiresses packing this club. I want something real. Someone real. I want—

  A hard jab to my shoulder. I mean, that’s not what I want. It’s what I get, and it comes the fuck outta nowhere. Wincing, I slump against the bar and turn to face the asshole responsible. “There’re better ways to say hi, you jackass.”

  “Eh, this way’s more fun,” the guy in front of me says, and in my boozy haze I recognize him. Finally, the night gets a little better. Grinning, I throw my arm around the little bastard’s neck.

  “John. I hate how much I love you right now.” My cousin, John McCarthy, helps prop me up as we stumble away from the bar, through the strobe lights and pounding music, and towards the club exit. Like every other actual, biological McCarthy, he’s lanky and lean and pretty ginger. Unlike the other biological McCarthys, though, he’s got a soul. Growing up, he was the only one in the family who didn’t care that I had no real blood relation, the only one who gave a damn what happened to me.

  Outside, I take a deep breath of the chilled New York winter. John lets me go, fiddling with his glasses. He’s wearing a conservative dark suit, and with his red hair slicked back he looks more like a mob boss’s attorney than a guy going to a swank, soulless gala.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I drawl, buttoning my jacket against the cold.
“Didn’t know public defenders got invited to these sorts of events. There’s a sign, you know. No do-gooders allowed.”

  “Tonight I’m less a lawyer than I am a babysitter.” He glances back at the club doors; the bleeding pulse of the music rattles the ground under our feet. “Uncle Scott asked if I’d take Brad.” John winces. “You know, after what happened at the last event—”

  “The one where he tried squeezing that girl’s tits and she knocked his ass into the Bethesda fountain?” I smile. “Thanks. I needed that mental image.”

  “Yeah. Scott wants someone Brad-handling at all times.”

  God, I cringe to imagine whatever poor girl Brad hires to handle him in the privacy of his own home. I should set up a GoFundMe page. Whatever he pays her, it’s not enough.

  “Surprised he doesn’t have anyone looking after you.” John grins. “Wait, you’ve got that assistant, don’t you? The nice one?”

  Nice is the wrong word for Tessa. Incandescent. Brilliant. Beautiful. Legs for days. That last one’s more like several words, but the point is clear.

  “Usually, she keeps me sober. Well. Sober-er.” I stagger backwards a step when I try to brush my hair out of my eyes. Fuck knows how I managed that. “Unfortunately, she’s at home.” All alone, if Mrs. Taylor was anything to go by. Maybe she wants some company. Maybe I should call my car to take Svetlana back to her place, then walk to Queens. I’m drunk enough that crossing the bridge on foot and in Hugo Boss sounds like a sane idea.

  “Fuck me. It’s you.”

  That little rat bastard voice whining in my ear can only belong to one special person. I blink at Brad, who’s red-faced with whiskey and baring his underbite at me. He’s like an attack Chihuahua. If he starts humping my leg, I’ll end him. I ruffle his hair, a move I know he’s going to love.

  “Hey, Bradley.” I pinch his cheek for good measure. Fuck it, I’m drunk enough to poke the idiot bear. “Strike out with all the girls inside? Don’t worry, it’s just not your night. Or your week.” I hook an arm around his neck, and he shoves me off. I nearly step into traffic, but manage to keep my balance. I’m amazing that way. “I’ll guess it’s not your month, either. Or your calendar year.”