by Nina Levine
Joe’s parents, Andrew and Rachel, have arrived. I hear them talking with Joe in the formal living room. Knowing Joe won’t be happy if I don’t say hello, I join them.
“Chelsea,” Rachel greets me, a smile fixed on her face. It’s a fake smile, the one she gives every person she comes in contact with. Joe’s mother doesn’t like many people, especially not me. She tolerates me because of what my family can do for hers, but I don’t think she wants to share her son with any woman. As far as I’m concerned, we don’t need to share him; she can have him.
I air-kiss her. “Hi, Rachel. How are you?”
“Oh, you know, dear, as well as I can be.”
That’s code for “my husband’s an utter prick and I hate my life.” I know this because I’ve observed them when they don’t think anyone’s watching, and he is an utter prick, and she hates him as much as I suspect I’ll hate her son one day.
Andrew doesn’t move from the armchair he’s sitting in. He simply rakes his gaze over me and says, “Chelsea.”
“Andrew,” I reply, moving to sit next to Joe on the sofa.
Joe extends his arm across the back of the sofa and pulls me close to him. I allow this because I feel safer being near him when his father’s around. The only time I’m more than happy to sit next to Joe is when his father’s in the same room.
“Joe tells me you celebrated a remarkable success at your job this week,” Andrew says, referring to the financial analysis and subsequent advice I gave one of the companies I work with that helped them double their profit this year. I received a huge bonus from my company for my work on this.
I look at my husband. I wasn’t aware he cared enough about my work for this to be something he’d share with his family. Smiling at him, I say, “Yes, I did.”
Joe returns my smile and takes my hand in his. Placing it on his thigh, he keeps his hand over mine. This is all so weird and unexpected that it stuns me into silence. Joe doesn’t do displays of affection, especially not ones that feel real.
“Congratulations,” Andrew says, drawing my attention back to the conversation.
“Thank you.”
Andrew shifts back to discussing business with his son while Rachel and I fade to the background and stare into space, waiting for them to finish.
When a lull hits the conversation, I look at Joe and say, “I’m going to check the roast.” Sundays are the only day I cook because our staff all have the day off, and I always cook a roast for our family lunch.
He nods and lets my hand go.
I excuse myself and hurry into the kitchen, desperate to distance myself from Joe’s family.
The roast is ready, so I pull it out of the oven. I spend some time fussing with it and the roast vegetables before reaching into the fridge for a bottle of wine. I’ve just poured myself a glass and taken a gulp when Rachel joins me.
“I’d love a wine, Chelsea,” she says, surprising me. Rachel doesn’t usually indulge in alcohol.
I smile and grab the bottle back out of the fridge. “Absolutely.”
She takes the glass I offer her, looking more grateful than I’ve ever seen her. “Thank you.” She guzzles half of it, and I have to restrain my eyes from popping out of my head. Placing the glass on the kitchen counter, she says, “I’m just going to pop to the bathroom, dear.”
I watch her leave and wonder what’s going on with her. I’ve never seen her like this. She actually seems like a normal person like this. Maybe even like someone I could get on with.
Joe’s phone, which is sitting on the kitchen counter, sounds with a text, so I grab it to take it into him. He handles a lot of high-level investments that often require immediate attention, so this could be an important text.
I slow as I draw closer to the living room. Joe and his father are arguing, and when they’re doing that, I don’t want to be anywhere near them. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s nasty.
“I’m not doing it, Dad,” Joe says, his voice harder than usual.
“You will do this, Joe, and you’ll fucking do it tomorrow.” His father’s voice slides through my veins like ice. And poison. That’s the best word I can use to describe how his father makes me feel: like I’m being poisoned just by being in his presence.
“Christ. Do you have any idea what you’re fucking asking of me?”
I frown. I’ve never heard Joe sound torn like this. Like he genuinely doesn’t want to do what his father is ordering him to do.
“Yes, I’m asking you to step up for your brother. For your family.”
“No, you’re asking me to commit a crime.”
“We both know it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done that, son.” Andrew’s voice drops low as he threatens, “If you refuse to do this, you could find yourself in hot water over some of those previous crimes.”
Joe turns silent before spitting out, “There are days where I wonder whether you’re actually my father.”
“Trust me, boy, I wonder the same fucking thing sometimes.”
Oh, God.
The doorbell sounds, and I rush to the front door to answer it. I don’t want to hear any more of Joe’s conversation with his father. Andrew is toxic, and I fear my husband will become like his father one day, which is something I don’t even want to contemplate.
“Chelsea, darling,” my mother greets me when I open the door to her.
“Hi, Mum,” I say, stepping aside to let her in. She air-kisses me as she moves past me, but we don’t embrace. We never embrace. It’s not the Novak way.
Dad follows her in with a “Chelsea” as his greeting. Already, he’s all business, and I have to admit that I’m grateful for Joe’s heads-up earlier. I may not have enjoyed the conversation with my husband, but at least I’m prepared for what my father is going to ask of me.
We all head into the living room where Joe is still with his father. Rachel has rejoined them, sipping her wine quietly as the men talk business again. Andrew stands as soon as he sees my father, greeting Dad with more enthusiasm than he did his own son.
I assess Joe. His shoulders are like stone. His eyes are hard. He has the look on his face I’ve come to associate with the likelihood of him demanding sex from me later. He’s never forced himself on me, but he made it clear on our wedding night what his expectations are, and they involve regular sex. I say no as often as I can get away with, but when he looks at me the way he is now, I know that word is off the table.
I take a deep breath before handing him his phone. “You received a text. I thought it might be important.”
“Thank you.” He checks the message and stands to exit the room.
I glance around the room, and to no one in particular, I say, “I’m going to check on lunch.”
My father surprises me when he says, “I’ll come with you. We need to talk.” Usually, he waits until after lunch to approach me with his demands.
When we reach the kitchen and I take a good look at him, I note that he appears anxious to have this conversation. Odd. My father is never anxious about anything to do with me. He just takes what he wants or pushes me until I give him what he wants.
He cuts straight to the chase. “I want to talk to you about my re-election campaign and the fact I need you to appear by my side with your mother at certain functions.”
I nod. “I realise this.”
“Yes, but this is going to be a tight race, Chelsea, so you’ll need to take a few weeks off work so you can travel with us throughout the state rather than just coming to the Brisbane and Gold Coast functions.”
“No.”
He was expecting that and doesn’t even blink at my refusal. “That’s not the answer I’m looking for.”
“I know, but it’s the only answer you’re going to get from me.”
Dad’s eyes snap to Joe as he joins us. “Good, you’re here. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”
Joe looks at me. “The Liberals have a strong candidate. Your father needs you with him for this.�
��
“He doesn’t,” I say. “He needs better policies.”
My father’s eyes darken with anger. “Why don’t you leave the politics to the men and focus on what you’re good for?”
“See, when you say things like that to me, it doesn’t make me want to help you, Dad.”
He clenches his jaw. “You think you have a choice here, Chelsea?”
My heart races at what he’s not saying, and I do my best to ignore it. Surely he won’t make more threats against Mason to get what he wants here.
“I’ve given you everything you asked for. I married Joe. I do interviews and tell anyone who’ll listen how happy I am in my marriage. I show up to all your fundraisers on Joe’s arm. I’ll keep playing happy families for you, but I won’t do this. I won’t ever give up my work.”
Joe steps in, doing the thing he does when there’s tension between Dad and me. “Perhaps Chelsea and I can talk about this some more tonight, Mark?”
Dad doesn’t take his eyes off me. He’s all anger and control, and I brace myself for what I know he’s about to say. “You will do this, Chelsea, or else I’ll go after Mason. You think he’s seen the worst of what those new laws can do? He hasn’t, not by a long shot.”
I can’t breathe.
“You said he’d be safe once I married Joe.” I’m disgusted with myself for sounding so desperate in front of my father and husband. I promised myself I’d never beg them for anything, and here I am doing just that.
Dad’s eyes glitter with victory. He knows that regardless of where this conversation goes now, he’s won. He knows that all he ever has to do is pull the Mason card out and he’ll always win. “You honestly thought your marriage would protect that boy and his club forever? My girl, you have a lot to learn about the world. Your marriage saved them all once. Your choices going forward will determine their futures.”
My legs turn to jelly.
I reach for the kitchen counter to steady myself.
I should have seen this coming.
How did I not?
“Well?” my father demands. “What will it be? A few weeks off work for you or jail for Mason?”
I swallow my hatred.
I swallow my resentment.
I swallow my fear.
“I’ll take a few weeks off.”
“Good girl.”
My eyes meet Joe’s as Dad leaves us and I suck in a breath at what I see there.
“You’re mine now, Chelsea, and it would do you well to remember that.” The darkness in his voice matches the dark flash of his eyes.
“I know that.” My voice betrays me, wobbling with the same dread pooling deep in my belly.
“It doesn’t appear that way to me.”
“It’s only been one month, Joe. You need to give me time.”
He moves close to me, bringing his finger to trail along my jaw. “I’ll give you time, but you’re going to need to give me a lot more than you currently are.”
I stare at him, trying not to lose the little courage I have left after this entire confrontation. Only my father and Joe are able to reduce me to this person I don’t recognise. I hate myself for not being stronger, but when they threaten the one person I would die for, I’m unable to do anything but give them what they want.
I nod, the agreement taking all the breath from me. “I understand.”
His fingers trail over my lips. “Good.” He pauses before adding, “The next time your father asks you to do something for him, I don’t fucking want that asshole to be the deciding factor in your agreement.”
I watch in silence as he exits the room, my heart in my mouth.
If I thought the last three months were hard, I had no idea what was in store for me.
7
Gunnar
“You look like you could do with this,” Wilder says late Monday afternoon, sliding onto the stool next to me at the clubhouse bar and placing a schooner of beer in front of me.
“Yeah, I could. Thanks, brother.” I take a sip. “It’s been a long fucking day. How’s shit at Trilogy?” The restaurant the club owns has grown busier over the last few months, and that’s because of Wilder’s efforts there. He was a good choice for manager.
He drinks some of his beer. “Busy. You still good to work security there this week?”
I nod. He asked me to cover some shifts on Wednesday and Friday night. “Yeah. And just let me know if you need me for more. It’ll keep me out of trouble.”
He grins. “Nothing’ll keep you out of trouble.”
I throw back some more beer. “Well, something fucking needs to.” At the rate I’m going lately, I’m about to skid off a fucking mountain of bad choices into a pit of hell.
“Wilder,” Madison says, joining us. “Have you got a minute?”
He looks at her. “Yeah. What’s up?”
She smiles at me. “Sorry, Gunnar, this won’t take long.”
“All good, babe,” I say. I’ve got a lot of time for J’s old lady. She can take as long as she wants.
“So,” she says to Wilder, “I’ve been planning Harlow’s baby shower and we’ve had a problem come up with the venue we booked. They’re being assholes so I’ve told them to cancel our booking.” She smiles sweetly at him. “I’m hopeful you’ll be able to squeeze us in at Trilogy.”
Wilder grimaces. “When?”
“Not this weekend, but next. Saturday afternoon.”
“Fuck. I really want to say yes, but I think we’re fully booked that day.”
“What about out on the back deck?”
The deck’s a new addition to the restaurant and has only just been completed.
Wilder shakes his head. “No, we’ve been booking it out from this weekend, so it’s all gone for next weekend.”
“Damn,” she says. “Do you have any suggestions for where else we could try? I know you’re up with all the local venues more than I am.”
Before Wilder can answer, J turns up. Sliding his arm around his wife’s waist, he drops a kiss to the top of her head and says, “You giving Wilder a headache, babe? He looks pained as fuck.”
Madison looks up at her husband and pulls a face. “No, we’re discussing possible venues for Harlow’s baby shower. You should make yourself useful and get me a drink.”
I grin. This is one of the reasons I like Madison so much. She never gives J an inch.
J eyes me. “I caught that, asshole.”
I continue grinning. “I’ll have another beer while you’re at it.”
“You don’t suck my dick. You can get your own fucking drink,” he says before leaving us.
Wilder and Madison go back to discussing the baby shower, and I tune out, thinking about my plans for the night. At this point, I don’t have any, but I’m all for that changing.
“Hey, you,” a sexy voice I know well purrs in my ear as her hand slides over my thigh and rests on my dick.
I turn to look at her. “Tiana.” She’s fucking gorgeous, but my dick’s not even registering her. Not when there’s only one woman my dick’s after and it isn’t her.
She presses herself against me, stroking my cock. “I haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks. Where have you been?”
I drain my glass. “Around.”
“You’re always so cagey, Gunnar.” She frowns. “And what’s going on with your cock? I know I haven’t lost my touch, but you’re not even semihard.”
“Story of my fucking life lately,” I mutter, willing my dick to get to work, but knowing it won’t. Some days I can get it up, but increasingly not.
“Oh good, so it’s you, not me.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, it’s definitely not you.”
She removes her hand and pulls up the stool next to me. “You should buy me a drink. Maybe you need to talk tonight instead of fuck.”
“Babe, not even talking can fucking save me at this point, but I appreciate the offer.”
She stares at me. “Damn, you’re really into this chick, aren’t you? Is it t
he one you just broke up with?”
I stand. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Yeah, I get it. You’re not much of a talker.” She jerks her chin at me. “Call me when your dick starts working again. I miss you.”
As I walk out of the bar, I fucking curse the fact I’m now thinking about Chelsea. Fuck her for ruining my sex life. I should have fucked her the other night just so I could fucking get some. Because my dick was sure as shit fucking working then.
“Gunnar,” Scott calls out from down the hall. “Need you for a minute, brother.”
He reaches into his desk once I’m in his office and pulls a USB out of the drawer. Handing it to me, he says, “I need you to drop this off to Joe Hearst tonight.”
Fuck. No.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“I know you’ve got a difficult history with this asshole, but I need this done tonight, and you’re who I’m trusting to make that happen.”
Fuck, when my president says shit like that to me, I can’t refuse what he’s asking. I take the USB. “I’ll get it done.”
“Text me once he has it.”
I agree and exit the office to head out to my bike.
Clearly Griff didn’t share the news with our president that I got into it with Hearst last week. I owe my VP a drink for that.
I end up at Alexa’s for a few hours and have dinner with her and Hayden before doing what Scott asked. Hayden’s leaving to fly back to LA tomorrow, so it’s good to catch up before he goes.
“When will you be back?” I ask as we kick back on Alexa’s couch after dinner.
“He’ll tell you sweet, sweet lies,” Alexa calls out from the kitchen. “Add a month onto whatever he says.”
I look at him. “What’s she going on about?”
He shakes his head. “She’s been harassing me for days about when I’ll be home again. Won’t fucking leave me alone about it, so I threw out December to shut her up. She clued on that I was full of shit.”
“She misses the hell out of you guys.”
“Yeah, I know. Thank fuck you never moved away.”
