by Nina Levine
When I enter the house, the buzz of people talking is the first thing I take in. The second thing is Joe’s eyes as he looks up at me from the kitchen island when I walk in. The third is the hard set of those eyes and the ominous vibe surrounding him.
“Hi,” the man with Joe says, extending his hand. “I’m Matthew Ronson.”
I stare at him, allowing the feelings of distrust swirling all around me to settle in deep. I’m learning to go with my gut these days, and right now, my gut is telling me that none of this is good. Matthew Ronson is standing in front of me dressed in his expensive suit, with his perfectly styled hair and overpriced watch, running his gaze over me like he’s assessing every inch of me, and I know not one good thing is going to come from knowing him.
“And?” I ask. I’m past being nice to these assholes.
Joe’s lips press together. “Chelsea,” he warns.
My eyes cut to his. “What’s going on, Joe? I thought we were going out to dinner tonight.”
“We are. Matt’s just running through some stuff with me.”
“What stuff?” I don’t usually ask him about his work, but I’m not getting the feeling this is about his work. I want to know who Matthew Ronson is and why he’s in my house when I was not expecting him. I mean, the last thing Joe said to me earlier was that we had nothing on today, so he wasn’t intending on seeing Matthew at that point.
“We’re planning for a trip next week,” Joe says, and I know by his tone that there’s a whole lot more about this trip that I need to know. That dark, ominous vibe won’t let up.
“I wasn’t aware you had plans to go away next week.”
Before he can respond, a woman appears in the kitchen and looks at me. “Oh good, you’re home. We’re ready for you to take a look at the clothes.”
I frown at her. “What clothes?”
She returns my frown. “The ones for your appearances.”
My gut churns with unease. I look at Joe and find him watching me intently. I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I’m a thousand percent sure I’m not going to like it. “A word?” I say to him before turning on my heel and walking into the library.
“What’s going on?” I demand once we’re alone.
“I made some changes to your father’s schedule. He’ll be travelling up the coast next week to drum up support.”
“And?” I know that’s not all he has to tell me.
“And you’ll be coming with us.”
That ominous sensation coils right through me as I process this. As I process Joe’s dark expression.
Gathering every ounce of strength I have, I say, “I have work next week, Joe. I won’t be going with you.”
“I’ve arranged for you to take the week off.”
“Really? And how did you do that?” As the words leave my mouth, I know it’s a dumb question. My husband has his ways to get everything he wants, and if he wants me to have a week off, he’ll have found a way to make that happen.
“I called Martin.” My boss. “He was more than happy to accommodate your father.”
My chest fills with anger to the point I need to take quicker, shorter breaths just to get oxygen in. How fucking dare he!
I cross my arms. “I’m in the middle of a huge project at work, one I can’t just take a week off from. And certainly not at short notice.”
“Martin wasn’t concerned.”
“Well I am,” I snap. “I won’t do this. And I don’t appreciate you making these kinds of decisions for me.”
His nostrils flare. “These are decisions necessary for your father, Chelsea. Necessary for the family. You will do this and you won’t fucking argue about it.”
I take a step towards him. Dumb. With the way he’s looking at me, I should be taking a step away from him. “I will fucking argue about it. I’m not taking a week off work.”
He turns silent for a moment.
Just watching me.
Preparing to strike.
“Remember why you entered this marriage,” he says, so low and menacingly that it makes me pay attention.
His veiled threat snakes through my veins.
I feel sick.
He means every word of what he’s not saying.
My silence is my answer, and he knows it.
“You have a new wardrobe of clothes to try on. Confirm they fit and then choose one of the dresses to wear tonight.” He pauses, working his jaw. “The next time you decide to leave when we’re in the middle of something, don’t. I don’t appreciate being walked out on.” He bends his mouth to my ear. “And if I want to touch you or kiss you or fuck you in front of your ex, I fucking will.”
He stalks out of the library, the power he’s just claimed radiating from every pore of him.
I double over after he’s gone, grabbing the chair to hold myself up.
When will this all end?
And will I even survive it?
13
Gunnar
“You look even more pissed off than the last time I saw you, and that’s saying something,” Louise says on Saturday night when I see her at Scott’s place. Scott invited a few of us over for poker. Harlow invited the old ladies and Louise, something she’s done a few times over the last month since that first barbecue where we met.
She’s sitting next to me on Scott’s back deck, and I look at her, taking a moment to let my eyes run down her body. Damn, she’s hot, but fuck if I can get my dick interested. I’ve tried. My sex life is fucking ruined after Chelsea. After that night I fucked her in her library. “Nothing a few drinks won’t fix,” I say, not believing a word of it. The mood I’m in is gonna take more than a few drinks to shift. Seeing Chelsea with Hearst by their pool today ensured that. If I ever have to fucking watch him with his hand down her pants again, I’ll fucking make it so his hands are broken and unable to fucking work.
Louise looks at me knowingly. “I think we both know a few drinks isn’t going to do it, Gunnar. You might not have told me about her, but I know what it looks like when a guy’s trying to forget a girl.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s that fucking obvious?”
She smiles. “Yeah.”
I shake my shoulders and arms, trying like fuck to rid myself of the shitty energy pulsing through me. “Okay, well maybe I underestimated how many drinks it’s gonna take.”
She leans in close, that smile teasing me and making me wish like hell I could get my dick on board with her. “I’ve had a crappy day, too. Let’s get fucked up together.”
I jerk my chin at her. “What’s your poison?”
“I’m a bourbon girl. You?”
“I fucking knew I liked you. We can start with the bottle I brought.”
“And when we run out?” she says suggestively.
Fuck, this may not be my best idea. Her eyes are telling me she doesn’t give a fuck if I’m still getting over another chick. I like Louise; I don’t want to fuck with her, and right now, I’d be fucking with her if I took this any further.
I’m saved from answering that when Blade and Layla arrive, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Hot damn, woman,” Madison says to her sister-in-law. “Pregnancy suits you. You’re glowing.”
They announced their pregnancy last month. From memory, they were three months then.
Layla smiles, her hand going to her stomach. “I feel like I’m glowing. If this is what pregnancy is like, I’ll happily do it again.”
Blade watches her silently. I don’t know him well, but from what I’ve seen, he fucking adores her.
“I didn’t glow,” Madison says. “I was irritable for nine straight months and felt like a whale.”
“You weren’t a whale,” Harlow says. And then with a cheeky smile, she says, “But you were a little snappy.”
“A little?” J says, earning him a smack from his old lady.
Madison looks at him. “I can’t have been too bad. You’re doing your best to knock me up again.”
Madison rolls her eyes, but she leans into him and hooks her hand around his neck before kissing him.
I push my chair back and stand. “Bourbon and Coke?” I say to Louise.
She looks at me. “Perfect. Thanks.”
I head inside to make the drinks and have just located the bourbon when Scott comes into the kitchen. “I’m gonna need you to make a trip next week,” he says.
“Where?”
“Up the coast. Security for Novak.”
I stop what I’m doing and give him my full attention. “The fuck for?” Scott knows my history with this motherfucker; surely he knows that sending me to fucking watch over him is the worst choice he could make.
He looks regretful. “He’s attending a heap of functions throughout the week, and Hearst wants extra eyes on them. He’s asked me to send two men. It’ll be you and Griff. And trust me, I’d send someone else if I could, but you’re the best for that job. I can’t afford for this to be fucked up. We’ve got too much heat on us, and I need Novak to keep helping us with that.”
I want to say no, but I won’t. Not to anything that’ll help the club. “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. Their first event is tomorrow night. You’ll need to be ready to leave with them by lunch.”
“Any idea what the fuck he’s tied up in that he fucking needs us as security?”
“No idea, but watch your back, brother.”
I head out to the deck and pass Louise her drink. Taking a sip of mine, I say, “Change of plans. I’ve gotta leave after this drink.”
I don’t miss the disappointment in her eyes. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just some work I’ve gotta take care of tomorrow. The kind that a hangover won’t be any good for.”
“Maybe we could get together for a drink next week sometime.”
“I’ll be away all week.”
“Oh, okay. Well, maybe when you get back.”
I’m still fucking hopeful my dick will wake the fuck up soon, so I nod. “Yeah.”
A month of no encounters with Chelsea hasn’t achieved what I hoped it would. I thought keeping right the fuck away from her would help me move on, but it hasn’t. The few times I’ve seen her while seeing Hearst hasn’t helped. What I need is to get off the roster of doing his dirty work. I’ll do this week with Novak and then I’ll tell Griff I’m done. Thank fuck Chelsea won’t be anywhere close next week; after seeing her today, she’s in my veins, and I need her the fuck out.
14
Chelsea
I slip a white camisole top over my head and pair it with a pair of eggplant high-rise wide-leg crop pants that tie in the front. Strappy nude heels finish the outfit, and I stand back to assess myself. I’ve curled my hair and left it out, but that’s the only thing Joe’s going to be happy with. He’ll likely take issue with the rest, but I’m feeling like fighting this battle today since it’ll probably be the only battle I’ll bother with for the next seven days. And I intend to win it. I need to start this trip off with a win under my belt because God knows the rest of the trip is going to slay me.
“Are you ready?” he says, coming into our bedroom.
I reach for my purse. “Yes.”
He stops and takes in my appearance. “What happened to the dress you were going to wear?”
“I changed my mind.” I stand tall, refusing to shrink under his dominance.
“Change.”
“I’m not changing, Joe. I want to be comfortable this afternoon before all the events start.”
“Chelsea, from the minute we step out of the car at the hotel this afternoon, everything starts. I want you in that dress from that minute.”
“There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.”
He takes that in, turning silent while he does. “Are you planning on arguing with me for the entire week? Because if you are, I’d think again. There’s a reason for absolutely every outfit that’s been chosen, for every speech that’s been written, and for every appearance we make.”
I square my shoulders. “Perhaps if you didn’t treat me like a fucking child, I’d argue a whole lot less. Has that ever occurred to you?”
His lips pull into a line. “Be in the car in five minutes.”
He stalks out of the bedroom and I let my shoulders slump. I might have won this round, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve won anything. It feels like I surrendered a long time ago and am now just slogging through hell.
Deep breath.
You. Can. Do. This.
I walk outside to where Joe’s talking to his two security guys next to the Range Rovers we’re driving up to the Sunshine Coast in. We’ll swing by and pick Mum and Dad up on the way. When I asked why we weren’t flying, Joe informed me that it made sense to drive considering all the day trips to smaller regional towns they’ll be making.
Joe’s eyes meet mine at the same time I hear the rumble of bikes. Turning, I see two motorbikes pull into the drive, my heart kicking over as I realise Mason’s on one of them.
I look back at Joe and find him watching me intently. His face is like stone.
Mason and Griff cut their engines and make their way to Joe, who snaps, “You’re late.” He looks at Mason. “And your services aren’t needed.” Looking back at Griff, he says, “Replace him with someone else.” Holy hell, the animosity vibrating from my husband is darker than anything I’ve seen from him. And Mason’s standing there throwing the same back. His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses, so I can’t see them, but everything else about him screams hostility and anger.
Griff’s jaw clenches. “We’re not fucking late and I’m not replacing him. We matched your request with the best member for the job.”
“You have a whole fucking club of men, Griff,” Joe says. “Find someone else.”
Griff steps forward, not backing down an inch. “When someone requests security from our club, it’s for a good fucking reason, so that tells me you’re not tied up in anything good. You want protection, I’m gonna make damn fucking sure you get it. Mason’s road name wasn’t given to him by mistake.”
I remember when I asked Mason why his road name is Gunnar. He told me he was given the name after the club saw him fight. The name means fighter, soldier, attacker. Or bold warrior, which is my favourite. Those two words personify Mason.
Joe’s pissed off with Griff, but he doesn’t argue any further. “I requested you to wear suits.”
Griff nods. “We have them.”
“Change in the house. Maria will show you where. And put your bikes in the garage.”
I stare at my husband. Am I in a fucking alternative universe here? He’s hired bikers for protection and he’s ordering them to wear suits. What is actually going on?
Mostly, though, I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact Mason’s going to be with us for a week. Joe might be pissed about that, but I’m anxious. With each passing second that I process this information, an increasing amount of panic is settling in. Mason and I struggle to be in the same room without wanting to either fight, kiss, or tear each other’s clothes off. Throwing us together in close proximity like this, with my husband never taking his eyes off me, is a recipe for disaster.
“Chelsea,” Joe says as Griff and Mason leave us to get changed. “We’re in this car.”
I get in the car he indicates and take a moment to calm myself before he joins me. I thought I was ready for this trip. I thought I’d mentally prepared to deal with the asshole I’m married to. That prep work is all out the window now that Mason’s here. I am so far from ready for this trip it isn’t funny.
Five or so minutes pass, during which I focus on my breathing. When I eye Mason exiting the house in a black suit, I practically stop breathing. He’s all hard angles, thunder clouds, and raw masculinity. I’m attracted to him, end of story, but there’s something about him wearing a suit with hi
s tattoos and bad attitude that calls to me. That gets me all fucking bothered. And right now, bothered in this way is not something I need to be.
Joe directs him and Griff to where he wants them, and I track Mason’s ass as he gets in the other Range Rover.
Joe slides into the seat next to me and Griff gets in the front of our car. Mason and Griff are the drivers, while Joe’s security guys take the front passenger seats in each car. Again, I think of what Griff said about Joe being tied up in something bad. And I’m reminded of the conversation I overheard between Joe and his father last month where his father asked him to commit a crime.
Just who am I married to?
As Griff reverses out of the driveway, Joe hands me a folder. “Study this. It’s everything you need to know for tonight’s function.”
I open the folder and take in the information about each of the men who’ll be at the dinner tonight. “Why do I need to know all this?” He’s never asked me to study this kind of information before. I’ve never had anything to do with convincing people to donate. My job is simply to wear a fucking dress, have my hair out, and smile all night while pretending to love the hell out of my husband and support my father.
“For once, Chelsea, can you please just fucking do what I say without asking me a thousand fucking questions.”
I look at him. Like, really look at him. He’s tense. Rattled over something. So unlike the man I’ve come to know over the last four months who’s all cool and held together.
Interesting.
“Fine,” I snap. “Honestly, though, if you wanted a doormat, you married the wrong girl.” Yep, suddenly feeling frisky.
“I didn’t want a doormat, but I do want a wife who trusts me and does what I say.”
“Perhaps you should go back to school, dear husband, because you just defined a fucking doormat.”
His hand clamps around my wrist tightly. “I’ve had enough of you today.” The words fall from his lips low and harsh and contain one of his warnings that I know not to ignore. “Just read the fucking file.”
