by Geneva Lee
"I just thought—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"It's not safe, Emma, and I need you to stay safe."
"Yeah, I'm your alibi," I mutter, trying to pull away.
Jameson holds me tighter. "You know that's not why I need you to stay safe, Duchess."
"I’m sorry ..." But the apology dies on my lips when the Monte Carlo barrels down the driveway.
"You didn't shut the gate," I yell at Jameson.
"I need you to stay calm," he says.
I wrench away from him, instantly realizing that there is more to this situation than he's letting on. "What did you do?"
"I need you to stay safe," he repeats himself.
"What did you do, Jameson?" I demand. The driver of the Monte Carlo climbs out of the car and walks towards us. Pausing at my car, he leans in and turns off the engine.
That’s weird behavior for a psycho.
I expected The Dealer to be someone we know—someone who has a stake in our secrets—but I've never seen this man before, and I know I'd remember him. The guy makes The Rock look like a weakling. He could probably eat The Rock for breakfast. His neck is wider than his head, bulging with veins that pulsate down to his broad shoulders and inhumanly large arms. If someone told me he was smuggling pythons around those biceps, I'd believe it.
"This is Maddox," Jameson informs me. "He's a former Navy Seal."
"And my new stalker," I add.
"And your new bodyguard," Jameson corrects.
I whip around to face Maddox, not realizing how much closer he's come to me. I have to crane my neck so that I can see his face when I tell him, "Thanks, Maddox. Nice to meet you. We won't be needing your services."
Maddox glances at Jameson, who gives a condescending tilt of his head, as if to say you're dismissed for now before he grabs my hand and drags me inside.
"I do not need a bodyguard," I say through gritted teeth. "The thought of someone following me around night and day is enough to drive me crazy."
"I disagree with you," Jameson says.
"That doesn't matter. I didn't give you permission to hire someone to follow me around."
"No, you didn't. But I cleared it with your mother."
"You spoke to my mother?" I begin to pace, needing to put distance between us, even if it's only a few steps. I guess he's siding with her on the whole Emma is a minor, we can do whatever we want to her issue.
"I assumed that you'd fight me on this."
"And you didn't think I'd fight my mom on it?" I ask. If that’s true, then Jameson West doesn't know me half as well as he thinks he does.
"This is about your safety. I don't want to control you, I just need to know that you're safe."
"You keep using that word. I don’t think you know what it means, because I am safe. The accident was just that: an accident."
It's obvious that he's been preparing for this reaction, because he doesn’t blink. "Hans and your mother had security on you the whole time that you were in Palm Springs."
"What?" This I didn’t expect. "I barely left the house."
"They sat outside the house, and when you did leave, they followed you."
How on earth had I missed that? "You all should win awards for paranoia. I’m going to get the lot of you tinfoil hats for Christmas."
"It's not paranoia, Duchess. Someone pushed you through that window. I can't be with you all the time." His tone isn’t pleading, it’s firm. This has been decided for me. "When you decided to leave Palm Springs, I reached out to your mother because I wanted my man on you."
"I don't want any man on me," I tell him, shoving him in the chest. "Especially not you at the moment."
A growl of frustration vibrates through him and he moves forward, backing me toward a wall. "They would have sent Hans’ men," he informs me, "and I don't want that creep to know that you so much as ate breakfast this morning."
"That doesn't give you the right to have me followed."
"It's a precaution. Nothing more." When I go to argue, he smashes his mouth against mine, kissing me until I'm senseless. My rage seeps away. It’s an effective way to the end the conversation.
My fingers run along the stacked plane of his abs, vibrating on each one. Now I know where they got the term washboard. I break away, panting heavily, my lips still brushing over his. "This conversation isn’t over."
"I’m not stupid, Duchess." He licks my lower lip in invitation.
"You’re very stupid," I moan. "With your stupid mouth and your stupid body."
"That’s it, baby. Try to stay mad." He rocks against me, encouraging me to focus on a very different, but equally intense, range of emotions. "You’re so cute when you’re angry."
"I’m about to be goddamn gorgeous!" But I can’t keep my lips away from him. Jameson answers my kiss with a groan as he lifts me off my feet. My thighs make contact with the heat of his bare skin and I give in to the wild woman trying to claw her way out.
I am mad at him. A message which he probably isn’t getting since I’m wrapped around him like a pretzel. I snake my arms around his torso and dig my fingernails into his back. He responds by pressing me against the wall.
"Let it out, Duchess," he urges me. "Show me how pretty you are when you hate me."
Oh god, I wish I hated him. It would make it so much easier to walk out that door and take control of my own life.
"I hate you," I murmur against his mouth and he sucks my words away with a kiss, plunging his tongue deeply into my mouth. Since he’s not going to let me verbally get my point across, I rake my nails down his back.
He winces audibly before whispering, "I told you I like it."
Rough? I’ll give him that. When he goes to kiss me again, I bite down on his lip until iron floods over my tongue. He pulls back and runs his tongue over his injured lip. "If you aren’t careful, I’m not going to be able to stop."
"Stop what?" I demand breathlessly.
He answers with a thrust that I feel through two layers of denim.
"Did I ask you to stop?" I ask.
"Be very careful with what you say now, Duchess," he warns me, "unless you want to find yourself naked in my bed."
"Maybe that’s exactly what I want."
"You hate me," he reminds me.
I love you. The words trip over my tongue but I swallow them away. Now isn’t the time to reward his behavior with affection.
"Goddammit, Jameson, take me to bed."
"No way," he says with a grin. "Not angry. At least, not for the first time."
I can’t help but like the idea that there’ll be a second time or a third. I don’t think I could ever get enough of him, and if he keeps acting like this, we’ll have plenty of angry sex in our future.
But there’s an ache building inside me that can’t be ignored, so I decide to change my tactics. "Don’t you want to take me to bed?"
"Fight fair," he advises me. "I can’t handle it when you pout."
I stick out my lower lip, realizing I have all the ammunition I need to get my way. I circle my hips, rubbing against him. There’s more than one way to get a rise out of him. "Please?"
"Christ." He grabs my hips and forces me to stop. "I want to stay in control."
"And I want you to lose control," I whisper.
"Is that what this is about? A power struggle?" He nuzzles my neck before nipping the curve of my shoulder. "Because you hold all the cards, Duchess."
I stop pouting and revel in his admission.
"You look pleased with yourself," he notes.
I press my heels into his back, forcing him to crush his body harder against mine. "I hold the cards?"
"Yes," he mutters.
"Then take me to bed," I order him.
Chapter 12
He kisses me as he swiftly maneuvers our tangled bodies across the foyer toward the stairs, but before he can carry me to my requested destination, a familiar voice shrieks.
Jameson stops and we break apart, our eyes still locked together. "We have company."
>
"So it seems," I mutter. "What’s a girl have to do to get some?"
Jameson chuckles softly as he extricates his body from mine, placing me safely on my feet.
"Jameson, dear," his mother calls, "please put a shirt on. It’s nice to see you again, Emma."
"You, too, Mrs. West." I don’t bother to pretend that I’m happy to see Monroe with her. The two of them are laden with shopping bags.
"Would you like some help?" Jameson offers, stepping away from me. I already miss the feel of his skin on mine.
Trust love to turn me into a wide-eyed, helpless sad sack.
"Shirt," she repeats. I have to smother a giggle at the frustration that flits across his face, but Jameson nods and dashes up the stairs.
I stand there for a minute, trying to decide where to go. Following him seems like a bad idea, because unless I’m mistaken, his mom just put the kibosh on our afternoon sexscapades. Instead I wander past the foyer until I find myself in the kitchen.
"Oh, hell," Monroe mutters when she spots me. "Mom, the maid forgot to take the trash out."
"I forgot. I got you a present," I tell her. Then, I give her my middle finger.
"Classy."
"I learned it from you," I say with a fake sob.
She twirls around, her stick-straight, blonde hair whipping over her shoulders as she drops her bags on the kitchen island. Jameson reappears with his mother on his heels. This time he's wearing a shirt, and grabs my hand, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss. Evelyn studies him for a second before giving him an approving smile. "That's better."
He winks at me and heads towards the fridge, kissing his mom on the cheek as he goes. He pulls out a box of pizza but before he can open it, his mother bats his hand away.
"I can't believe you're going to eat that."
"I'm hungry," he protests, but he tosses the box in the trash.
She ruffles his hair in affection. "Did you just get up?"
Monroe glances at me and smirks. "Something's kept him in bed, obviously."
Jameson doesn't miss a beat, immediately picking up on what his sister is implying. He comes over and throws an arm around my shoulders. "Emma just got here. Unlike some, she's a lady."
"I don't know what you're insinuating." Monroe shrugs as she studies her manicure. I know exactly what he’s saying, but I keep that to myself. "I just call it like I see it."
As much as I despise Monroe, I like Jameson's mother. There's no need to make things any more awkward. I'm pretty certain her walking in on our make-out session covers that. Evelyn West has not only perfected the ability to look polished at any given time, but also the ability to ignore it when her children squabble.
"Emma, would you like something to eat?" she asks me as she pulls a vegetable tray out of the Sub-Zero and places it on the counter.
I shake my head. My nerves are still raw from trying to evade my own bodyguard this morning and I'm on edge after the fight that I’ve left unfinished with Jameson.
"Probably for the best," Monroe says. "It looks like you were eating well in Palm Springs."
This catches her mother's attention. She turns on Monroe and glares. "No daughter of mine will speak to another woman that way."
"Mom, I was just—"
Evelyn silences her with a single look. "No excuses."
"They're not ladylike," Jameson jumps in.
"I don't care if either of you are ladies. In my opinion, being a lady in this day and age is highly overrated, but girls have enough problems without being catty to one another." She speaks the truth and we both know it, which is why we all remain quiet.
"Show Jameson what we picked up today," Evelyn suggests after we’ve all been on our best behavior for a few minutes.
"He doesn't want to see it, mom." For the first time since I've known her, there's an embarrassed edge to Monroe's words. There’s no way I’m going to miss this. I take a step back and watch as she pulls out some candles and a framed picture.
"I thought it was best if Monroe redid her room here," Evelyn tells Jameson, her voice tight with emotion. "I don't want either of you going back to the penthouse."
I expect them to put up a fight about this but instead they nod. I'd always assumed that Monroe's lack of respect for authority figures stemmed from her father's money. After all, who cares what people think of you when you can just buy their respect, or at least their silence. She's different around her mother. If I hadn't been subjected to such large doses of her bitchiness, I might even like her now.
"I left a few things in the car," Evelyn says to Jameson. "Can you help me with them?"
He glances at me, as if to check that this is okay, but she loops her arm through his.
"Do you mind if I borrow the man of the house?" Sadness coats her words and I can see what a struggle it is for her to keep a smile on her face.
"Of course not." It's not like I can answer any other way.
Plus I’ve just spent the better part of an hour trying to convince Jameson that I don't need a babysitter. If I want him to believe me and to tell Maddox to step down, then that means I'm going to have to learn to take care of myself in any situation, even those that involve Monroe, a.k.a. The Witched Bitch of the West.
Monroe and I stare at one another. Neither of us speak. She picks up a carrot stick from the tray of crudités her mother has set out for all of us and munches on it. The crunch of her teeth is the only sound in the kitchen, and I join her, absentmindedly eating as a means to pass the time. We might not be capable of being nice to one another, but surely we can shut the hell up and tolerate each other for a few minutes.
"Hugo said you went by the hospital," Monroe says. Apparently, our relationship now includes casual conversation.
"I did," I mumble.
"How did she look? I can't stand to go in there," she admits. "Hospitals aren't my thing."
"You haven't gone to see her?"
Her eyes narrow at the judgment in my tone and I immediately regret my words. "I went," she says defensively. "But only once."
"Yeah. I don't like hospitals, either." I decide to take a different tact. The fact is that Jameson isn't going anywhere. Not if I have anything to say about it. So like it or not, his family is a package deal. Monroe included. As long as I don't have to move into some type of creepy, multi-generational compound with all of them, I need to at least try.
"She looked pale," I say at last. "I didn't stay long. I had no idea Hugo would be there."
"He's always there." Monroe confirms what I had suspected when I saw them. She doesn't have to say any more than that.
"I had no idea they were so close."
"I don't think he did, either," she confesses. "It's funny how you don't realize how you feel about somebody until you don't have a chance to tell them."
Is it opposite day? Because now I find myself wanting to hug her. I refrain, knowing that that would be too much, too soon. It probably always will be.
Jameson and Evelyn reappear, saving us from our uncomfortable attempt at discussion.
"I thought I'd cook dinner this evening." There's a brief glimmer of light in Evelyn West's eyes as she says this, but it immediately extinguishes. She's trying so hard to be strong; anyone can see that. Maybe that's why her kids are treating her with such care.
"Would you like to stay?"
"I’d love to, but I promised my best friend ..."
She waves off my excuse. "No need to explain. Another time."
Jameson's eyes dart to mine and he stops unpacking the grocery bags. "Mom, I'm going to walk Emma to her car."
She nods and begins to discuss what color Monroe would like to paint her bedroom. Jameson doesn't take my hand as he leads me back to my car. "I'm sorry about earlier," he offers.
"But you're still going to have Maddox follow me," I guess.
"You can be mad at me all you want."
"That's good," I jump in, "because I'm going to be."
Reaching out, he cups the side of my face
with his palm. "You're a firecracker, Emma Southerly."
I smile sweetly. Just wait until he sees me go off.
Chapter 13
"I’m famous for buying toilet paper now," Josie announces as she slings her purse onto a chair in the corner. "Did you see?"
I glance up from my laptop and grimace. She’s holding the bag from Weckman’s that The Dealer snapped her with earlier. "I saw."
The real question is whether or not she’s thought about what that means. Josie crosses to her dresser and pulls out an oversized t-shirt.
"My boobs are killing me." She strips off her top and bra and pulls the comfy shirt on. "I’m just glad all he caught was the Charmin and not my tampons. Paying Eve’s penance is bad enough without photographic evidence."
I close the lid of my computer and search for the right way to bring this up. "So the picture was taken this afternoon?"
"There’s the proof." She points to the t.p. sticking out of the plastic bag.
"Did you see anyone? Taking your picture, I mean?" I force myself to ask the hard question.
"No." She lies next to me on the bed and stares up at her bedroom ceiling. I scoot down and join her. Dozens of plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars are still stuck overhead. "Remember when we put those up?"
"Your mom was convinced the landlord was going to kick you out," I remember with a laugh. "What were we, ten?"
"Eleven," Josie corrects me with a giggle. "I abided by the no posters on the wall for a whole year."
"And then you went on a rampage, starting with those." I grab her hand and we look up. When we were younger, we’d lie on the floor during sleepovers, and I would stare at those stars and make wishes. Right now I wish I still believed in their magic. "Josie, if that photo is from today, someone followed you."
Her grip on my hand tightens as I point this out.
"I know," she whispers. "How didn’t I notice him?"
"It’s a busy city. Whoever it is knows how to stay unseen." I sigh. It was a long shot that she might remember catching someone with a camera, but we need a break. "Why are you so certain it’s a guy?"
"What do you mean?" Josie flips on her side and I do the same. We stare at each other, each clutching a pillow.
