Just when I can see the light at the end of a tunnel, something is always coming along blocking it.
Gunner barges in, and I crane my neck to the computer so he won’t see me cry.
“Bring your tablet, we need to rearrange my calendar.”
I try my best to hold my sobs in but I cry even harder. Snot slithers from my nose, and I pluck a Kleenex from the box, wipe it, and toss it in the wastebasket. Shuffling papers on my desk, I pretend I’m busy.
“Gia?” He spins my computer chair around to get a better view of me sobbing.
Straightening up my spine, I say, “I-I need a minute.”
As tears leak down my cheeks, he leans closer and uses his calloused thumb to wipe each one. His eyes are glued to mine as a shiver tickles my spine.
Then he does the unthinkable—he pulls me up to my yellow oxford shoes and yanks me into a hug. His gigantic frame engulfs my small one. My body is wound up like a toy, and finally, I accept his warm embrace.
I hate myself that I like his warm body.
I hate myself for loving the way he smells—cinnamon and expensive cologne.
I hate my stupid dumb heart for going haywire in my chest; it has a burning need to break free from my ribcage.
“What’s wrong, Rainbow?” I feel the vibration of his voice through my bones. I want to bleed my heart out onto his expensive loafers, vent to him about what’s wrong and how ever since I was born life has been screwing me in the butthole, and it continues to screw me.
But I don’t tell him any of this because I doubt he really cares, and if he were to offer help, it would come with a price. Most people want something in return, and my pride won’t let me ask him for help. I’ve been surviving on my own since I was eighteen years old. I’ll get through this.
I break from his embrace and faint streaks of my foundation smear his white dress shirt. “Nothing.”
“Last time I checked, women don’t cry just to cry. So I’m asking you again, what’s wrong?”
“Why do you care?” I snap. He fixes his mouth as if he’s about to respond, so I shake my head. “I’m fine, really, but thanks for your concern.”
“You sure?” He parks his butt on my desk.
I feel my makeup clumping around my eyes; I bet my mascara is running down my cheeks, and I probably look like a raccoon. As he raises his hand to rub the back of his neck, I flinch out of habit. Like the saying goes, old habits die hard.
I know Gunner isn’t going to slap me, but I can’t help the reaction.
He studies my face like he’s reading a newspaper.
I reach around him and grab the tablet, tapping the red button, and the screen comes alive.
“What do you need me to change on your calendar?” Tension is as thick as a marshmallow.
I peer up, pity dances in his eyes.
“Change the meeting with Kirk Jones to Monday. Sundays are off-limits.” He stands up from the desk and swaggers to the door, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Kirk is one of the shareholders in the business.
“Thanks.”
I didn’t think he heard me, but before he slams my door he says, “Welcome.”
After I inform Kirk of the change, I shoot Izzy an email, updating her on what’s going on in my boring life. She probably won’t reply because she’s somewhere in Africa posing half-naked in front of a camera, chasing her dreams of being a famous model.
I spend the remainder of my workday drowning my sorrows by listening to Halestorm.
I rented out a hotel room for two weeks; it cost me two legs and a kidney. Now all I have to do is worry about stretching my paycheck until next week, and unless I want to die of starvation, I need to spend my money on food wisely. So I’ll buy noodles, lunch meat, and bread.
After I finish packing the remainder of my clothes in a trash bag, I perch on the flimsy mattress and glue my eyes to the television while wolfing down a mayo sandwich. A knock on the door makes me jump out of my skin, and I drop my sandwich on the wooden floor. The only people who knock at this time of night are crackheads or hookers. Picking up the half-eaten sandwich, I set it on the counter and grab a pair of pink jeans from my trash bag and wiggle into them. The pounding on the door grows loud and angry, like the person is trying to break it down.
“Coming,” I yell.
As I rush to the door, I snatch up the steel bat that’s leaning against the peeling wall. I don’t have a peephole, so I slowly unlock all five deadbolts, swinging the door open. I see Gunner standing in the arch of the frame.
The dim hallway light flickers, outlining his sharp jaw. He’s giving me a wolfish grin, the one that makes me melt. He’s no longer sporting the Armani suit he did at the office but a black cotton shirt and gray basketball shorts.
Gunner’s favorite colors must be black and gray, because those are the only colors he ever wears.
“My day keeps getting worse by the second.” I exhale, resting the bat against the wall. “If you’re looking for a hooker, they live in the building across from this one.” The cool draft from the hallway causes goosebumps to sprout on my arms.
“I’ll have you know I get pussy for free,” Gunner says, shoving the door wide open and strolling in, ducking his head like he owns the place.
He eyeballs my tiny studio apartment, probably thinking this is the poorest place he’s ever been in. He looks like a G.I. Joe in a poor version of Barbie’s dream home. The only thing I own is a raggedy mattress, cheap clothes, and bright-colored heels. My apartment is a studio with a rusty tub and half a kitchen. It can hold only two people; it’s that small.
“Why are you here?” I shift on my feet, planting my hands on my hips.
“Grab your stuff, I found you somewhere to stay,” he says, placing his left foot over his right with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Wait. What?” My mouth hangs open. “No. Shut the door on your way out.”
He wants something in return. People don’t help others unless it’s going to benefit them. I learned that the hard way.
“Now.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the door.
“I already have a place to stay.” I twirl my hair around my finger. If I had enough money to go to a hairstylist, I’d get my ends clipped. I really need a trim.
“You’d rather live in a hotel than let me help you?” He tilts his head to the side, not giving me time to respond. “Swallow your little pride and take the offer.”
I don’t like being a burden on people, and I don’t want to be in debt to him. My ex made me feel like I was a burden when we were living together, and I will not repeat that again.
“Wait a sec. How’d you know about my situation?” I cock a suspicious eyebrow.
“I hacked into your email. I wanted to make sure you weren’t in real trouble.” He removes his hands from his pockets and twirls his thumbs together.
How noble, I want to say, but I bite back the sarcastic remark.
“What’s in it for you?” I ask. “We hate each other.”
“Two things are wrong with your statement.” He puts up his index finger in the air. “One, I don’t hate you, and two”—he puts up his middle finger—“I don’t do shit for people and expect something in return.”
“Why are you helping me?” I whisper.
“Believe it or not, we’re not that different.”
I snort at his answer. We’re not even remotely on the same level.
He networks with some of the most powerful people in the world. If he wants to crush my little career as a PA, all he has to do is give me a bad reference and no one will ever hire me, that’s how powerful he is. The name Gunner Underwood carries a lot of power while the name Gia Gallagher is trash. So how the heck are we not much different?
As he ambles toward me, I walk backward until the back of my legs hit the mattress, forcing me to sit down. He bends down to eye level. His nose is inches from my face, and my heart pounds so loudly it’s drowning out the honking of cars and street
traffic. I want to offer my body up to him like a sacrifice, the way it responds to him. My breasts are heavy and full, my vagina is so wet and hungry that I might have to change my panties.
“You’ve got two options. Either you leave here willingly, or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you out. I’m not having my employee sleeping on the streets. So get your ass in gear. I’ve got a random hookup tonight, and right now, you’re cockblocking.” His tone is warm, and I suck in an audible breath. He cares about someone else other than himself—there’s a heart under his icy demeanor.
I don’t want to use up all my savings, and since I haven’t checked in to the hotel, I can get my money back.
I should be kissing his feet and thanking him. Not grilling him on why he’s helping me.
“Fine.” I get up from the mattress, grab my trash bag by the door, and sling it over my shoulder.
Gia
Once outside, Gunner takes my trash bag and dumps it in the bed of a brown, rusting Ford truck. Normally he drives a white Audi to work. So he looks as awkward standing next to it as Dwayne Johnson dressed as the Tooth Fairy. The inky sky makes his azure eyes look softer, and the artificial street lamp kisses his hair, making it appear a shade lighter.
I grab my purse, tread to the passenger side of his truck, open it, slide in, and strap my seat belt over my tiny frame. I sink into the leather cushion.
Gunner jumps in the driver side and turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, and he tugs the lever down, driving onto the cracked asphalt. I need to find a way to break up the sexual tension between us because at the rate I’m going, I’ll combust into tiny pieces.
When I hit the button on the door, the window rolls down, and I hang my arms out as the cool breeze smacks my face. Strands of my hair cling to my cheeks, so I tuck them behind my ear. I like the wind engulfing me as it cools off my burning skin.
Where did Gunner find me a place to stay at? What’s the real reason why he’s helping me? Let’s face it, Gunner is no saint.
Skyscrapers flash by in a blur as we cruise past Central Park, and a police car with flashing blue and white lights wails past us. The city is alive and vibrates as the roads are littered with cars.
I tear my face from the window and glance at Gunner; he taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he hums an eighties rock song.
This version of him intrigues me like the way Sleeping Beauty was hypnotized by the spinning wheel. Honestly, I don’t know what to think of him. If he’s my knight in shining armor then God help me. And I’m not even a religious person. He’s a wolf in expensive sheep’s clothing, parading around here like he’s kind. When he gets a chance, he’ll eat you alive.
I tuck my arms back inside, tap the button on the side of the door and the window rolls up.
Thanks to traffic, forty-five minutes later we turn onto West Eighty-First Street, the Upper West Side, known for the young and rich. This is where the trust-fund kids reside while their grandparents live on the East Side. Gunner parks on the side of the curb and my mouth hangs open so wide a bug can fly in it.
The beige building is gigantic and made out of glass and brick. It sticks out like a sore thumb. It looks freshly built and there’re construction workers remodeling the building. It sits in between two other buildings that look historical.
People dipped in designer clothes from head to toe bounce in and out of the building.
There’s no way in heck I can afford something like this. A lanky, tall guy sporting a crimson uniform opens my door and helps me out.
“Hey, Mr. Underwood. It’s good to see you,” the guy says with a smile.
“Jimmy, I need you to take good care of Gia. She’s our new resident,” Gunner says. His smile is so bright it can light up the dark sky.
“Right. Will do. Your bags, ma’am?” he asks.
Gunner grabs my trash bag from the bed of the truck and shoves it in Jimmy’s hand. Jimmy scrunches up his pointy nose and stares at us like we are aliens from another planet. Guess he isn’t used to seeing common folk carrying trash bags around.
I follow Gunner through the brightly lit lobby, and we halt at a set of double elevator doors. He taps the up button as I rock on my heels as we wait for the doors to open.
“You’re shacking up with me until I have a unit available in one of my buildings.”
“So we’re like roomies?”
“Only Mondays through Thursdays.”
“Why?” I’m all for having the weekends to myself—at least I can let my hair down, be myself without freaking him out.
The doors whistle open, and we step inside. Gunner hits the button for the forty-seventh floor and the doors ding closed. “Driving home to Bedford is a pain in my ass, so I crash here on workdays,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your rent is free.”
“Um, no. I’m not living here for free.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I’ll pay you something.”
I’m not depending on him to keep his word. For all I know he might get mad at me and toss my poor butt out on the street like I’m moldy Chinese food. I don’t trust men, especially Gunner. I wouldn’t trust him with a butter knife. Not because he has done anything to me, but because he has a lot of power. If he wants to, he can rape or beat me and get away with it.
“I have more money than I need. Your little money isn’t gonna break me, Rainbow.”
“Well, I’m still paying you.” I exhale. “My current rent is around a thousand a month.”
“Hundred bucks.” He folds his arms over his hard chest.
“Deal.”
“Do you always have to have the last word on everything?”
“It depends on the topic,” I say.
The only man I ever lived with was my ex. For one year it felt like I was living in the House of a Thousand Corpses.
Rage. Violence. And sorrow.
Nervousness covers me like a blanket, and I don’t know what to expect from living with Gunner. What if he’s a neat freak who likes everything in order? Or worse, a slob who leaves stained underwear in the middle of the bathroom floor? What if he brings home a woman, and they traumatize my ears by making me listen to them screwing like rabbits? Yeah, no one wants to hear that.
“Can I make a request?”
“You can make any request you want.”
“Please don’t bring any of your sluts home while I’m staying here. I don’t want to see or hear you humping another person.”
“Duly noted.” He rolls his eyes.
“You’re not going to ask me not to do the same thing?”
Shaking his head, he says, “You’re not fucking anyone.”
“How do you know?” I arch my eyebrow.
“Oh, I know, believe me.”
“I have a boyfriend, Gunner.”
As he takes long strides closer to me, I walk backward until my back brushes against the cold wall. Gunner plants both hands above my head, caging me in like a wild animal. His eyes stare down at me with pools of anger. My heart pounds loud in my ears, deafening my thoughts.
We hate Gunner, I say inwardly to my heart.
We don’t want to have anything to do with him.
Please, don’t fail me like you did nine years ago.
Remember how I had to resuscitate you from heartbreak?
Well, don’t fall for him.
“Where is he? I’d like to bash his skull for allowing his woman to go homeless.” His tone scares me because it’s as calm as the ocean on a sunny day, and his breath tickles my forehead.
I swallow hard and my stomach clenches at his words. “I’m joking.”
“Well, I’m not.” He taps his fingers on my nose.
Not only does he put the W in whore, but he also puts the C in crazy and all capital letters.
The door dings open, and he steps out of the elevator, taking away his body heat and replacing it with the cold draft. The way he went protective caveman ignites a passion inside me. The same pas
sion I locked away with a key and tossed it to the side. No, this is not happening. Unfortunately, my girly parts don’t agree. My nipples pebble against the cheap fabric of my shirt, and my sex is wet as a fire hydrant.
Traitors.
Screw Gunner for making me feel things and screw him for caring about me.
I want to slap him across the face for proving me wrong, tell him to go screw himself, but I bury my anger deep inside me. I keep my head down and follow him to a white door with a keypad above the brass doorknob.
“The code is zero-four-two-six,” he says, typing in the code before turning the knob and shoving it open.
The living room is an open space with maple hardwood floors. The walls are made out of thick glass, and the city twinkles like stars below us. The view is breathtaking.
“Do you have blinds to cover the windows?” I ask. I try to tear my eyes from the windows but it’s so mesmerizing.
“You mean curtains? Yup.” He pauses for a beat. “I don’t use them because I love the view of the city.”
Gently, he tugs me by the arm, pulling me in a different direction.
There’s a black suede sectional couch and a flat screen television that sits on a metal entertainment center. Everything about this apartment screams bachelor pad. Magazines of cars, auto mechanics, and finance are neatly stacked on a rack by the sofa.
I’m not a slob, but this looks too clean for my liking. Leather and expensive cologne with a hint of cinnamon assaults my nostrils, like I’m drowning in his scent.
I’ve never lived in anything remotely as nice as this place. The closest I’ve ever lived to something nice was a two-story house when I was thirteen years old. Mr. and Mrs. Kent fostered me for two years before they sent me back because they couldn’t handle taking care of me and a newborn.
Their daughter abandoned her son to chase after a man who got her hooked on crack. And I wasn’t a stroll in the park. I lashed out and stole food. I was a troubled teenager. It was my fault they kicked me out. If I was a good kid, maybe they would have kept me.
Chasing Gunner (Chasing Series Book 2) Page 3
