by S. E. Hall
“Mavick… I can’t ask you to move to Denver when you’re literally a legend here.”
“You’re not asking.” He says with a matter-of-fact tone, leaving me speechless. He’s willing to move to Denver and I’ve barely even considered re-locating for him. To be honest, I haven’t thought about anything this week except the here and now with how much I’ve loved every second of being with him.
“I need to think about this for a minute.” He stands up quickly and walks away, leaving me sitting by myself. I watch him make his way to the back of the gym and notice that he’s yet to lift his head.
My heart throbs thinking about what he’s thinking… hell, I don’t even know what I’m thinking. It seems like it’s all happening too fast. But then again, who’s to say how fast someone can fall in love. The thought of him hurting is hurting me and that’s a huge sign that I’m not ready to say goodbye to this man.
Not sure what I’m going to say when I get there, I walk slowly to him even though he’s punching one of the heavy bags. I slide my hands around his waist from behind causing him to still instantly. I hold him and rest my face against his back.
“We’ll figure it out. But you have to promise me something.” A single tear falls down my cheek before I can get my request out.
“Anything.”
“Don’t hurt me. Don’t cheat on me. Don’t lie to me.” He twists around and pulls me into his arms. His palms slide to my face, then down my arms before he begins to speak.
“I will do everything in my power to protect you. I won’t lie or cheat on you because hurting you is the last thing I’d ever consider. Kinsley… I fucking love you.” It’s as though my heart bursts into a million butterflies when the last four words wash over me.
“What?”
“I love you… and I want us to live together. I don’t care if it’s here or in Denver. I’ve shown you New Orleans… now you show me Denver and we can decide, but what I can’t deal with is you telling me that you don’t feel the same way.”
“This week has been amazing and I don’t want it to end. I can’t imagine us moving in together this fast… but the other option isn’t something I can even consider. I’ve fallen hard for you Mavick. I love you too. I’ll move in with you if that’s what you decide you want.”
“Fuck yes.” He grips my ass in his hands and lifts me so that my legs are wrapped around his waist. “You just made me a very happy guy.” He starts kissing me as he walks us around the gym, hitting the lights as we pass them.
He has no idea how ecstatic he makes me all the time. The excitement of how much everything is about to change is almost overwhelming, but I refuse to let anything scare me. I’ve been bold with Mavick… and look where it got me.
“Oh shit… you have to meet my dad.”
“I can’t wait. I’ll make him love me.”
“You did manage to make me fall for you and I had sworn all men off for life.”
“You just hadn’t had anyone make you pull out their cock within the first few minutes of meeting you… that’s all.”
I punch him in the shoulder and burst out laughing at the same time. He starts running to the door, bouncing me around his waist as he does. This is how life will be with Mavick… and I can’t wait to do it every single day.”
Flipped
By S.E. Hall
©2017 S.E. Hall
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This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
Linden
Dear Monday, please don’t suck.
No really, just this once. Please. Do. Not. Completely. Suck.
I’d love to start off the week with positive thoughts, but ‘positive’ and ‘Monday’ clash worse than orange and pink. So, I spend every seventh morning mentally chanting the same moronic plea to whatever deity is in charge of the wretched day.
It’s yet to ever work, but I keep trying anyway… still shy of a “Plan B.” Besides, what can it possibly hurt? I have nowhere to go but up, right?
Wrong. So very, very wrong.
“Miss Dean, I have Knox Morgan on the line. Shall I put him through?” My receptionist, Louise, is a champ. She knows to check with me before ever transferring a call from Knox through.
Honestly, I’m pretty sure even he knows he gets screened… he’s just too pompous to care.
‘Send his entitled ass to voicemail, then please figure out how to block his calls altogether,’ I think to myself and smile… enjoying it only a moment before remembering—that I’m an adult, and a business owner—and refusing to speak to my biggest client probably isn’t the best idea. So, my actual reply is, “Go ahead Louise, thank you.”
The phone buzzes, and for a second… or three… I just stare at it, timing my deep breathes with the flashing red light. But, duty (a.k.a. bills) calls too, too damn often, so I slowly reach for the receiver, as if it’s a tank of live snakes and all that stands between me and a Fear Factor win. “Linden Dean, how can I help you?” I answer, my tone sickeningly sweet. As in, I may now be a diabetic.
“Morning, Lin. How was your weekend?”
He doesn’t give a tinker’s damn how my weekend was; or if he does, it’s only in hopes it was shitty. And ‘Lin,’ which he hasn’t called me in a very long time, means just one thing… he’s not calling for usual business. He wants something big.
“Fine and dandy, yours?” Phony pleasantries — a trick of the trade, and my strong suit.
“Good, zipped over to Aspen. It’s ideal this time of year; slopes are prime. You ever been?”
“Can’t say that I have, but it sounds fun,” I reply on auto-polite, still unsure what he’s up to, but growing more aware by the syllable… it’s definitely something major.
Knox may be nothing more than a client now, but does he really think the fact that we’ve known each other for years, literally grew up together, somehow slipped my mind? We both know he could point out every place I have, and haven’t, been on a map, possibly with his eyes closed; so, his hollow question has me even more leery of this call’s true motive.
“Um, Knox, it’s a little hectic here this morning. Did you just call to catch up or did you need something?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve got a few questions about your new listing on Zimmerman.”
There we go — back to the only place we ever need to be — me, real estate agent; him, investor.
“Alright, shoot.”
“Shoot?” He laughs. “You might want to work on your redirect. I’ve shown interest; this is the part where you’re supposed to break out the amazing sales- pitch. You know, all the amenities, best features, things like that.”
“Oh, you mean all the information listed on the listing?” Forget my “strong suit,” sucker was smothering me to death anyway, and his interest in this particular property has my hackles raised and ready for a fight. “You obviously read it. What else is it you need to know?”
“No, really,” he chuckles again, “you’re losing your touch. In fact, you’d probably make more money if you applied at one of your competitors.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Knox Morgan. I haven’t lost anything, except my interest in this conversation. Trust me, Zimmerman isn’t even close to a property that yo
u’d like. Tell me what it is you’re in the market for, and why, and I’ll find you something else… of your caliber.”
“My caliber?” he parrots. “Linden, are you seriously trying to distract me with false flattery right now?”
“Uh, no, not at all. I would never flatter you in any way. I’m attempting to do my job, which is, what’s best for my client, and the house on Zimmerman isn’t that. But out of curiosity, why the sudden interest in a small, let alone on the east side of town, property? There’s very marginal profit to be made, if we can find a buyer, and… do you even know how to get to that neighborhood?”
My question may ring of sarcastic condescension, but is indeed sincere. A “Morgan,” crossing the tracks? I checked the weather app before leaving my house this morning — not a word about Hell having frozen over — so what gives?
“I’m starting to think this isn’t about me, my caliber, or the house. No,” his tone plunges with suspicion, “it’s something else. You’re a terrible liar, Linden; always have been. This… this is somehow about you.”
Too bad I can’t bluff worth a damn either, but it’s not from lack of trying. “There is no pretty shade of paranoia, Knox.” I tsk. “Why, how, would this possibly be about me? I just know it’s not a good investment for you, that’s all. So, now that we’ve covered boring, monotonous, and more boring, as well as any conversation in history I’d say, and I’ve got some actual work to do, are we done here?”
“You know all I have to do is call another realtor and book a showing, right?”
“Do whatever you think you need to, Knox. I’m hanging up now. Have yourself a great day.”
****
The rest of my less-than-stellar day flies by, and I have the nerve to finally take a deep breath, picturing the finish line… but it was just another set-up— a sadistic play of the fates to lull me into a false sense of comfort— and let my guard down.
I should’ve known.
I’ve literally got my finger on the trigger (in this case, the light switch) ready to end things on a high note and beeline to a hot bath… when Louise’s equally exhausted voice comes over the intercom.
“Miss Dean, I have Knox Morgan for you.”
Nope, not a chance in Hell I’m walking into another trap of a phone call like the one earlier.
“Thanks, Louise, but I’m headed out for the night. Can you send him to voicemail, please? I’ll get back with him tomorrow.”
Or not. Maybe not ever. Who knows? I probably will. My bitter, resentful hurt runs deep, but my debt runs deeper.
“I’m sorry, Miss Dean, but I meant… he’s here to see you.”
“Son of a bitch,” I groan.
“I’m gonna tell her you said that,” Knox’s smug quip echoes through my office.
Fanfuckingtastic. Seem to have forgotten that the intercom works both ways.
Even if I try sending him on his way, not only will I just be wasting more of my time and energy, but he’ll simply wait for me at my car. Or worse yet… show up at my apartment. There’s no escaping him tonight, so I officially toss down my white flag…. and purse.
“Go ahead and head home, Louise. I can lock up. Have a good night.”
“You too, Miss Dean. Thank you.”
I say nothing more and force my feet to move, flopping down onto my office couch.
And wait.
He knows his way back here.
Chapter Two
Linden
He knocks, completely out of character for him, but quickly recovers his form… barging inside before waiting for an invitation.
“Please, come on in,” I jeer, once he already has, indulging in an evil grin.
He measures every slow, predatory step taken, giving me the time we both know I can’t help but take… to take him in. And without confirming, my eyes busy other places, I’m certain he now wears a cocksure grin of his own. He’s wearing an expensive suit, a red tie adding a pop of color… and calming the overall “sinister” feel emanating from his massive stature, outlined perfectly by the black suit.
That’s right, you bastard, I’m looking. Go ahead and gloat; enjoy the only victory I’ll ever give you. Yes, I’m just as physically attracted to you today as I was at seventeen. And twenty-five. And every day in between.
Knox Morgan, rich, callous and entitled, is also, unfortunately, sleek, suave, and gorgeous. Guess it can’t hurt to tack on the rest: absolutely devastating to my libido and good sense.
He clears his throat, interrupting my ogling and forcing my eyes up to meet his. “Linden.” The smug tinge to his deep murmur pisses me off… because it’s earned.
“Knox,” I pry, my unasked question heard, just as I knew it would be. Years of practice has left us fluent in “each other.”
“Zimmerman,” he flatly begins, “whatever you’re not telling me, neither of us are leaving this room until you do,” and ends with inflated authority.
I cross my arms over my chest and stare him dead in the eyes, praying that I’m winning the fight to hide his unfair effect on me… especially when he unleashes his bossy side. “I told you, quite succinctly if memory serves; move on, not gonna happen.”
“Oh, Linden you know me better than that.” He chuckles, shoving his hands in the pockets of his perfectly-fitting slacks while rocking back on his heels. And he knows exactly what he’s doing — pseudo-thrusting his crotch at me — I’d bet all his money on the smug awareness behind it. “I don’t take well to being told no and I absolutely refuse to let you lie to me.”
“You’re so much prettier when you don’t talk,” I toss back. “And, I’m not lying to you. It will only be over my dead body, if even then, that you ever get your hands on the Zimmerman house. Chew on it, swallow, digest, because it’s the cold, hard truth, Knox Morgan. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
The words to describe how damn good that felt don’t exist. How long I’ve waited for the chance to “one up” his hoity-toity, privileged ass. Finally, not only am I on his “level” … I’m above it. I’m in charge.
“Why do you want Zimmerman so bad anyway, Knox?”
“Honestly?” he asks, taking a step closer.
“Yeah, why not?” I shrug, then fire a shameful low-blow, “Give it a try.”
“Linden,” he sighs, scrubbing at his sexy 5 o’clock shadow, “I want to buy it for you. It popped up on the market and looked exactly like something you’d buy if you started investing; flipping. The perfect starter, at the perfect price-point, to do all the little things I know you’d want to, putting your touch on it, turning it into a beautiful first home for one special family.”
Damn him straight to Hell! Instantly a riot of contradicting feelings flare inside me... cry, laugh, kiss him, kill him? I can’t see past the whole “Gift of the Magi” irony to decide. So… I don’t. Instead, I attempt avoidance.
“Go home, Knox.” I stand, walk to the door and open it for him… to exit. It’s been too long of a day; too many emotions beckoned to resurface. I’m done.
He doesn’t leave though, capitalizing on my stupid mistake — turning my back on him — by moving in behind me… close. Too close. Speaking right in my ear, deep and warm. Too deep. Too warm.
“Present the seller an offer, Linnybug. Any offer. If you want it, it’s yours. If not, we’ll rent it out or something. I just, I want to do something nice for you. Let me, please. Why you hate me, I’m not sure, but I won’t stop trying to fix it… until it’s fixed. This can be a start, Lin. You’ll have a project of your own… and maybe if I’m lucky, be persuaded into letting me take you to dinner?”
“You have no idea why I hate you?” I yell, whirling around to face him. “No, never mind, that’s a saga for another day. Preferably, one when I’m drunk, holding a baseball bat and standing next to your shiny car. As for Zimmerman, no. You will not be buying it for me … because I already bought it for myself. All by myself! I didn’t need you or your money. I scrimped, purchased a house, and I’m go
nna flip the shit out of it. Without. Any. Help. Or pity from you.” Squaring my shoulders, I stab him with one final glare. “Now, please leave.”
“Why not just say that from the start?” he booms, gently pushing my arm aside before slamming the door shut. “Why even ask what I wanted with it?”
Good question. Why had I? I’m not sure, but that’s for me to know, or not know in this case, and only me. Knox Morgan is in my head enough as it is; there’s no way I’m giving him any more room in there. This conversation is over.
“Just go,” I plead, ducking under his arm to move away from him and toward my desk.
He doesn’t, of course… leave, or listen, closing in on me. Even with my back turned again, I’m hyper aware of his presence, proximity.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck tell me, just as they always do, he’s right behind me. And he too, is angry.
Confused.
Adrenalized.
His heart is pounding in cadence with mine, his hands fisted, while mine grip the desk.
I know it, feel it… the all-too-familiar phenomenon that’s always existed between us in full-effect… our past, present, regrets, and desires have synced — the combined energy crowding the air around us.
His hands come sneaking in and gently cover mine, setting off a riot of my senses. All of them now fully-engaged, I hear the slight stutter in his every breath, smell his apprehension, as our last time together — each and every kiss, thrust, trickle of sweat — replay in my mind.
“Talk to me, Lin. Tell me, everything… like you used to,” he seduces my ear, stroking my hand with the calloused pad of his thumb.
“I… I don’t hate you,” the spontaneous confession is hardly a whisper.
