by Natalie Wrye
And why does she have so much spit in her mouth anyway? Saliva sprays as she keeps speaking.
“You lied to my dad,” she tells the tall man in the Italian threads. “You lied to me. You lied to my Aunt Roberta when you told her you’d make all the bad disappear. And then you took him away,” the drunk girl whines. “You took him away just like Aunt Roberta said. And you locked him in your castle. Just like she said. Only…I couldn’t save him. Like in the story. The story lied, too…”
The girl’s words trail off, falling into silence. The spinning room slows—just for a little bit, and black dots dance across my eyes, blurring everything out.
The black dots grow wider. Bigger. And my eyelids feel heavy on my face, the living room dimming to black until I smell the scent of something strong under my nose.
A familiar smell that brings me back to life.
I look up to find Mr. Sexy-in-a-Suit—Mr. Big Bad, kneeling beside me, a cup of hot liquid held in front of my face.
I sniff loudly as his tousled head of dark hair cocks. One thumb runs along the light sheet of stubble along his jaw. “Drink this.”
I groan. “What is it?”
“Poison, Snow White. The better to kill you with.” He blinks. “It’s coffee. You need some. You need to sober up. You’re completely pissed.”
“You’re completely pissed.” I shoot at him.
“I mean, you’re drunk. Totaled. Wasted. I don’t know how many ways to say it but you’re hammered, Little Bear. And if you don’t drink some coffee, you’re going to regret it when you wake up. Trust me on this; I’m an expert on getting utterly and completely drunk. And pretending not to be.”
I sit up straighter, soaking the coffee in, committing the smell. Big Bad’s still kneeling over me, and it takes every ounce of energy in my limbs, every muscle I’ve got to reach over and take the steaming mug from his seemingly manicured hands.
I grab the handle, holding it close.
“Careful,” he warns.
I glower. “I know how to drink coffee.”
“Really? Because you seem to be struggling with the concept of talking. I think drinking might be a little tough for you to handle right now.”
I sip slowly from the white edge of the mug, burning my tongue. I wince with a small whine and catch the small smile that decorates the lawyer’s lips, the edges of his mouth curled to reveal one singular dimple on his face.
He watches me intently.
“Are you going to do this all night?” I whine.
“If that’s what it takes.”
“I’m a big girl, you know.”
“With a low tequila tolerance. And the two don’t mix. I should have had you stick to the scotch.”
But the thought of any alcohol at all right now makes me want to hurl, and I resist a gag.
My eyes traverse the floor of Big Bad’s gigantic loft, landing on discarded ballet flats in the corner. They cross over the hardwood and towards the built-in bar, settling on the stolen bottle of tequila from The Alchemist on its surface, the smudges of my lipstick around the lip of the glass.
I twirl towards him, my dark hair flipping over my shoulder as I grow increasingly angry. My blurry vision narrows. “First things first…” I tap the edge of the mug with one finger. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Nor I with you. I didn’t realize you were this gone.”
“And it’s not because I’m drunk. It’s because you’re rich.”
He blinks, crossing his arms over the buttons of his pressed collared shirt. “Didn’t know ‘rich’ was a personality trait. And the label depends on your definition of rich.”
My head tilts. “You seem arrogant.”
He shrugs. “Every man is at least once in his life.”
“You’re kinda patronizing.”
“That’s a new one. Never been called that before,” he deadpans.
I raise my chin. “And you’re too good-looking.”
“Never knew that was a vice. I’ll try to tone it down.” He hangs his head, a small smile decorating his full lips. “Okay, so does that make you feel better then? Yelling at me for a while?” He shoves the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows, exposing muscular forearms, and I have to fight not to swallow. Hard.
“You can insult me all night. I don’t give a damn. But you will drink that coffee. And you will sleep, Little Bear…even though it’s not with me. Now, was that patronizing enough for you? Or do you need that little speech again? I’m happy to oblige.”
He plants his hand on the edge of the sofa, gazing at me from two feet away, his dark blue eyes heated under the low light.
His large fingers drum across the material there with a soft thump thump thump.
My heart follows suit.
“You’re different from the rest.” I find myself saying. “And I don’t know why. Because you look like just another asshole in a suit.”
“I never said I wasn’t,” he counters. “But I’m much more simple than you seem to think, Little Bear. And you’re much more drunk. Now, take another sip.”
I scoff, but find myself obeying, the dark coffee now cooler against my lips.
Minutes earlier, the Big Bad Wolf disappeared behind a door shortly after entering his apartment. My drunken brain can’t process half of what it’s seeing, but it notices that.
And I realize he must have disappeared into some back bathroom. I couldn’t see.
And speaking of…
I try to stand to my feet. “I have to pee. Or do you want to watch me do that, too?”
But Big Bad doesn’t balk. He stands to his feet, his scorching blue gaze blazing a line of fire along my skin, his dark hair ink-like under the dim light.
The sober parts of my brain notice that his black slacks hang perfectly on his tight hips and even beneath the expensive cotton, I can see the outline of his strong body, muscular and compact just below the surface.
At his full height, he’s several inches over six feet, possibly three or four, and when I rise to my feet, I reel inwardly at the height difference, the mere contrast in our statures.
I’ve already gotten to thinking of him as several names.
Mr. Aussie. Mr. Big Bad Wolf. Mr. Panty-Incinerator…
Mr. Perfect.
From the looks of his apartment and the wallet he pulled out in the cab, his life is, too.
And I fight the urge to tell him so, fight the urge to argue as he walks me over to the back bathroom, his nimble fingers wrapped firmly around the skin at my arm.
His large stature towers over me when he stops two feet shy of the door. His blue eyes slant as he eyes me carefully.
“I’m going to re-heat the rest of the coffeepot. Call out or knock twice on the door, if you need me.”
“I know I won’t. So, don’t try anything while I’m in there,” I warn. “Because it won’t work.”
“I thought we went through this already, Little Bear.” He sighs wearily. “If you’re looking for a serial killer, you’re out of luck. But if you’re looking for a simple man, like I said, then that’s what you’ve found. And I’ll make it clear, Little Bear. Once and for all…”
He lowers his chin. “I did want to fuck you tonight. I did want to sleep with you.” He blinks. “I did want to fuck you so hard you’d forget your name. So long you forgot time. So good that both wouldn’t matter. Until you learned the true meaning of screaming my name.”
My breath can’t help but hitch. The butterflies that have taken flight in my stomach the minute I entered Big Bad’s apartment are now caught in my throat, and I can’t speak or even move.
Not if I wanted to.
He inches closer, inclining even nearer, and as I lose what little breath is left in my body, the flutter in my throat traveling between my legs as he leans in, he presses his lips so slightly—so very slightly—together as his eyes search my face.
But then he reaches for the doorknob right beside me, turning it.
A dim light from i
nside the dark bathroom flickers on, and his gaze flits from inside back to my face, a glint of sorrow in his dark ocean blue eyes. He bites his bottom lip.
“But I won’t. Not tonight. Not until you’re sober—and much less disgusted with me—to enjoy it.” He nods towards the smaller room. “The bathroom’s all yours.”
He takes a step back, walking around me back into the living room. My Knight in Shining Chanel heads back to the kitchen, to the coffeepot, I presume, but I don’t really register a single thing.
The minute I’m inside, I fall to the plush rug beside the bathroom toilet, digging my fingernails to the surface. Laying my face flat on the comfy floor, I let the haze of tequila take me under, those black circles from the couch now back, clouding my vision until there’s nothing more.
And the entire world goes dark.
Chapter 5
NOAH
Saturday morning
It was a night of firsts. For me, anyway.
And I’m not sure how I fucking feel.
It was the first night I’ve spent with a woman without sleeping with her.
It was the first time I’ve carried a sleeping woman to bed without lying next to her.
And it’s the first morning that I’ve gone on a run for breakfast…for a person who wasn’t me.
Because “me” didn’t eat last night. Or at least, I didn’t eat the thing I wanted most. Which happened to be situated between my sultry ballsy brunette’s legs.
Starvation takes on a new meaning after the night I just spent.
Waking from my couch was also a first after conceding my bed to Miss Little Bear.
At five thirty in the morning like clockwork, I woke like the rising of the New York sun, my floor-length curtains still closed.
I dressed for the gym and attacked it like a maniac. And at six-thirty found myself wandering back inside my apartment, my steps light as I tried to avoid waking what was now Little Miss Sleeping Bear.
I snuck into the shower, needing the steam.
The second I was inside, the lust I’d tempered all night took hold of me, and I couldn’t help but wrap my fingers around my naked cock, gripping tight.
The tension that was in my body from holding back with my new house guest was at nuclear levels, and it took everything in me not to slam my hand against the marble shower wall, wrench my knuckles right into the surface.
I took the punishment out on my dick instead, stroking it into oblivion and with hot water beating on my naked back, scalding my hair and skin, I practically painted the walls with my orgasm, the need to be inside the sexy waitress so visceral—so wanton, so unexpected—that I swear I could feel the desire even in my knees.
The session at the gym might have worn me out. But masturbating to the woman in my bed fucking exhausted me.
Hunger—for food and much more—drove me to the corner coffeehouse I used to frequent in my past life, and a mere fifteen minutes after my shower and grocery store run, I find myself back at my front door, carrying a buffet of breakfast items in large brown paper bags.
But I know the bagels in there won’t satisfy the craving I still have streaming through my system, and I’m still figuring out what the fuck I’m going to do, what the hell I can possibly say to make that strange, gorgeous creature taking space in my bed stay.
And getting her name would be good…
I’m still circling through the options in my head when my cell phone rings, just as I cross my apartment threshold.
Cyn.
“Are we being a good boy today?” She says the second I answer.
I smirk. “Trying to be. What’s up?”
“So I’ve got a lead on why Jase might have lost the last two deals.”
“Cyn, it’s a little early for this…”
“Wait.” I hear the shuffle of papers on the other end. “Just hear me out for a second. It might have something to do with the Chris Jackson partnership we had before.”
I freeze, letting the heavy bags in my hand slide to the kitchen counter as I enter the room. I tighten my grip on the cell. “You’ve got my attention. Go on.”
“It seems Chris Jackson might be indicted on additional charges. Like extortion.”
“I figured that.”
“Racketeering.”
“Sounds about right.” I reach in the bag.
“And murder.” Cyn finishes. “Looks like the rabbit hole involving our old partner goes deeper than we thought.”
I hold my phone closer, the other gripping around a fresh peach I picked up.
“And since one of New York’s formerly most respected members could now possibly be a murderer, I thought you’d want to hear this information upfront and as soon as possible.” My lips tighten as Cyn lightly taunts me with the information. “Or maybe it’s still too early for this…”
I let the silence linger in the air. The sound of incoming rain falling outside my huge floor-to-ceiling windows punctuating her point, and I’m practically shitting myself where I stand, my attention abruptly alert as I straighten my still damp back, gazing outside onto the graying New York City horizon with a curious glance that starts to slant.
Just the mention of the fraudulent financier makes the air thicken. I admit: I never liked the man. Even when Grandfather Quinn first invited us to do business with him.
Former New York City golden boy Chris Jackson once had the kind of clout that created dynasties.
After relocating his family from Kansas City decades before, he ran countrywide operations from his financial firm at Jackson Enterprises in Manhattan. A sadist in a suit with a dark smile, he rolled Manhattan finance with an iron fist wrapped in silk, juggling some of New York City’s highest residents in his hands.
Including judges, congressmen, gang affiliates and mafia.
His influence knew no bounds.
I squint, leveling my eyes at nothing at the thought that my family and company could be caught in his twisted web. One question burns brighter than the others in my brain.
“Who?”
I take a seat on the edge of the granite counter, impatience holding me rapt to the phone. I don’t even have to specify what I mean by the “Who?”
Cyn knows exactly what I mean when I ask the question. A question of Chris Jackson would muddy his impossibly untouched hands with. A question of who he could have possibly murdered.
My closest friend huffs, her throaty voice even thicker than before. “An associate. That’s who. And that’s all I know. Apparently, the charges haven’t been brought up yet. The death was previously listed as natural causes. Now the city’s coroner is not so sure.”
I hold in my impatience for every question I want to ask, confusion clouding my brain as I think of how I didn’t know this before.
“Are you serious about this, Cyn? You’re not just fucking with me?” My voice ends on a strained croak. I feel my neck flush bright red.
“As serious as one could be when talking about the subject of murder.”
One eyebrow cocks. “And you have proof of this?”
“Nearly.” I nudge the breakfast bag aside as Cyn fumbles and frets with another stack of papers on the end of her line. She finally sighs seconds later.
“Ah, here it is.” Her voice is an excited exhale. “Apparently, a man known as Vittorio Sollecito—former mob boss, current prisoner—is up for parole, and he says he has info that could tie Jackson explicitly to a recent murder.” She exhales loudly, and the sound reverberates in my quiet kitchen. I feel a chill.
“My source,” Cyn continues, “and very good friend—has reason to believe that this man, Vittorio, who’s one of Chris Jackson’s proven associates—might be the key to uncovering a contract taken out on the life of another of Chris’s associates.” My chest squeezes as I listen in. “Turns out that Vittorio is currently up for his parole hearing, and in a show of good will to the court, he’s apparently willing to testify to Chris Jackson’s involvement.”
“Apparently?” The peach
in my hand almost squeals as I clutch it tighter.
The chest squeeze turns to a compress. “My friend thinks it’s only a matter of time before that ‘apparent’ show of help becomes a ‘certainty,’ Noah. But he can’t guarantee either way.”
I lean back on the dark kitchen counter, letting my eyes hit the ceiling, the thought of being in bed with a killer making my blood run cold. The window behind me darkens with the swirling thunderstorms stretching towards New York City just outside, and though ominous as hell, I welcome them.
I welcome the storm to come, knowing that I’m ready to go to battle.
My back does its best imitation of a rod as I sit straight. “Well, Cynthia Stratford, I’d better hope that your friend can guarantee just that.” I grip the peach in my hand harder. “Because if we can’t, then we’d better back off now. Accusing a man as well-connected as Chris Jackson of murder is no easy feat.”
“But if we have to, I would hope that this company is up to the task.”
I nod. “I’ll make sure we are.”
The reality is… I can’t be sure of anything. Not when so much uncertainty is in the air.
I flip the peach back in the bag, heading for the front door.
I need to talk to Jase. Now.
Because the future of this company can’t survive without investors, and investors won’t spend another cent with us if they find out we’ve been connected to a potential murderer.
Turns out Lachlan was right; Hell was freezing over.
Finding my father’s watch is now more important than ever.
And as much I hate to, as shitty as it is, I have to leave the tantalizing little waitress alone in my bed while I tend to the craziness that is currently my company and family business.
Dammit, I’m only supposed to be here for a couple of weeks to clean up this financial mess.
But at this rate, it was looking like I was going to be sticking around New York City for a helluva lot longer than I expected.
SOPHIA
I wake up four hours later wanting the man I spent the night with more than ever.
More than wanting. I’m knee-deep in “needing.”
