Caged

by Lorelei James

  This macho family crap drove her crazy. “So it’s just you and Clive toiling in Texas?”

  “Granddad left the business to his three kids. After he passed, my dad and Deacon’s dad had to buy out Aunt Suzette’s shares, but she forced them to keep her only kid, Clive, on the payroll. If my dad and Deacon’s dad had their way, they’d continue to run the company and work past retirement age, like our granddad did, despite the road bumps JFW Development has hit recently.”

  Deacon said nothing.

  The waiter delivered dessert and coffee, interrupting the awkward silence.

  Molly nearly drooled over the luscious caramelized crust and the artful drizzle of raspberry sauce across the plate. A cluster of chocolate-covered raspberries on mint sprigs completed the presentation. “This looks almost too beautiful to eat.”

  Deacon picked up her spoon and cracked the crust, scooping out a bite of the crème brûlée. “Open,” he said huskily.

  She parted her lips, and the smooth creaminess flowed across her taste buds. She managed—barely—not to moan with delight.

  A devilish light entered Deacon’s eyes, and he took a bite, since he’d forgone a dessert of his own. “Almost as sweet as your kisses, darlin’.”

  Molly popped a chocolate-covered raspberry in her mouth. Don’t moan. But it definitely deserved a moan.

  “Speaking of sweet, D, hand me the sugar, please,” Tag said.

  “One of these days you’ll learn to drink your coffee like a man, without all that froufrou shit.”

  “If I stirred it with my dick, would that make me more of a manly coffee drinker?”

  Deacon held his hands up. “Go for it. It’d be a change for you, having blisters on your dick from something besides excessive use of the palm of your hand.”

  These two. God. They fought like siblings. “Deacon is the only one not involved in the family business?”

  “Yes, but I’d argue that Clive isn’t contributing much,” Tag said dryly.

  “As an only child myself, I find it interesting that all of your parents had only one kid.”

  “Well, they each have only one kid now.”

  That pulled her attention away from her dessert. She looked at Tag. “Did one of them have a child die?”

  Total silence.

  Tag’s gaze moved from Deacon to Molly and back to Deacon. Anger flared in his eyes. “She doesn’t know?”

  Deacon remained statue still.

  A bad feeling took root. “What don’t I know?”

  “Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you?” Tag demanded.

  “Shut your fucking mouth, Tag.”

  “What is going on?” Molly asked Deacon.

  He wouldn’t even look at her.

  Tag said, “Molly—”

  “Leave it be.” Deacon slammed his fist on the table. “I’m fucking warning you.”

  Whatever this was, it was bad. She locked her gaze on Tag. “Tell me.”

  “This should’ve come from him, not me.” Tag paused, giving Deacon a chance to jump in.

  But Deacon stayed frozen in place, hands in fists, his jaw clenched, his lips firmly closed.

  “Deacon had a brother. Dante. He died when he was fifteen.”

  The blood drained from her face. Deacon had a brother he’d never mentioned? Why would he keep something that big from her?

  “You had no right,” Deacon said in a quiet, deadly voice that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

  “She’s your girlfriend—the first one you’ve had since—”

  “Shut up!”

  Molly gaped at Deacon.

  Tag kept talking. “She should know this about you because it sure as fuck changed you. It changed all of us, but we haven’t locked it away like you have.”

  “It’s not locked away. It’s with me every goddamn day.”

  Molly found her voice and addressed her surly, secretive boyfriend. “How old were you when he died?”

  “Fifteen.”

  That jarred her. If Deacon had been fifteen and Dante had been fifteen . . . Her stomach clenched. “My god. You were twins?”

  “Identical twins. Now you know, so can we please fucking drop it?” he snapped.

  “Drop it? First I find out that your family is in the oil business, which I didn’t have a clue about.” Something occurred to her. “Is your family like J. R. Ewing—Texas-oil rich?”

  Deacon didn’t respond.

  Floored by these revelations, she addressed Tag. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, darlin’, you are. We’ve got the Ewing family drama, too, because of it.”

  “Right. So he’s heir to an oil fortune, his twin brother died, which would both explain why he doesn’t do family shit . . . What else has he kept from me?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Deacon said tersely.

  Then something that’d been niggling in the back of her mind solidified. “Wait. If your fathers are brothers, then why don’t you two have the same last name?”

  “Bingo.” Tag looked back and forth between them. “I’d tell you to ask Deacon why he legally changed his name from Westerman to McConnell, but since he hasn’t told you fuck-all about anything else, I doubt he’ll come clean about that either.”

  She faced Deacon and whispered, “Who are you?”

  “This”—Deacon stood and jabbed his finger at Tag—“is why I stay the fuck away from you.”

  “You aren’t honestly blaming him—”

  “Yes, I am.” He whirled around. The panic, horror, and anger in burning in his eyes scared her. “Drop it, right now.”

  “You’re an ass,” Tag snapped. “This is all on you.”

  The second he turned back to rip into Tag, she snatched her purse and raced out, just as the waiter came in, buying her time to get away.

  She’d made it down the stairs, out the front door, and almost to the parking garage entrance when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  Molly reacted as she’d been taught. Grabbing the forearm below the elbow, she twisted her body into his, jamming her knee up while trying to inflict damage on his arm.

  Deacon easily countered her moves. “What the fuck? Why would you attack me?”

  “Instinct from self-defense classes.”

  “I’m not a fucking threat to you.”

  “You’re right. Because I don’t even know you.” She tried to level her breathing. “Go back to your cousin.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Tag. He never should’ve—”

  “Told me something that should’ve come from you?”

  His jaw tightened and his eyes went icy. “No. He shouldn’t have invited you to dinner without asking me first.”

  Any sadness and shock she’d initially felt had been replaced with anger. She wanted to scream at him. But she forced herself to start down the sidewalk.

  “Don’t you fucking walk away from me.”

  She stopped and spun around. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

  “I won’t be guilted or goddamn browbeat into talking to you about this until I’m ready.”

  “And when will that be? You could’ve shared this major life-changing, traumatic event with me when you came to Nebraska and stood by my side every damn hour of the day. I asked you how you knew so much about dealing with grief. I asked you,” she repeated, “and you told me nothing. Nothing.”

  “This is why I don’t talk about it. Because now it’s about me not opening up to you—not that my brother fucking died.”

  That remark knocked the breath out of her so fast he might as well have punched her in the gut.

  She steeled her resolve and her spine. “I would’ve accepted not knowing specifics about your past if you would’ve told me there were things—like your brother’s death—that were too difficult to discuss. But this? All of this together—not knowing about your twin brother, finding out you changed your name, hiding your connection to your family business—goes beyond crossing a line of privacy into . . .
some fucked-up psychological thing of yours that I can’t even begin to understand.” She couldn’t stop the tears or her voice from cracking. “I trusted you. I thought you trusted me too. But apparently not.”

  “Molly—”

  “I can’t . . . I’m not doing this with you. Not anymore.”

  “So what? You think we’re done?”

  “Goodbye, Deacon.”

  She walked away, and this time he didn’t chase after her.

  • • •

  MOLLY didn’t remember driving home.

  She didn’t remember getting undressed.

  She didn’t remember turning off her phone, locking her door, or downing four glasses of Rumple Minze.

  That’s probably why she didn’t remember much.

  The alarm went off at six a.m. She climbed in the shower.

  How had everything gone to hell so fast?

  She’d never been in this situation.

  Where her anger outweighed the hurt.

  Where she wanted to scream, not cry.

  Why hadn’t he told her?

  Because now it’s about me not opening up to you—not that my brother fucking died.

  And now . . . it was about her not being able to tell anyone why she and Deacon were over.

  • • •

  AT the office, Presley greeted her with, “Hey, ho-bag. What’s up besides your skirt?”

  For a brief moment Molly feared she’d burst into tears. But she rallied, like she always did. “Not exactly the most professional way to begin an office conversation.”

  Presley’s eyes widened. “I was joking. I’m sorry. We get along so great that sometimes I forget you’re my boss and I say the same stupid stuff to you that I say to the Divas.”

  “I get it. But sometimes we all need a reminder of our place.” Like Deacon did to her last night. Now she had to call in to question everything he’d ever said to her. And she hated—hated—that she’d been so damn gullible. She’d opened up to him. She’d told him things she’d never told anyone.

  What had he told her?

  Nothing.

  Fuck. Her chin wobbled.

  “Molly, you’re not acting like yourself. What is going on?”

  Just say it. “Deacon and I broke up last night.”

  “What?”

  “We broke up and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But—”

  “Seriously, Pres, I’m hanging on by a thread. I almost couldn’t get out of bed this morning. So please, don’t push me to talk about this. It’s over.”

  “Did that fucker hurt you?”

  Molly shook her head.

  Presley got right in her face and bit off, “Swear to me that Deacon didn’t do anything to you to cause physical harm anywhere on your body.”

  “I swear it.”

  “If you change your mind and want to talk . . .”

  “Thanks for your concern, but get to work. We have a lot to do today.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DEACON had self-medicated with a bottle of scotch after the shit had gone down with Molly and Tag. He woke up late in no better mood than when he’d passed out last night.

  That fucker Tag could just fuck the fuck off. The instant his cousin had walked in with Molly, Deacon had known the night would turn to shit. Maybe it made him a delusional dick, but he blamed Tag. What the hell had he been thinking, contacting his cousin’s girlfriend and inviting her to dinner? Especially when Tag had made it clear they’d be discussing family business.

  You’re really blaming Tag?

  Yes.

  Tag knew how little Deacon talked about his brother. Tag also knew Deacon and Molly’s relationship was new. Tag should’ve expected that Deacon would share the ugly truth about his past gradually. But by convincing Molly to accompany him to dinner, he’d forced the issue before Deacon had been ready to discuss it.

  So fuck yeah, he blamed his goddamn cousin. If Deacon lost Molly over this . . . He clenched his hands on his steering wheel. Fuck. No way. He couldn’t think about that right now. Right now he needed to deal with the anger consuming him, not the fear.

  So when he’d entered Black Arts training room nearly three hours after he was scheduled to start training, he felt every pair of eyes on him like he was a criminal walking death row.

  Maddox waited for him, his arms crossed over his chest. “What the fuck, Deacon. You’re late.”

  “No shit.”

  “Where you been?”

  “Doin’ cardio outside. Thought you’d be happy.”

  “I’d be happy if you didn’t disappear whenever the hell you felt like it.”

  Deacon didn’t defend himself or try to explain.

  “That’s how it’s gonna be? Fine, you stoic bastard. Let’s knock you down a peg. You’re sparring with—”

  “Courey,” Deacon finished.

  Silence.

  Courey wandered over from the heavy bags, smirk on his face. “Finally find your balls and ready to face me, Con Man?”

  “Depends. You have the balls for full-contact, Crusher?”

  “No way,” Maddox said, stepping between them. “Mitts and headgear.”

  “Then I’m not interested in sparring.” Deacon walked away, heading to the locker bay.

  “Goddammit, Deacon. Get back here.”

  Deacon stopped and turned around to look at Maddox.

  “I’m the trainer. If I tell you to get your mitts and headgear on, you’ll goddamn well do it.”

  “No. Full-contact with Courey or nothing.”

  Maddox got his mean face on. “Then it’s nothing. And by nothing, I mean I’ll pull you from the Needham fight, McConnell.”

  “Do what you have to, Coach.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Neither am I. All I’ve heard for two weeks is you bitching at me for not sparring or grappling with your new pet. Now it’s two weeks closer to the bout and I’m ready to up my game, and you’re the one saying no. Why?”