by Nola Marie
I leaned against my apartment door a little breathless. I most definitely was not expecting to open my door and see Zane standing there. When he gave me his little speech six months ago, I figured in two weeks he’d move on. I should’ve known better considering he’d spent a few weeks texting me every day then appeared out of nowhere when I wouldn’t respond. He's nothing if not persistent.
No. That's not right. He is fucking relentless.
I was beginning to realize that Zane Valen was very good at surprising me. Very good at just appearing when you least expect him. But how could I expect him when he lived so far away? He almost made my point about the distance moot, but I knew that this was the off season. He isn’t on the road or at practice every day, so he had a little more spare time than normal.
“Oh sister, if you don’t want him, can I have him? He is so damn hot.” I turn and open my closed eyes to see my sister fanning herself with a big grin.
I let out a huge sigh. “Zane wants more than just a little casual fun,” I tell her in a frustrated voice.
“I’m pretty sure he’d be good for fun,” she waggles her eyebrows.
I laugh hard as I cross the space of my apartment to my white sofa sitting in the middle of my small living area. My apartment is small, but very nice. Because it is New York, nice also meant expensive so I had to sacrifice on size.
“I don’t do more than casual. I don’t know how, Cara.”
“So, you’re telling me that you won’t try anything out with him because the smoking hot, infamous ladies’ man wants more than a one-night stand?”
I didn’t like the way her penetrating brown eyes zeroed in on me. They were judging and disbelieving. She was being condescending. She shook her blond hair that was a couple of shade darker than mine. “What does that really have to do with anything, Tori? He’s likes you. He’s not proposing marriage.”
Why did everyone keep comparing my issue with a relationship to marriage?
“I can’t even make a relationship with guys in the same city work. How would I ever make one like this work?” I spout the same excuse that makes me inwardly flinch because it's starting to sound a little redundant and overused.
She curls up on the overstuffed white chair across from me. Her sock clad feet make their way under her as she stares at me with a look of pure – frustration and disappointment. I don't like how she's looking at me right now. It unnerves me.
“Maybe this is exactly the type of relationship you need,” she tells me with a flip of her hair. “You won’t be able to see him every day. You won’t have to make plans around him all the time. You’ll just see each other when you can and talk on the phone. Like you were doing before. It can give you time to adjust and see where it goes.”
I pick at the skin around my short nails. “It still sounds like a lot of work for something that will never workout.”
“Oh. My. God.” She is standing on my chair with a bounce of exasperation. “You are doing everything you can to convince us all this won't work when you haven't even tried. You’re afraid you might actually fall for him. You are afraid of commitment and getting your heart broken.”
I scoff at her with my brows dropping into a V. I feel my chest puff out a bit and my chin tip up. “Don’t be ridiculous, Cara. I’m not afraid. I just don’t like wasting my time. I like to know what the end game is when it gets started.”
“Sounds like that’s why you’ve never had a serious relationship. Sometimes the relationship is the end game Tori.”
“What do you know?” I snap as I get irritated with her condescending tone and her line of reasoning (because it was too logical and reasonable). “You’re nineteen. You haven’t been in a serious relationship either, and it’s not like you’ve ever seen Dane in one.”
“Maybe I haven’t been in a serious relationship, but I know what I would expect out of one. Just like I know dodging, avoiding, and fear when I see it. From you and Dane.”
I grumble a bit, incoherently wishing it were my brother here instead of Cara. Dane would never encourage a relationship with someone. He wouldn’t even encourage a date or drinks. He’d prefer Cara and I were nuns and I’m starting to see the value of that line of thinking. Except that I like sex.
I really like sex. Even if it has been months since that has been something I’ve gotten to enjoy, and even longer since I remember it. I shiver as I remember waking up to Maddox that morning. I hope those memories never reveal themselves.
“Why do you need to know the end game? Why can’t you just have fun with the guy and see where it goes?”
Because I tried that and got a little too upset when he didn’t answer my phone call for weeks. But I don’t tell her that. She would read too much into it.
“Whatever,” I finally tell her wanting this conversation to end.
A wide grin spreads across her face. She’s already imagining things that will never happen. At most, Zane and I will have a nice dinner and conversation. It won’t lead to anything else. It’s just not me. It can't be.
My jaw drops when the car Zane sent for me – a fucking limo not an uber that I was expecting – stops in front of a very upscale dining establishment. What the hell is he thinking? It’s like he thinks flashing his money will win me brownie points with him. Does he really think I’m that kind of girl?
Not that I haven’t been dying to try this place out but spending thousands of dollars on a meal is not something I would ever do. Even if I had that money.
I walk into the restaurant where I am welcomed - or unwelcomed - by the maître d’ asking if I have a reservation as he looks over what I’m wearing. It’s actually completely appropriate for this kind of place, but I am certain that it’s not the style he’s turning his nose up at as much as the lack of designer labels hanging from it.
I don’t let his snobbish, upturned nose affect me. I’ve lived in this city most of my life. Once you cross into Manhattan, there are a few that think how much you make, what you wear, and the like are what makes you worth their time. Not all but a few.
“Zane Valen,” I tell him with my head high and voice clear.
He, again, looks me over. He obviously doesn’t believe that I’m here to meet Zane. I can’t say that I blame him. I’m sure there are lots of women who throw his name around if they know he’s going to be somewhere just so they can get close to him.
What I can blame him for is the condescension and arrogance that is literally visible in his sneer. He’s a fucking maître d’, for God’s sake.
I don’t say another word. I stand there staring the asshole down while simultaneously texting Zane.
Me: You had a car drop me off at this ostentatious absurdity then you better come tell the fucking maître d’ you’re waiting for me because he’s looking at me like I’m a cockroach
Zane: I’m so fucking sorry, Tori. I had a meeting here run late and couldn’t wait to see you. I’m on my way to the door now.
Me: You have two minutes or I’m leaving
Zane: DO NOT FUCKING LEAVE
I scowl at his ‘yelling’.
Me: DO NOT FUCKING YELL AT ME.
Zane: You know it’s adorable as hell you think you’re some kind of badass. Go ahead and leave, Tori. I will find you just like I found where you live.
My scowl turns in to full blown anger – and maybe a little bit of something else. I feel my face turning red with heat, but not from embarrassment but anger. The maître d’ is still looking at me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and only making me angrier. I’m about to blow my top and blow this place when I see Zane walking toward me. His hair is even longer than last time as it waves and curls around his face. He has a bit of scruff to his face as usual that I’ve come to figure out isn’t there because he’s trying to look tough, but because he’s too lazy to shave. He’s wearing charcoal gray slacks and a matching jacket with a black shirt underneath with the top two buttons left undone. I manage to keep my tongue from lolling out of my mouth. It
's crazy how people have always told me that I look good in everything I wear but there is no way I look Zane fucking Valen good. He looks like a fucking GQ ad right now.
But no matter how good he looks it doesn't make me forget the douche in front of me. That fucking crooked smirk he is always wearing is flashed at me when he realizes what I’m about to do.
I think that maybe he is about to stop my impending tirade, but then he just stops walking. His eyes peruse me as that lazy grin spreads wider then dart to the maître d’. He tilts his head toward the man with another smirk.
Is he daring me to go off on the man? Or is it permission?
“Miss,” the man begins again. I suppose he’s tired of our standoff. “I highly doubt Mr. Valen is waiting for you, and we can’t let someone impose on his privacy. I must ask you to leave.”
What a diplomatic way to say that I’m not good enough for him. Except I know that’s not true. First off, Zane was raised far better than I was, but it wouldn’t matter if he were the king of England. That does not make him better than me. Second, Zane is far too level-headed – I can’t believe I just said that about him – to think that what he can buy makes him something special.
“Why would you think that Zane isn’t waiting for me?” I ask casually. “Do you think my seventy-five-dollar dress isn’t good enough for him? Or maybe it’s the tattoos? Or is it the lack of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry?”
The man’s mouth turns into an ugly smirk. One that says that is exactly what he thinks. He even says so.
“I suppose it’s a good thing that Zane isn’t anything like you. Why would anyone want a glorified door greeter with a receding hairline and a beer gut who thinks his shit doesn’t stink because he works in a place that would cost most people a month’s salary just to eat here? This place probably costs more than you make in a couple of months, am I right? It doesn’t matter though because you think your little penguin suit makes you special. But I have news for you, you fucking asshole, I’m not lesser than anyone. In fact, I am probably one of the best people you will never have the pleasure to know because I came from less than meager circumstances and I am surviving and thriving just fine on my own. I am not some fucking gold digger going after the nearest pocketbook. Men like Zane Valen come after me.”
“I’m afraid we don’t allow language like that in this establishment, miss. Or people that are of your – class.”
His beady eyes graze over me with disdain as Zane slaps a large hand to the man’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t think you would allow people of her class here,” he tells the man with a smirk making the man look completely smug – for about two seconds. “She has too much class for a place like this. This place isn’t good enough for someone like her.”
“Mr. Valen, sir, I didn’t realize you knew this woman,” the man sputters.
“Well, I wouldn’t have invited her if I didn’t know her. It’s all good though. We weren’t wasting anymore time in this place anyway.”
“Sir, I truly didn’t mean to offend,” he continues. It really irks me that his tune has changed since Zane walked up.
“Yeah. You did. I knew when I walked in you were a douche. No big deal, but I can promise that I won’t be coming back here. If the staff can treat someone as beautiful as Tori with such disrespect, then it damn fucking sure isn’t getting my business.”
Jax walks up about the time the maître d’ tries to sputter something else out with a look of confusion and curiosity. He is flanked on either side by a woman in a dress that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe and another man in an expensive suit. He eyes Zane with a look of concern.
I turn my gaze to Zane to look at him. Really look at him. I realize that the lazy, crooked grin may be there, but it is not the laid-back cocky grin I’m accustomed to seeing on his too beautiful face. There is a fury flashing in those dark eyes of his. His fists are clenched tightly at his side and his jaw is clenched despite the grin on his face. He looks menacing and a little scary which unnerves me because for the second time I can see Zane is more dangerous than any of the men I have fought in the ring. Far more dangerous than his outward persona lets on.
“What’s going on here?” Jax asks looks from the maître d’ back to Zane then me.
“This motherfucker took a look at Tori with all of her tattoos and decided she wasn’t good enough to come into this fine establishment,” Zane tells him even though he knows that’s not quite all of it. It’s like he said what he knew would get under Jax’s skin the fastest considering the man is covered in tattoos and Zoey has quite a few herself.
“Is that right?” Jax crosses his arms and leans back on his heels.
“Mr. McCabe, I apologize. I didn’t think.”
Jax’s hazel eyes run up and down the dowdy man with intensity that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Twice now, I’ve seen him away from Zoey, and the difference her presence makes is definitely noticeable. Of course, last time he was trying to help his girl.
“I don’t give a fuck what you did or didn’t think, do, or say,” he says with a whole hell of a lot of intimidation for the few little words. “We didn’t come here because we wanted to anyway. We only came because people think the best way to kiss our asses is with bullshit like this place.”
He turns without another word walking out the door. The man and woman who were following him continue to do so but with red faces looking at the floor. I wonder if they are embarrassed at the situation or the way Jax and Zane just say whatever the hell they feel. Or maybe because they're the ass kissers who thought a place like this was the best way to schmooze them.
Zane walks to the man, leaning down to whisper something in his ear. The man turns three shades of green as Zane pulls away. He slings his arm over my shoulder and leads me back out onto the street.
Once we’re standing outside the place, he turns to me. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”
“Why are you sorry?” I ask shrugging my shoulders. “That’s the nature of things sometimes. Some people just think money equals class.”
He shakes his head with a grin, but I can still see his anger just below the surface. “Let’s go somewhere that serves real food.”
“Good seeing you, Tori,” Jax says behind me. He nods toward Zane. “Heading back to the room to call Zoey.”
Zane nods in return but doesn’t say anything making Jax narrow his hazel eyes at him. “Don’t do anything stupid, Zee.”
A dark chuckle escapes his throat as he shakes his blond head. “I’ll try.”
He turns us in the opposite direction Jax is facing as Jax grumbles under his breath.
“What did he mean by that?” I ask looking up at him.
His dark eyes flash with anger again. He shakes his head with a few quick blinks, and it’s gone. All the intensity and fury has left his expression and his body. It kind of makes my head spin. I’ve never seen anyone turn it on and off so quickly. I’m not sure if that makes him very controlled or a loose cannon.
“Don’t worry about it, darlin’. That’s just Jay watching out for me.”
We continue walking down the sidewalk of Broadway for a few more minutes passing the Red Cube and a few other places. We walk in absolute silence side by side but not touching. I get the feeling he may have pushed everything down, but he’s still struggling with his anger.
“I really hate assholes,” he finally says. “Jax and Rory’s parents worked so much when they were growing up, they missed a lot of things in their kids’ lives. My dad, well he was pretty successful. My mom didn’t have to work, and we lived in a pretty nice house. Never once did my parents judge theirs for what they didn’t have. In fact, they admired the McCabe’s determination to take care of their kids the best they could. People like that maître d’ back there just piss me the fuck off. He probably makes less than fifty grand a year but turns his nose up at you. I think the dress is great by the way.”
He rambled beautifully. Why was everything about him so go
ddamn inviting? It made it hard to remember why I sent him on his way last time.
Oh right. My pride.
The stuff about not doing relationships or not seeing the point in starting anything was true. It was one hundred percent true. But the real reason for the avoidance and rejection was that he hurt my pride that morning in Las Vegas.
We walked a few more blocks when he finally stopped the limo that was following us. I was so damn grateful. I wasn’t wearing the type of shoes you stroll through New York with. They were black Jessica Simpson pumps. They were cute as hell, but they were not comfortable. I’ve never owned a pair of her shoes that were.
He opens the door of the cab allowing me to climb in and slide over. I’m careful the hem of my dress doesn’t rise up too high. The Adrianna Papell fringe dress – okay so it was more than seventy-five dollars - come about four inches above knee and even farther when I sat. He slides in beside me and gives the driver the address.
More silence as we drive to the next restaurant becomes deafening and irritating. While I’m a talker by nature, silence doesn't bother me but this much silence makes me fidget.
My mouth drops when we stop. Zane slides out then offers me his hand to help me out. “From one overpriced place to another,” I mutter as I move to step around him.
He surprises me when he grips my wrist jerking me back to him. I land against his hard body with an oomph that sounds as attractive as you think. “I meant what I said, Tori. You look fucking gorgeous, and I’m taking you somewhere to show that off.”
I blush. I don’t fucking blush, but dammit this man makes me blush. Repeatedly.
“And I really like the steak here,” he smirks as he runs the back of his hand up my arms.
You’d think tattoos would hide goosebumps, but they don’t. Nope. Not one little bit. If anything, they make them more prominent, and it irritates me that he can see the evidence of that little touch on my skin so easily.
Without giving myself away, I clear the Zane induced fog from my head as I step out of his arms. Distance is always key with him. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks to the sky with an exasperated sigh but still grinning. I like to imagine he’s praying for patience, but something tells me Zane is enjoying this. Maybe a little too much. He’s used to women throwing themselves at him, but I think he likes the chase.
