Paige: Woman Empowered (Tied In Steel Book 2)

by Mj Fields

  She looks over her shoulder at me, looking a bit shocked.

  “What?”

  “Did you buy my family’s company just so you can eat me again?”

  I shrug and smirk. “Could have been part of the reason.”

  I wrap the towel around her and start to dry her off. Well, I dry her tits off anyway.

  She reaches back, seeming perfectly comfortable with me doing the drying, and grabs a nearby towel to begin drying her hair.

  I’m a little miffed by it, and when she looks back at me, she can tell.

  “What?”

  Her not being able to see the little green monster inside means she doesn’t harbor it, not for me anyway.

  “How many men have you …?” I snap my jaw shut, feeling completely fucking stupid. Turning from her, I hiss, “Fuck!”

  “Slept with? Showered with? How many men have I what, Vincent?” Her voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement.

  I feel so fucking stupid. So fucking ridiculous.

  I grab my clothes from the floor and step toward the door when an arm and another holding a towel wraps around me.

  “How many men have I what, Vincent?” Her voice is different now, raw even.

  “Fucking washed,” I sneer.

  The towel she holds in her hands now dries my wet skin, and as she touches her lips to my back, she whispers against it, “None.”

  I feel myself relax as she moves her hands slowly up and down my abs while placing soft kisses over my back. Those kisses are placed with purpose. Regardless of how jealous I feel, or fucking crazy this whole thing is, or how fucking fucked-up and insecure I can allow myself to be, I know what I want, why I want it, and how I will make it happen.

  “And no one again.”

  She drops her hand lower and grabs my dick, squeezing it, and pretty damn hard, too.

  I reach down, like she did, and wrap my hand around hers, squeezing it even harder.

  A sigh escapes her, and she kisses my back again, quicker kisses, all fucking over the scars.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Doesn’t matter anymore,” I tell her, because it doesn’t. It’s over and done with—all of it.

  “Does to me.”

  “Why?”

  When I feel her rest her forehead against my back, I look over my shoulder.

  She looks up and shrugs.

  “Why?” I repeat myself, this time looking at her and wanting to see it in her fucking eyes.

  Anger flashes in them. Then it is replaced by sadness. “Because I wanna do it to them.”

  “Why?” I ask, pushing, seeking affirmation to what I know down deep is there.

  I turn around and lift her chin so she’s looking at me.

  When she looks down, I tell her why. “I learned something a long time ago that has stuck with me my entire life.”

  She looks up at me.

  “When you are used to getting hurt, you push away anything that may have the power to hurt you again.”

  She nods. “There’s safety in that.”

  I nod slightly. “I’m giving myself one more moment in whatever time I have left on this earth to take the power back, hoping my biggest weakness can become my greatest strength.”

  Chapter 12

  Roar

  Paige

  He turns around and looks at me, and I nod, still unable to form a sentence that makes any sort of sense after what he just said.

  “I think we have a hell of a lot to discuss,” he says, putting his shirt on.

  I nod again.

  “Can we start with, I can’t believe you get seasick?” His gorgeous brown eyes widen, and then he lets out a long sigh.

  I force myself to push away the fact that my mind may be playing tricks on me in thinking Vincent … wants me to be his strength. Or, am I his weakness? Either way, holy fuck. Why am I shocked?

  “Or, we can talk about how I can’t believe you bought a ship—”

  “Boat,” he corrects.

  “And my family’s business.”

  “Before you did something—”

  “I wouldn’t have fucked Warren Black for all the money in the world.” I stomp my foot to add emphasis, like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence.

  “You went to him.”

  “I went to the bank that held the mortgage.”

  “You agreed to fucking dinner with him,” he sneers, pulling his jeans up then shoving his boxers in his pocket.

  “Just dinner, not the fucking,” I reply smartly.

  He looks up from under his long, dark lashes, ones any female would kill for. That one eyebrow holds court as he looks at me in judgment.

  I raise mine back at him. “I loathe him.”

  “Good.” His relax. Mine don’t.

  “We need to talk,” I say on a sigh. “About all this, Vincent. And I mean all of this.”

  He nods. “I agree.” Then his eyes travel down my body. “You should put on some clothes, Paige, because we won’t be talking if you’re naked.”

  My mouth goes dry, and I lick my lips. “No?”

  “You know damn well we won’t.” With that, he turns and walks out.

  When I hear him walking down the stairs, I look in the mirror, judging myself. God, how can’t I? Look. At. That. Man.

  Closing the door, I search in my overalls pocket, wanting to call Mel or Laney … when the phone now in my hand lights up. Vincent.

  I hit the button to answer his Facetime. “Do you know how to text or call, or—”

  “You have ten seconds before I come up there and we disappoint your family by missing dinner.”

  I want to be angry, to put him in his place, tell him I am woman, hear me fucking roar. I want to, but the parade of butterflies, the heat in my belly, the smile that threatens to erupt whenever I look at him, the sexy man, knowing he wants me as badly as I want him, doesn’t allow it.

  “Ten … nine … eight—”

  “How am I supposed to get dressed when I’m holding a phone?”

  “Seven … six—”

  “Vincent, this won’t work if you continue being unreasonable,” I tell him as I set the phone down then grab my clothes.

  “Five … four …”

  I throw on my bra then my tee-shirt. “Where the hell is my underwear?”

  When I hear him clear his throat, I grab the phone and look at it. He’s holding them under his nose.

  I can’t fucking move.

  “Three … two—”

  “Fine, fine,” I say, stepping into my overall shorts then grabbing my flip-flops.

  “One,” I hear as I run down the stairs.

  “Are you happy?” I throw my hands in the air.

  His smirk and the mischief in his eyes tell me yes. They also tell me, if we don’t leave now, we will definitely be missing dinner.

  I rush to the door and stand out in the evening heat, waiting for him. When he walks out, and passes me, he’s twirling my underwear around his long, thick finger, whistling.

  As I reach for them, he raises that dark, thick brow in warning, holding it out of my reach as he keeps walking toward the parking lot.

  I lock the door and hurry to catch up.

  When I get to him, he reaches his hand out. “Keys.”

  I hit the unlock button and start to pass him when he grabs my waist, stopping me.

  “You’re not driving that thing,” he says sternly.

  I look at the white Chevy, dual cab 2500 and laugh. “Yes, I am.”

  “Like hell you are,” he says, swooping me up and stomping to the passenger side, opening the door and plopping me inside.

  “Hey, you may think …” I pause in shock when he buckles my seatbelt, slams the door, and then stomps around the front of the truck and gets in.

  “This is a man’s truck,” he states, snatching the keys from my hand.

  “A truck I can drive just like any man can.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Not when you’re with m
e.” He starts the truck.

  Admittedly, it’s sexy to have a man think he’s more of a … man than me. But I will not be broken down by any man, sexy or otherwise.

  “Do you find it emasculating, Vincent?”

  He pushes his shades up then leans over the console until he is inches from my face, a clear attempt at intimidation. “Nothing you have done or will attempt to do in the future can make me feel like less of a man.”

  Feeling sassy, I hold up two fingers, expecting to make him take a step down from that high “man” horse.

  He grabs my hand and nips my fingers. “You can wave those things in my face all you want; you aren’t stripping me of my masculinity by doing so. You didn’t strip me of it that night.” He lets go of my hand, leans back, and pulls down his sunglasses. “I was giving you what you thought you wanted, taking what I knew I had to take, to get what I desired. Me being here now should show you just how strong your femininity is without the bullshit you attach to it, without your insecurities.”

  I swallow hard and clear my throat. Then I ask the question I desperately need answered. “So, you want me weak?”

  He throws his sunglasses back again and leans in closer. “Fuck no.”

  “Fuck no?” My voice cracks.

  “Fuck. No,” he repeats, eyes still glued to mine.

  “Why me?”

  He takes my hands, both of them. “In Jersey, I overheard what happened at your job and with that fucking asshole you were with, and I realized I have never been so wrong about anyone in my adult life.”

  I look down. “Doesn’t make me weak.”

  “No, not at all.” His words surprise me, making me look up. “Makes you stronger.”

  Even though it makes me incredibly vulnerable, I want to know more, so I wait … for more.

  “In Italy, you were so fucked up that you would have just fucked any of those men. I know damn well I was the one you wanted, not them. And yeah, it made me fucking crazy, so I demanded it was me. I was finally going to be your rebound fuck.”

  “Finally?”

  He nods. “Do you think I didn’t want you all those times you offered? I did. Two things stopped me. My job, and you passing out. I knew I was leaving my employment, so you were no longer my boss’s friend, and you clearly were wide awake. What I didn’t expect was to become addicted to your taste.”

  “Addicted?”

  “Your pussy is a combination of the finest wine and the most addictive drug.”

  I feel my face flush.

  “And to your strength.”

  “My strength?”

  “I would never respect a woman who would give up and not fight for themselves, for the people they care about. Add that to the other things I learned about you …”

  “Like?”

  “Women of wealth have been in my bed for years. It’s safe. But they’re not my preference, and I’m not theirs. They like a man like me to have on their arm or in their bed, but—”

  “A man like you?”

  “Working class, with good looks, but no trail of money behind him. I’m every woman’s fantasy.”

  I want to tell him he’s a conceited asshole, but he’s not wrong.

  “I’ve used that to my advantage to get off when the need arose. But they’re not strong.”

  “Not all women with money are weak. Look at Valentina. Love changed her drastically.”

  He looks at me, shaking his head as he sits back. “I don’t believe in love’s strength, Paige. There is little value in a word that’s meaning is so very different to every person on this planet. I value loyalty, commitment, honesty, respect, and believe in doing the work to make things happen.”

  “I think all those attributes are wonderful, but I refuse to look at love the way you do.”

  “You’ve lived it with your family, seen it in your friends, and I’m sure you have believed you’ve had it yourself.”

  “And you haven’t?”

  He avoids the question completely. “All those relationships are totally and completely different, yet the same word is used for them.”

  “Vincent, you love those girls you helped raise, and kept protected.”

  I see a tinge of hurt in his eyes and reach over to grab his hand, but he pulls it back.

  “No,” I say out loud as I open the door and get out of the vehicle. “Fuck no.”

  I start to walk away. Hell, I practically run and am grateful I don’t hear him coming after me.

  Two blocks from the marina, I round the corner when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  I deny his Facetime request.

  When I hear the unmistakable revving of an engine, I look back to see the truck, my family’s fucking truck, at the stoplight behind a small, black sports car. The light turns yellow and the car stops. I watch as Vincent hits the horn on the truck in anger.

  I round the corner and see The Crab Shack, a local bar that serves seafood and often has live music on the weekends. Not wanting to see Vincent, I run to the door and open it.

  When I look up, everyone in the place looks at me. I hold my chin up and smile, avoiding all eyes in the place as I walk to the bar and sit down. I reach into my pocket then curse under my breath when I find it empty.

  “Paige? Paige Arnesen?”

  I look up at the familiar voice and see a familiar yet much-older face than I remember. I smile.

  “Joe.”

  “What brings our big time New York City girl back home?” He reaches out and cups my hand. It warms my heart.

  “Dad.” My smile wilts a bit.

  “About time, Pea.” He pats my hand then steps back. “Now, what can I get you?”

  “Well, Joe, I really would love a glass of water.”

  He frowns at me.

  “But I promise to be back to buy a drink or ten when Dad gets home.”

  I hear giggling and look behind me and look back. Sitting at the round table directly behind me is a table full of very recognizable faces, all now leaning in and whispering to each other. One happens to be Evie Thompson, the girl who taunted me in high school, the one who witnessed Warren at a party telling his friends about the cattle call and that I was the best lay he had ever had, and that, as soon as I dropped forty pounds, he was going to make my dreams come true and take me out for a salad. She, Mitsi Belmont, and his sisters spread that around at the party that I snuck out of my home, at Warren’s request, to attend. I drank that night, and it took me a very long time to catch on to the mooing sounds directed at me.

  “Here you go, Pea; a Shirley Temple, on the house.” Joe winks. “With extra cherries.”

  “She’s so extra.” I hear Evie say, and then the others giggle.

  I look over my shoulder at them and scowl. Then I look back at Joe. “Thank you, Joe.”

  He pats my hand.

  When I hear the door open, I’m already feeling sorry for anyone else who may not be one of Tybee Islands’ elite, knowing as soon as they stop whispering about me, they would be on them.

  “Anytime, kiddo, anytime.”

  I hear the stool next to me being dragged backward, and then the whispers and giggles begin.

  “Welcome to The Crab Shack. What can I get for you?”

  “Whatever she’s having.”

  My back straightens at the sound of his voice. Then I hear the whispers again.

  “He’s looking for a sure thing.”

  “Surely a man like that knows he could have anything he wants in this place,” Mitsi says loud enough to ensure he hears her offer.

  “She’s having a Shirley Temple. You sure that’s what you’d like?” Joe laughs.

  I look over when he doesn’t say anything, to catch him nod. Then I look away.

  When Joe walks away, Vincent reaches over, takes my hand, and whispers, “This what you wanted? Me to hold your hand?”

  I try to tug my hand away, but he doesn’t let it go.

  “Let go,” I hiss at him under my breath, hoping Joe and the bitches behind
me don’t hear me.

  “Not a chance.”

  I stand up, Vincent still holding my hand, I yank it away harder, he still doesn’t let go.

  Joe looks up and scowls at Vincent. “Pea, this guy bothering you?”

  “No, I’m not bothering her,” Vincent answers and I pull my hand free.

  Inside the safety of the bathroom—every girl’s escape from the unwanted—I look around and see nothing has changed. Like the marina, it’s clean, but updates that are desperately needed haven’t been done.

  When I hear giggling and those laughs pretentious women force out when trying to gain attention or show interest, I feel a bit like I may throw up again.

  When I hear him say his name, and then one of them tells him he has a sexy accent, I feel jealousy.

  When I hear him laugh, I feel anger.

  I walk out of the bathroom and toward what was my seat yet is now occupied by one Evie Thompson, who is surrounded by the same old clique that always used to surround her.

  I stop when I see Vincent leaning against the bar, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes clearly filled with amusement.

  “So, you see, any one of us is a better choice than she is.” Mitsi reaches out and places a palm on his chest.

  His eyes stop dancing and narrow. “You think so?”

  “We know so,” Evie, the owner of the most pretentious laugh, bellows. “Now tell us, Vincent. You said you read people?”

  Vincent nods as he takes Mitsi’s wrist and moves her hand from his chest, causing her to make a very pronounced pouty face.

  “Like a palm reader?” one of the woman I recognize but don’t remember asks dumbly.

  He nods again.

  Evie reaches over and grips his bicep. “Oh, come now, how does a fortune teller keep a body like this? And more importantly, how would you not know that Paige Arnesen couldn’t handle a man like you?”

  He looks down at his arm where her hand still rests and shrugs it off. “I won’t pretend to know everything about her, but I will. Yet I will tell you each a little about yourselves.”

  Mitsi claps. “Oh, me first! Read me first!”

  She holds out her hand like he is going to read her palm but he just sits back.

  “You were a high school cheerleader, but not the captain.” He points at Evie. “She was.”