Wild Rebel

by Laurelin Paige

  I wasn’t going to help her, obviously. But if she went through with it herself and someone later had questions for me…Yeah, that was a whole can of worms I didn’t want to get involved with. Best to keep it hush.

  I needed to clue Donovan in on that so he wouldn’t mouth off to anyone else, and I planned to do that as soon as I had the chance. With how tightly he gripped his “girlfriend,” and the office staff now gathered around us, it wasn’t going to be anytime soon.

  Good thing I had my beer.

  Five

  Another twenty minutes of chitchat and mingling with staff, and I was beyond ready to get the fuck out of that ballroom. Free booze or no, the lovey-dovey vibe had me twitchy as shit. Although I’d met most of the employees at one time or another, I hadn’t worked with any of them enough to be able to hold a meaningful conversation, and I was…distracted.

  Distracted by light eyes and womanly curves and dyed blonde hair that somehow looked more natural than the brown I’d been used to imagining. Distracted by a request that I could never take seriously and the secretive reasons behind the request and the goddamned proof that the woman I’d once loved still existed in this world.

  So much for fucking closure.

  I needed to be drunk. And for as drunk as I planned to be, I was going to need to eat something more substantial than the fancy hors d’oeuvres the caterers were serving. Time to think about getting out of there.

  The universe rarely worked in my favor, but just then the speaker system announced Mr. and Mrs. Weston and Elizabeth King, and finally—since I’d been informed by Donovan that I had to wait until they’d arrived to take off—I was closer to escape. Hallelujah.

  “They do a lineup or something, don’t they?” I finished my beer with one long swallow. Maybe I could rush through it, give my congrats, and let them know the gift was in the mail (then remember to call my assistant and make sure she’d sent something in my name).

  I’d meant the question for Donovan, but it was Roxie, Weston’s secretary, who answered. “I think they plan to mingle.”

  For the first time since I’d arrived, I sized up the crowd. Jesus, the place was packed. There were already several small bunches gathered near the bride and groom, people waiting for their turn to coo over the couple. The rest of the afternoon would be like this, Weston and his new wife the center of attention while they cut the cake and did the dance and threw the garter. Were they doing all that traditional bullshit?

  Another unbidden memory popped in my head. Jolie in my arms, her cheek pressed to my chest. “We can’t have a wedding,” I’d told her, and I remembered feeling disappointed by that. “We’ll have to elope. There won’t be a big ceremony. No reception. None of it.”

  “I don’t care about that. All I care about is being with you.”

  I shook the memory from my thoughts, but the essence of it lingered like a bad scent after the garbage had been taken out. “Fuck this. It will take forever for them to get through all these people. I’m taking off.”

  I tossed my bottle into a nearby trash can, then crossed to my business partner, interrupting another session of canoodling with a tap on his shoulder. “Can I borrow you for a moment, Donovan?” I forced myself to acknowledge his woman, even though all I wanted to do was get some place that didn’t feel so claustrophobic. Some place I could breathe. “It was nice meeting you, Sabrina. I’ll probably see you around the office before I head back to Tokyo.”

  She said, “Ditto,” but I was already walking away, Donovan in tow.

  “I want to hear this,” he said when he caught up to me, “but make it quick.”

  Not even two seconds away from his girl, and he was already on edge. “You’re so fucking pussy whipped.”

  “You want to know something, Cade?” When I turned my head toward him, he flipped me the bird.

  Neither of us spoke again until we were outside the ballroom in the lounge. It wasn’t as empty as I would have preferred, but it would do for the conversation I needed to have now. The rest could wait. “You didn’t tell anyone else why I was in town, right?”

  “You mean that you were in town for Weston’s wedding? I told the whole goddamn office because, as you seem to have correctly assumed, I talk about you nonstop.”

  I gave him an impatient glare. I wasn’t in the mood for his sarcasm.

  He returned the glare with his who-do-you-think-I-am look. “I didn’t tell anyone, you moron.”

  “Except Sabrina.”

  He didn’t roll his eyes, but his expression had the same effect. “Except Sabrina, and you were right there in the room when it happened.”

  “Good, good.” I’d thought the confirmation would calm me, but my shoulders felt just as tightly drawn as before. “You’re sure she won’t tell anyone?”

  “She won’t.”

  “You’ll make sure?”

  “I’ll make sure. What the hell happened when you saw her?”

  He would have wanted to know no matter what, but after my paranoid interrogation, he had to be even more piqued. For as much as the asshole had done for me, he did deserve an explanation.

  I glanced around the space. “Not here.”

  Donovan gestured to a room nearby, the door slightly open. “The bride used it to get ready. Bet it’s empty now.”

  If I got started, I wasn’t going to stop. I’d need copious amounts of liquor for that, and I doubted the dressing room had a suitable minibar. Besides, Donovan had already spelled out his desired time frame for this interaction.

  “I’ll fill you in later. When we’re somewhere else.”

  He narrowed his eyes, reluctant to let it drop. “She showed, though?”

  I nodded and did another scan of the lounge. Experience and necessity had turned me into a vigilant man, but I recognized I was probably being overly cautious. Talking about her always felt unsafe, not just today. She’d been my secret too long for me to feel any other way about her.

  But now she didn’t need to be my anything. I’d seen her, and I could stop looking for her and move on. “You can take that PI of yours off the job.”

  “You don’t want him to do any more digging? He was waiting for her after your meeting. I’m sure he’s got more—”

  “No. Call him off.” I wasn’t even sure why I’d had the guy look in the first place. Years of coming up with nothing had only driven my curiosity to keep searching.

  “Did you get a phone number, at least? My guy could probably get you a whole background from that, as long as it’s not a burner phone.”

  I thought briefly about the note she’d written, still sitting on Donovan’s desk. I should have torn it up and thrown it away. I should have destroyed it.

  Because right now that simple sheet of paper called to me like a siren song, begging me to return so it could destroy me.

  “I don’t care anymore.” I told myself I meant it.

  “You’re sweating and twitchy and smell like one of my Fuentes—you’re welcome, by the way. You’d never reach voluntarily for a cigar unless you were worked up. That doesn’t seem like a man who doesn’t care.”

  Reading between the lines was Donovan’s superpower. Normally, it was something I admired. Today, his perception made me want to snap. “I don’t care about her,” I reiterated with finality.

  “Whatever you say.”

  Hearing myself, I wouldn’t buy it either. “Just cancel the PI, okay? And don’t tell anyone about me seeing her. Not Weston, not Nate—no one. I mean it.”

  “Okay.” He studied me for several seconds. “Something big happened, didn’t it?”

  Even without her insane—not to mention illegal—request, “big” was an understatement. I hadn’t had time to process it yet, hadn’t let myself begin. The numbness had completely worn off, though, and in its place was a tar pit of emotion. As soon as I started walking through it, I knew I was going to be stuck.

  Stuck was where I’d been for years. Was I really just right back where I started?

&
nbsp; “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow,” I assured him. “All of it.”

  “Stop by my place in the afternoon.”

  “Fine.” Without a goodbye, I spun away from him. I’d spent as much energy on him as I could. The rest I needed to keep myself from falling apart.

  “Cade,” he called after me.

  It took more strength to turn and listen than to keep going, but I forced myself to stop all the same. “What?”

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  It was hard not to laugh at the late warning. She’d reached out, and I’d come running. What could be more stupid than that?

  Six

  “Re-al li-fe,” the girl said slowly, her head tilted to read the letters spelled out across the back of my fingers. “Real life.”

  “Yep. Real life.”

  “It’s a bitch sometimes,” she said with a wink.

  My chuckle disappeared behind a swig of bourbon. What did she know about it? She was only twenty-two according to the bartender’s pronouncement. He’d read it out loud when she’d handed her ID over the first time, and he’d been the one to wink when he’d passed it back. He made no bones about his intent to seduce her, hinting more than once that his shift was over in an hour. He probably wasn’t much older than she was.

  I, on the other hand, had thirteen years on her, which meant she was at least three years too young, and that was definitely one of the reasons she was coming back to my room with me. She had bad decision written all over her, and that couldn’t have been a better match for my mood.

  Tough luck, my bartender friend. I’d leave him a big tip to make up for stealing his conquest.

  “Do your tattoos go all the way up?” the girl asked now, fondling my arm.

  “What do you think?” My bicep flexed instinctively under her hand, and she practically purred.

  I’d probably get her to meow when we were both naked. If she wasn’t too drunk.

  If I wasn’t too drunk.

  And fuck. I was headed for too drunk if I wasn’t there already.

  “Hmm. I have a guess. Maybe I’ll get to find out if I’m right.” She ran her hand down my sleeve before dropping it to pick up her cosmo. I still wore the tux jacket, but I’d managed to lose the stupid bowtie—and by lose, I meant cutie pie next to me had it wrapped around her neck like a choker. It gave her a sexy playgirl look that had my cock interested, even if the rest of me was somewhat numb to her charm, but that was the way with most of my encounters with women. It was the head in my pants that did the scoping out and drove the pickups. Generally, he liked the ones that didn’t talk so much. The ones that didn’t giggle. This chick was out of the norm because she did both, but he perked up whenever she tossed her hair over her shoulder, which was quite often.

  Seemed we liked blondes now. That was new.

  “I wonder if blondes really do have more fun.”

  The memory stormed in without warning—Jolie standing in front of a mirror, holding her hair up with one hand. A fingerprint-shaped bruise on her neck that made me want to ask questions that I didn’t need to ask.

  “Don’t even think it. I like it dark,” I’d said. But I’d been focused on that bruise, not her hair, and even though I knew it wasn’t worth getting her upset, I had a sick impulse to hear about every pain that monster inflicted on her. If she had to suffer it, I needed to suffer it too.

  “Like I’d ever get away with it. Just let me dream for a minute.”

  I’d reached my hand out to press gently against the marked skin, erasing her smile from her face. She dropped her hair and put her hand on my wrist. “Let it go, Cade.”

  “I need to know.”

  “You already know.”

  I’d bit my cheek until it bled, the familiar coppery taste reminding me that I hated telling her about my bruises too.

  With a sigh, I’d let my hand fall. “You should dye it as soon as we leave.” I didn’t believe blondes really had more fun, but I’d figured she deserved every chance at happiness she could get.

  And now Jolie was away from her father, and her hair was lighter like she’d wanted, and I hadn’t seen any bruises, but if she was anything like me, she still wore them under her skin. My insides were even more marked up than my outsides.

  That wasn’t something I planned on sharing with a girl I’d just met in a bar.

  Forcing my attention back to her—the current blonde at my side—I turned in, and the jostle of someone stepping up to the bar behind me gave an excuse to step an inch closer, staking claim. “Do you have any?”

  “Have any what?” She blinked up at me, her eyes glossy, and it occurred to me she was on her way to too drunk too, which was fine. It would make it a fairer coupling.

  “Tats.”

  “Oh! Tattoos! Yes.”

  I wasn’t really precious about my own ink. Only a couple held any meaning. The rest were acquired to help create an image—respect written on my forearm, beast down my bicep, the cross-shaped dagger on my hand. Looking tough had been an essential part of my former job. It was a wonder Donovan had seen past it, but I was lucky he had. My current career was more satisfying, not to mention safer. Oh, and one hundred percent legal.

  Though no longer necessary for work, I’d learned that talking about tats was a handy topic for hookups. “Where they at?” After a second, I added, “The tats,” in case she’d already forgotten again.

  “I have a butterfly across the top of my foot. It hurt so bad I’m scared of getting another.”

  “Because it’s near the bone.” The bartender set another cosmo in front of her. “On the house.” Either he’d missed my stake and was clueless or he was cocky enough to not care.

  “Next time get one where there’s lots of flesh.” My innuendo was as much for her as for the bartender, to let him know he wasn’t the only one seducing.

  “It hurts less on the fleshy parts?” Another toss of her hair. Another twitch of my dick.

  “Presumably.”

  “You’ll have to show me a good spot, then, Cade.”

  She got points for remembering my name. I didn’t remember hers, and wouldn’t if she repeated it, so I didn’t bother asking. It had been years since I remembered any name besides Jolie. Not likely I’d start now.

  “The tat on the outside of my arm wasn’t bothersome.” The bartender busied himself with wiping down the counter, an obvious excuse to keep talking to Blondie. “Inside hurt a bit more.”

  Blondie considered. “I don’t think I’d get a tattoo on my arm.”

  “Mine wasn’t too bad,” a voice came from behind me. A woman inserting herself into a flirty conversation meant one of two things to my drunken brain—either she was hitting on the bartender, or she was hitting on me.

  I supposed it was possible she was hitting on Blondie. I was already thinking threesome as I turned to include her in the conversation, my mouth opened to spout off some provocative quip.

  It shut without a word uttered when I realized the other woman was Jolie.

  Not Jolie. Julianna.

  Too late, I realized her voice had been familiar. If I’d been sober, I would have placed it sooner, and what would that have gained me? Because whether I recognized it sooner or not, she’d still be here, and I’d still be speechless, and drunk as I was, I wasn’t drunk enough to not have feelings about that.

  What those feelings were was harder to identify.

  “Where is it?” Blondie asked across me, her world continuing to spin while mine had stopped.

  “My right hip,” Julianna answered.

  “And you said it didn’t hurt?”

  “Not any more than a bee sting.”

  “Bee stings hurt.” The girl pouted.

  I took another swig of my bourbon. Then another. Hoping each swallow would settle the thump of my heart. Each swallow failing.

  She’d tracked me down. Of course she had. I hadn’t said whose wedding I was here for, but it wouldn’t have been too hard to figure out since Weston’s w
as publicized heavily. A simple Google search for Reach would have probably brought it up. That had to be how she found me.

  I couldn’t decide how I felt about the fact that she’d been looking.

  “And what are you having, pretty thing?”

  I should have been glad that the bartender now had his sights fixed on Jo—on Julianna, but for some reason it just made me want to punch a hole through the counter. Or through his face.

  “Martini. In and out with the vermouth.” She handed over her ID when he asked for it with a roll of her eyes. “You probably want me to take that as a compliment, but all I see it as is a hassle.”

  His expression went cold. “Just following the law, ma’am.”

  “Well, follow it with a little less smarm, will you?”

  Yeah, that hookup wasn’t happening. Fuck me for almost smiling.

  Another swallow. Of all the gin joints, in all the world...

  “Did yours hurt?” The slight pressure of Blondie’s hand back on my forearm drew my attention back to her.

  That’s it. Focus on her. But her question didn’t make sense in my stupor. Did it hurt? Yes, goddammit, it hurt. After all these years, after all the booze, it still fucking hurt, and it wasn’t fucking fair.

  “Your tattoos,” she clarified. She placed her palm over the back of my hand and laced her fingers through mine. “Lots of bone here. Did it hurt?”

  My dick didn’t even register her touch, but I flirted back, interested now in the hookup to prove something rather than to get off. “I’m a man. Which means I was crying like a baby.”

  She laughed. “No, you weren’t.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Each time I’d sat under the needle, I’d welcomed the pain, curious to see if this time I’d feel something new.

  But the only thing I ever felt was the same old constant ache. It never varied. Never dulled. I’d carried it so long now, it was as much a part of me as any ink on my skin. I barely noticed it these days.

  With her back in my life, sitting close enough that her arm brushed against mine, that ache burned as though it were new.