by Banks, R. R.
As I look at him, drinking in his toned, tight body, I feel desire begin to stir within me once again. My stomach and mind are spinning wildly, threatening to send me spiraling out of control, and all I can think about is having him inside of me.
What in the hell is wrong with me?
“We did everything wrong, Brice,” I say. “How can you say we didn't?”
He shrugs. “We're two people who obviously have desires and needs –”
“We just put my father in the ground, Brice! For fuck’s sake.”
That seems to stump him, as he bites back the words he was about to say, opting to close his mouth instead. Instead, he stands there, an inscrutable expression on his face, as he slips his hands into his pockets, staring down at the floor beneath his feet.
“You're right,” he says quietly. “I wasn't thinking.”
I let out a long breath. “It's not your fault,” I say. “Well, it's not entirely your fault.”
“I just –”
He's standing in front of me before I even realized he moved. I start to take a step back, but he grabs hold of my wrists, keeping me in place. A momentary spike of fear pierces my heart as my mind immediately flashes back to Mark grabbing hold of me long ago. It passes quickly, even though he's holding me in place. I know Brice would never hurt me. I have no idea where the knowledge comes from – I have nothing to base it on, really – I just know he's not like that. I can trust him in that regard.
The revelation blows me away, given that a few hours ago I was fuming, quite loudly, about how much I hate him, and how much of an arrogant, entitled asshole he is. Yet, I somehow know it's true. I don’t have to fear for my own safety around Brice.
Knowing that makes me feel comfortable – something I haven't felt with a man in a very long time. Brice makes me feel safe. And weirdly, cared for.
Which, of course, is ridiculous. We may have grown up together, but we don't know the first thing about each other as adults.
I hate to admit it, but my brother is right – I can see a slight difference in Brice. He’s no longer the pompous, cocky jerk I remember. I can still see traces of a superiority complex in his speech and mannerisms, though. Unlike Tyler, I don't think Brice has entirely banished that demon – he's only learned to manage it better over time.
“I know that things aren't great between us, Emma,” Brice says. “I know you hate me.”
I cringe. “I don't – hate – you.”
“Fine. I do know you don't like me that much,” he says.
I shrug, not bothering to deny it. There's no use. He knows how I feel – even though sleeping with him certainly sends a mixed signal.
“Honestly, there's something about you that I find incredibly – compelling,” he says.
“Compelling?”
He nods. “For lack of a better word, yes,” he says. “I feel drawn to you in a way I haven't been drawn to a woman in a long, long time.”
The preteen girl inside of me is giddy and screaming, practically jumping with joy, hearing those words – as unrealistic and stupid as it is. I'm not that girl anymore. Haven't been for a long time.
And I can't afford to invest my time or love into a man who will discard me the second something prettier comes along.
If there's one thing I know about Brice Kelly, it's that he's a player. He's the type of guy who screws women and tosses them aside just because he can. From everything I'd read about him, he was that way in college and when he played in the NFL.
I have no reason to think he's any different now. After all, it says a lot that he was willing to fuck me hours after we buried my father. Though, I guess it also says something about me, since I was more than willing – even happy – to let that man screw me.
I'm a hot mess. Right now, I can't seem to hold a coherent thought for very long. All I know with any certainty is that being around Brice isn't doing me any favors. It's fogging up my head, making logical thought impossible, and is whipping my emotions around harder than a flag in a hurricane.
This is not good. Not at all.
“As strange as it might sound, given the circumstances, and the situation,” he says, the deep baritone of his voice melting me, “I think there's something between us, Emma. I think there's a connection there. It's surprising as hell, believe me. But, it's there.”
I can't say he's wrong. At the bar, I had been filled with fire and venom. I'd thrown every barb I could think of, at him, and saw the shadow of that cocky jerk I knew, when he retaliated with his own insults.
Emotions were high, of course, and so was the tension. We both said things that probably should have been out of bounds. Removed from the situation – away from the bar, away from Mark, and all the strong, powerful emotions that had all been stirred up – things are different. Left on our own, just the two of us, communicating like normal adults feels different now.
I can't deny that there's a spark between us now. Maybe, it started with the shared grief of having lost a man we both cared for. Maybe, it's from a decade's worth of venom between us being drained away. I don't know.
It doesn't matter, though. I can't do this. Not with him. It's hard to say no, though. When I look into those vibrant green eyes and see his desire reflected at me, a small piece of me wants to say yes to whatever he wants. To give in to his every command. Cater to his every whim and fantasy.
“I want to explore this with you, Emma,” he says. “I want to see what this thing is between us. See where it goes.”
My body hums with nervous energy and tendrils of electricity race along my skin. Part of me is crying out, dying to say yes to him.
My heart hammering in my chest, my mouth as dry as the Sahara, I finally manage to clear my throat and speak.
“I – I can't,” I say.
“You can,” he coaxes. “You're single. A grown woman. And I know for a fact that you're at least curious to see where this might lead.”
I shake my head and look down at my hands for a moment. Having said no, I feel my confidence starting to grow. My mature, rational side starts to take control, pushing out the insanely ideological and absurdly romantic person I once was.
“You're right, I can,” I say, my voice strong and confident. “I'm choosing not to.”
Brice looks at me, a smug grin tugging one corner of his mouth upward. “And why is that?”
“I don't think I need a reason,” I say. “I just – I don't think things would work out between us. So, to save us both some hassle and heartache, I think it's best we forget about this and move on.”
“You're so sure of that, huh?”
I nod and fold my arms protectively over my chest. “Yeah, I am.”
“Why?”
“Please,” I say and snort. “I know how you are with women, and I refuse to be somebody’s second choice or leftovers. I've seen the articles –”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I didn't peg you as somebody who reads the tabloids.”
“Even the tabloids get it right once in a while,” I say. “I've seen the pictures of you with all of those models. A different one every week, right?”
“Different one a day, if you actually believe the tabloids,” he says. “Which, I thought was something you were way too smart to do.”
“So, those pictures they printed – fake news, huh?”
“It's certainly distorted news,” he replies smoothly. “Twisted around to suit somebody's narrative. Their agenda.”
“And what might that agenda be?”
He shrugs. “You're in the game, you know the ultimate agenda is to sell papers, right?” he asks. “What sells more papers – a story about a guy who doesn't do much of anything anymore? Or a story about a guy banging a different supermodel every night of the week?”
I laugh out loud. “I'm actually supposed to believe that you go home every night, alone, and lead this quiet, tranquil life? Do you think I'm an idiot?”
“I think you're anything but an idiot, Emma,” he says. “And
you can believe whatever you like. I'm telling you the truth. I was a lot wilder when I was younger. That's not the case anymore. Believe it or not, I actually do lead a pretty quiet, normal life.”
He sounds so sincere that I almost want to believe him. But, it's a risk I'm not willing to take. I'm not going to gamble with my heart. I need to focus on my next steps, rather than delve back into a past that wasn't always kind or filled with good memories.
Sleeping with him tonight was a mistake. A terrible mistake. But, I can learn an important lesson from it – I'm sure I can, I just don't know what it is yet. I'll take the lump this is going to give me and move on.
“Look, the two of us will never be a good fit,” I say.
“You don't know that.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
A soft smile touches his lips. “You are a woman of certainty.”
“I am,” I say and nod. “I'm also a woman with sharp instincts. It's why I'm a damn good journalist. I can smell bullshit a mile off.”
“Well, I'm not sure what you're smelling then, because the bullshit's not coming from me.”
“I – I think you should go,” I say.
His smile turns grim, then disappears completely, and some of the sparkle leaves his eyes. Brice Kelly is not a man accustomed to being told no. He's used to getting exactly what he wants, when he wants it.
Well, maybe this will teach him something new – disappointment.
“Go,” I say. “Please.”
“If that's what you really want.”
I nod. “It is.”
Brice nods and slips his shirt back on, slowly and deliberately buttoning it as he looks me in the eye, giving me a chance to reconsider. There's a part of me weakening and wavering – the part that wants to give in to him. I can feel the cracks in the wall forming, and I'm afraid if he doesn't get out of here soon, I’ll never let him leave.
Thankfully, he finishes dressing and walks out of the kitchen. I let out the breath I've been holding and stand there listening until the front door closes behind him.
Silence descends over the house, and I'm left alone with my conflicted thoughts. My brain is telling me that I did the right thing. My heart – or the lower part of my anatomy, maybe – is telling me something very different.
Chapter Eleven
Brice
“Christ, when did funerals turn into full-contact sports?”
I look up from my computer and shoot Pete a grin as he steps into my office. It's been a couple of days since I got back from Morro Bay, and though the cuts on my face are healing up, the bruise around it remains a dark, angry purple.
“Got into an argument at the buffet table at the reception about the cold cuts,” I reply.
He shrugs as he drops down into the seat across from me. “Of course. Some people take their deli meats very seriously.”
“Clearly,” I say. “How'd things go in Cleveland?”
“Great,” he says. “The team's open to talking an extension for Matthews.”
I nod. “Figured they would be,” I say. “They haven't had a decent running back in years. Makes sense they'd want to hang on to this one.”
“Yeah, but you know how ownership is out there,” Pete chuckles. “They don't always do the thing that makes sense.”
“That's true,” I say, sitting back in my chair. “They throw out any figures yet?”
“Nothing concrete. Just ballpark stuff.”
“They in our ballpark yet?”
Pete shakes his head. “They're not even in the same sport as us yet.”
“Great. This should be fun.”
“Always is,” he replies.
He looks at me for a long moment, and I know the question that's on his mind. The same question everyone else who saw me this morning has. Pete's the only one with the balls to ask me about it though.
“So, you gonna tell me how you really got that?” he asks, gesturing to my face.
I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Would you believe me if I told you I ran into a door?” I ask. “Maybe, fell down some stairs?”
He laughs. “Not in this lifetime, no.”
I grab my mug of coffee and take a long swallow. Setting it back down on my desk, I stare into the dark liquid, taking a moment to form my thoughts. Looking up at Pete, I launch into my story – starting with growing up around Emma and her family. I tell him everything – well, except for the fact that Emma shot me down when I said I wanted to see more of her. Some indignities, I prefer to remain private. I tell him everything else, though, right up to the moment he walked into my office.
When I'm done, he sits back and whistles low, an amused smile on his face.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I just never pictured you as the knight in shining armor type, that's all.”
I snort. “That's because you know I'm not.”
“Well – you kind of are,” he says. “Not everybody would have stepped in and handled that situation.”
“Then they would have watched a woman get beaten,” I say. “Maybe even killed.”
“Sadly, some people would still sit idly by,” he says. “Or, wait for the police to show up. Not you though, you waded right in and handled it.”
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t let her get hurt.”
Pete stares at me, that mysterious grin still on his face.
“What?” I ask again.
“I can tell this girl has gotten under your skin,” he says. “Pretty deep too.”
“That's crap,” I say. “We reconnected after a long time, I helped her out of a tough spot, we had some fun, and that's that.”
“Is it?”
I look at him evenly. “Of course, it is.”
It's really not. Not by a long shot. I'm not the type to take rejection as a finality. To me, relationships are like negotiations – you just have to keep working and working at it, until you find the terms most agreeable to both parties. You have to find that sweet spot that leaves you both happy, satisfied, and feeling like you're coming out with a win.
Emma's initial rejection was just the opening act. I could see in her eyes that she was wavering, but I wasn't going to press her too hard right then and there. Not when her dad had just passed. It wasn’t the time or place.
No, in this situation, I have to sit back, be patient, and let the emotions settle for a bit. Once there's been an adequate cooling off period, I can step back in and re-start negotiations.
“Kid, you really are one of the toughest negotiators I've ever worked with,” he says. “Believe me, you're tough as nails when it comes to advocating for your clients.”
I shrug. “You taught me well, what can I say?”
“But, when it comes to personal matters, you have the worst damn poker face of any person I've ever seen,” he says, laughing like it’s the funniest damn thing he’s ever said.
I sit back in my seat, steeple my fingers, and purse my lips. I'm not amused. Honestly, I didn't think I was giving anything away. I usually keep my thoughts and emotions in check. No one ever seems to know what I'm thinking or feeling.
Except Pete.
The old bastard always seems able to see right through me. He's the only person I've ever met who can read me like a goddamn book. Yeah, Emma's gotten under my skin. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her. I didn't think I was being obvious about it, though.
“Relax, kid. I doubt anybody else can see it,” Pete says, reading my mind. Again. “I just know you like the back of my hand.”
Pete slowly gets control of himself and sits back up. He's not laughing anymore, but he's still grinning like a fool.
“Glad to see you're amused by it all,” I say.
“I'm just surprised, is all,” he says. “I never thought I'd see the day when Brice Kelly was wrapped around a woman's finger.”
“I'm hardly wrapped around her finger, Pete.”
He leans forward and looks at me intently. “Be honest,” he says. “Have you bee
n able to stop thinking about her since leaving Morro Bay?”
I sigh again and shake my head in defeat. “No. I haven't.”
“I think it's a good thing, kid. I really do.”
“Yeah? And how do you figure that?”
“I've been telling you forever to find yourself a good woman,” he says. “To settle down.”
“Yeah, I'm nowhere near the settling down part,” I say and laugh softly.
“No, but I would imagine you have the first part of that equation in your sights,” he says. “I doubt Emma is one of those flighty, money-grubbing groupies you've dealt with before. Those kinds of women normally don't stay with you. This girl though, she's clearly gotten to you.”
He's not wrong. Something about Emma sets her apart from any other woman I’ve known.
“Tell me I'm wrong,” he says.
“I can't.”
“Well, the next question then is – what are you going to do about it?”
I give him a wry grin. “I'm playing the long game right now.”
“Yeah, well, don't play such a long game that you give her enough time to find somebody else.”
“Not planning on it.”
We sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments as another thought runs through my mind – a thought I've been doing my best to ignore, simply because I don't like where it leads. I know I'm in safe company right now, though. Pete will always tell it to me straight, and never coddle me, but by the same token, I know he won’t judge me either.
“The last time I saw Emma, she was literally, a little kid,” I say. “Do you think it's weird or creepy that – well – everything that happened over the last few days?”
Pete rubs at his chin, the white stubble making a dry, scratchy sound. “Do you?”
“I'm asking you.”
“Ultimately, the only opinion that matters is your own,” he says. “But, if you want my input, I'll just say this – Emma is a grown woman now. She's what, twenty-seven, you said?”
“Twenty-six,” I reply.
