Keeping Her Close: A Slow Burn Standalone

by Casey Diam

  “Can you imagine if he had burst in without knocking one of those times in the past when I had you spread open on my desk with your sexy belly.”

  Jordan sighed, talking to herself. “I’m married to a pervert, and he reminds me all the time.”

  “No, I would have kicked his ass. Anyway,” Brandon rocked the baby. He was planning to surprise her later, but this was as good a time as any. “Guess who just closed a deal this morning somewhere on Rodeo Drive?”

  Jordan’s mouth dropped as she faced him, her wet hands dripping onto the floor. A year ago, he’d asked her what her biggest dream was, and she’d told him she wanted to make a name for herself in a class with all the other prestigious brands, but she’d laughed it off at the end like it could never happen. He’d been working behind the scenes ever since. “You weren’t even a little bit curious about the department stores contacting you to carry your brand?”

  “No, I just thought, I don’t know what I thought—oh my God!” She shrieked, throwing her hands up as she jumped in place.

  Sometimes I think she forgets she’s married to a billionaire and that she’s now a part of my empire, Brandon mused as he watched her. But I bet she’ll let me try out that new sex swing later. Strapped to my ceiling and waiting to be fucked. Oh man, she has no idea what’s attached to my gifts. She should know by now, but she hadn’t realized it yet.

  “What’s that look?” she asked as she approached him.

  “Nothing, just thinking of ways you can thank me later.”

  “Uh-uh. You are not coming up with some unique way to get me pregnant again.”

  So, she’s noticed.

  “Oh, Mrs. Kuvat, I plan to do no such thing. Anyway, I was thinking of something a little more fun these next couple of months.” Brandon combed a hand through her golden curls as he pressed his erection against her stomach, “and by fun, I mean having my way with you, over and over again.”

  “A.K.A. getting me pregnant.”

  “But it looks so good on you.” Zack fussed in his arms, and he rubbed his back and gripped his tiny waist, turning their son to Jordan. “Plus, look how handsome. The world needs to be overpopulated with my baby geniuses.”

  Jordan smiled at Zack. “I hope your ego won’t be as big as your dad’s. Please, don’t listen to him.”

  “Dada,” Zack babbled.

  Brandon chuckled and kissed Zack, and Jordan tickled Zack’s tummy. “I know you can’t help but love him. He’s too charming. I know.”

  He had her, but some days he felt like he was still chasing her. It was a high he’d never get enough of because this woman was the best thing that ever happened to him. The day he slid that ring on her finger, he left his past behind because he’d seen his future with her, and in it, those doubts and pain were no longer. She was his happily ever after and he’d spend the rest of their lives making her smile with their five kids.

  Five, he thought. He’d talked about it with Jordan, and she was fucking horrible at negotiating. Four-point-five, what is that? Half a baby. She definitely needed him to make these decisions.

  “Maybe it’ll be twins next time,” he contemplated out loud, pressing his lips to her temple.

  “Brandon,” she groaned, leaning her forehead to one side of his chest, Zack on the other. “I love you.”

  Brandon smiled. Forever. Always.

  THE END

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  Romantic Suspense

  Things That Matter Series

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  Keep Reading for a SNEAK PEEK into Book One of my Romantic Suspense Series “Things That Matter”

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Paige

  It was like any normal night that summer.

  Reese, Alaina, and I would be sent to bed before ten.

  Mom was strict with our bedtimes, but we never obeyed. Alaina would be up, messaging her boyfriend—or so she said. At thirteen, she wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend. I wasn’t either, and I didn’t, but I would still be up late, practicing chords on my guitar or writing corny teenage lyrics. Reese, on the other hand, was the oldest, and if it were a weekend, she would be on a date with her high school sweetheart. But it wasn’t a weekend, so she was lying in my bed with me, watching television as I strummed my guitar.

  “It isn’t fair that you have the musical talent,” Reese said.

  “It isn’t fair that you’re leaving me to go to college in two weeks.”

  “I know,” she agreed, picking up her phone.

  We went silent as we caught the moment of reality; maybe it would be something we could both look back on.

  “Hey, let’s go steal Laina’s phone and text her boyfriend,” Reese suggested.

  “I’ll be there in a second. I need to put Dad’s guitar back in the studio,” I muttered.

  As she exited my room, I turned my attention to the Kim Possible episode playing on the television. It was almost finished. Kim was propelling off a building to save her best friend, Ron. He had tried but failed in his attempt to help fight the bad guys.

  Five minutes later, I changed into my nightdress. With Dad’s guitar in hand, I jogged a few stairs down to the first floor. Usually, I would switch on the lights before I came down, but a lamp was already on by the couch.

  There was no need to tiptoe around the mansion late at night. My sisters and I even joked about having a party on the other side of the house without Mom or Dad ever knowing. But something was different about tonight as I walked through one of the three family rooms. Dad must have been working late. I could see the light glowing from inside his music workroom. Though with the studio door wide open, I didn’t expect to find him inside.

  He didn’t mind what time we went to bed like Mom did. Although, when he saw I was up this late, he’d frown and then smile before hugging me good night.

  A glass-breaking scream penetrated the walls of the house, and a weird, stifled blow followed. Then there was silence. It was either Reese or Alaina. It hadn’t sounded like they were playing. That scream was more like a cry for help. A signal to someone that something was wrong.

  My feet stopped moving, the hairs on my skin stood as a chill passed through my body. I turned, still maintaining a tight grip on Dad’s guitar. Two choices swirled around my head: go see what was wrong or leave Dad’s guitar since I was already so close to the studio. I chose option two because, as much as I wanted to rush to my sisters, a gnawing feeling encouraged me toward the studio.

  My dad was reclined in his chair, head hanging over the back, and there was blood. Glops of blood. On the wall. The floor.

  Dad.

  My chest constricted. The organs inside my body shuddered as I walked toward him.

  “Dad,” I whispered.

  Then, I saw it—a gunshot wound on the side of his head.

  His lifeless gaze haunted me as I retreated my steps.

  Mom, Reese, and Alaina.

  Bending, I placed the guitar on the floor, not knowing what I was going to do, just that I needed to get help. My phone was in my room on the third floor, and judging from the scream earlier, I shouldn’t go back up there. A killer was in our house.

  My hands shook, and then I realized my whole body was shaking.

  My vision blurred.

  Phone.

  I looked back to my dad, my throat closing as I searched the blood-spattered desk covered with letters and music sheets—his office landline. Grabbing the phone, I pressed three digits as fast as my fingers could manage.

  A rough male voice filtered into the studio from the living room. “We can’t find her. The other three are searching the whole building from t
op to bottom . . .”

  “Nine-one-one. Please state your emergency,” a female said in my ear.

  My vision grew hazy again, watching the door. He would hear me if I spoke.

  “What do you want us to do? We got everything else,” the man said.

  My breath caught. Mom. Reese. Alaina. I looked behind me. Dad.

  “Killer,” I whispered into the phone.

  “Hold on. I think I heard something.” The man’s voice sounded even closer.

  Tears spilled onto the keypad of the phone, and I crouched on the floor as if it would make me invisible.

  The deep voice spoke again. “No, I got her phone. Plus, we have the evidence to plant if it comes to that. It’s too easy . . . everyone will think they had kidnapped her . . . I’ll find her.”

  Terror gripped my heart. It was then I realized that I needed to get out of the house. They were looking for me. They knew I was here.

  So, at least five guys including the one on the phone; although, it doesn’t sound like he’s here. And guns.

  Why hadn’t I heard the gunshots?

  Wait a minute. Window. I can get out that way.

  I looked at the window as my plan of escape formed.

  “Can you repeat—” the operator started.

  After setting the phone down, I dashed to the door, locked it, and hurried back to the phone. “About four or five men are in my house. They have guns. Please send help.”

  A hard thud shook the door, and I hit the speaker button. Rushing to the window, I spoke my address aloud. Then, I fidgeted with the lock on the window, seeming to forget how it worked. I heard the crack of the door giving way, but the window opened. Fear consumed me. He could outrun me or just shoot me. But I couldn’t give up so easily.

  I jumped, throwing myself at the mesh covering the opened window and fell through the large opening. Thinking there could be a vehicle waiting in the front, I scrambled to my feet, picking up speed as I sprinted down the side of the house in the opposite direction.

  I could hear him behind me, gaining on me fast. I hopped on the steel fire escape ladder at the side of the house and climbed up. I didn’t think about this being the act that would save my life because, at this point, I’d stopped thinking.

  “The nurses said you haven’t been eating,” the psychologist noted.

  “I want to see my grandparents,” I said.

  It’d been a month since I was admitted to the ward because I’d panicked. For hours. I couldn’t control it or myself at the hospital when I heard everyone else had died in the house that night. Dad. Mom. Reese. Alaina. All dead. The nurses had called it a panic attack. But that was only the beginning.

  “They are not your grandparents. Continuing to believe that isn’t going to help you come to terms with the truth.”

  “It isn’t the truth.”

  “Your name is Madelyn Wells. Your parents died when you were two weeks old—”

  “No, it’s Sawyer.” I raised my voice. “My name is Paige Sawyer.”

  “Have you been taking your medication?”

  And there it was—the crazy eyes. I knew she tried to hide that look, but I could see it.

  “It helps.” She placed her forearms on the desk and tapped her pen on the clipboard in front of her.

  I stared her down until she looked at her notes on the clipboard.

  I’d been seeing her twice a week. She looked the same every time. Same shoulder-length black hair parted in the middle. Prissy, dark skirt suits.

  “It’s been weeks since we went over that night. Let’s go through what happened again.” She tried. “The more you talk about, the more likely it will be for you to move past it.”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t spoken to anyone since you’ve been here and haven’t visited any of the support groups. Everyone here is trying to get better. Don’t you want that?”

  I let that sink in for a moment. “I would be better if everyone stopped lying to me, feeling pity for me, and looking at me as if I were crazy. I’m not crazy.”

  She chewed on her lip and jotted something on her notepad. She had the power; I gave it to her. My words were powerful. At fifteen years old, I’d begun to realize; I could take that power away because I was the one giving it to her.

  “I’m scared,” I started. “I’m scared of the truth because how could it be possible that the people who raised me from when I was a baby were also my kidnappers and the people who murdered my real parents?” I flinched at the words because they weren’t the truth. It was the lie they wanted me to believe, but I continued, “I know my symptoms. I’m not stupid, and yeah, I haven’t been taking my medication because . . .” I looked at my lap, twisting a loose thread on my scrubs around my finger. I’m scared the men might still be after me. Scared I could be next. Working up a smile, I found her eyes. “I wasn’t ready, but I am now.”

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Paige

  Four Years and Seven Months Later

  Breathe. Punch. Breathe. Kick. Breathe. Uppercut. Breathe. High knee. Breathe. Head kick. Breathe. Superman punch. Breathe—

  “Wells!” Graham’s voice was a meek echo behind the blaring rock music.

  I turned my head from the two-hundred-fifty-pound dummy to Graham, the owner of the gym. He was in his fifties with a full head of dark hair, dusted by a few grays. He was the mastermind behind what we called the Dungeon. The small back room in the gym with mats, kickboxing equipment, and a cage. Exclusive members trained here, but mostly after hours.

  Removing my boxing gloves, I ran over to the sound system and nixed the music. “Yeah?”

  “It’s nine thirty,” Graham said.

  “Oh, no problem, Ham. I’ll have it ready.”

  “Ham?” Roxie stood at the door with her bright pink gym bag slung over one shoulder. It was the only thing girlie about her muscular five-foot-seven physique.

  “Yeah, because, you know, he goeshamon the bag,” I said, doing a little punching motion.

  “What? I’ve been training here for two years, and I’m just now hearing about this Ham nickname?”

  “Are you trying nott o get paid tonight, Wells?”

  “What? No way.” I turned to Roxie. “I meant, he likes ham, like bacon or when I say ham and cheese sandwich—”

  “Wells—”

  “Working.” I smiled, running up to the container of disinfecting wipes. The dummy was the last thing I needed to wipe down, and I had started to earlier, but then it’d looked at me the wrong way. Okay, so it hadn’t looked at me the wrong way.

  “I need a sparring partner tonight, Ham—Graham,” Roxie said.

  Graham threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine, just make sure the gym’s ready for the 5:00 a.m. crew.”

  My heart swelled, and a smile stretched across my face. “Will do.”

  Roxie winked at me, catching her long black hair up into a ponytail and winding it around into a tight bun. She knew how much I enjoyed training with her group at night.

  This was my safe house, and these were my family. They just didn’t know it.

  “Hell yeah,” Andy said, marching into the room. “Just the motivation I need tonight. You know, Paige, it would really help me to know when to ask you out if you worked a less flexible schedule. Are you free Friday night?”

  Andy was a six-foot UFC middleweight champion. All his fights ended with a knockout. Lethal.

  So, I wasn’t joking when I said, “Sorry, but maybe if you were a ballet dancer, things could work out between us, but seeing that you aren’t . . .”

  “Ballet dancer? Over this?” Andy flexed his tattooed biceps, and Popeye the Sailor Man looked like he’d swallowed a can of spinach as he enlarged.

  “She doesn’t date clients,” Graham said, sitting at a small desk in the corner.

  My boss was right. I didn’t date clients or anyone. Period. Dating meant I would have to talk about myself—my past, my family, my life, why I took three metros to get
home when I only needed one.

  Shit. Breathe, Paige. Breathe.

  “And don’t even ask because the pretty blonde is sparring with me,” Roxie announced, walking toward me.

  Three more members had arrived and were stuffing their gym bags onto the wooden shelves.

  “You good?” Roxie asked.

  “Yeah, I just remembered I didn’t do a class assignment I’d thought I did.” My go-to answer. I’d been using that excuse for years since my anxiety began happening. It was the easiest explanation to remember when I pulled myself out of it.

  A little after midnight, I closed the gym and headed home. And, like a thief in the night, I entered the old brick building, watching either end of the corridor as I pushed the key into my lock. A menacing doom crawled over my spine, and I hurried inside. My apartment leases were kept at six months or less so I could contain this feeling because any longer than six months, and I knew they would find me.

  The men. The killers.

  Pulling the handgun from my backpack, I closed one of the locks on my door. My backpack was my lifeline; it always held a change of clothes and my toiletries. Some nights my anxiety—it—would be so bad, I would opt not to return home. But when I did return, I would investigate. I turned. The coat closet first. Then the kitchen cupboards. The bathroom cupboards. I left the shower curtain open for this reason; a figure standing in my bath behind a curtain was almost too scary to bear. Next, it was under the bed and then the closet, which I also left opened. The window, the fire escape, and back to the front door. Close one, two, three, and four latches. Reentering apartment routine completed.

  I almost felt safe.

  But knowing they weren’t here, inside my studio apartment, was something. I switched on the pipe in my bath and caught the first whiff of lavender. After a few minutes of soaking and reading, a car honked, making me jump. Crazy because, in the city of Boston, honking horns were standard. But that was how I knew it was going to be one of those nights. The nights where just the sound of the AC switching on would make my heart race.