Rough & Rich (Notorious Devils Book 6)

by Hayley Faiman

  “She serve you with papers? Cause she knew exactly where you were to do that shit,” he grunts. I shake my head and he chuckles. “Sort your shit and get your woman back.”

  Torch turns and walks away, leaving me in the hall to watch after him. I let his words sink in. All of them. Do I want Imogen back? If I do, I definitely don’t want it the way we had it, but I don’t know how to change our dynamic. I don’t know if I can change, truly change, and be the man I need to be for her.

  We’ve both hurt each other, and I can’t pretend the way I hurt her wasn’t more than the way she did me, because it was. I demolished her self-confidence, and I didn’t give a fuck while I was doing it. It was all a game to me.

  I didn’t even feel guilty about it until I sobered up, then I’d get baked, all over again to make that guilt go away. When I was sitting in a prison cell, alone and sober, there was nothing to mask the feelings and the realization of what I did to her. Nothing could mask that guilty feeling while I was in there. I don’t deserve her.

  Walking back into my room, I tell the whore to scoot off the bed, and she does. “Soar, baby,” she groans as she stands on wobbly legs. “You promised we’d have fun this morning,” she wines, stumbling naked around my room.

  “I lied,” I grunt.

  My phone buzzes from my nightstand, and I grin when I see who’s calling me. I don’t answer until the whore stomps out of the room and slams my door.

  “Kippy,” I rasp.

  “You’re coming next weekend, right?” he asks, sounding more like a man and less like my kid-brother.

  “Wouldn’t miss my baby brother’s valedictorian speech or his party for the fucking world.”

  “Imogen will be at the party,” he announces. My spine straightens.

  “Okay,” I say slowly.

  “With a date,” he practically growls.

  “Date?”

  “Graham Bayard,” he announces. It’s as though fire and rage instantly fills me.

  That fucking weasel prick. “Graham? She’s dating Graham?” I roar.

  “Knew you wouldn’t like that,” he says, sounding as though he’s trying to hold back his laughter.

  “No. Fuck, no, I don’t like it. Imogen is still my wife,” I hiss.

  “It’s black-tie, of course. See you then,” he calls out before he ends the conversation by hanging up.

  I narrow my eyes, thinking about fucking Graham fucking Bayard’s hands anywhere near Imogen, my Imogen, my fucking wife.

  Yeah, Torch and MadDog are right.

  I need to get my wife back.

  I’ll be damned if she makes a life with that piece of shit over me.

  I let out a heavy sigh as I straighten my dress. It’s a sleeveless, fitted, bright red bandage dress. I can hardly breathe in it. When I turn to the side, I can really see just how much weight I’ve lost since leaving Sloane.

  I look really thin. I should be excited about how tiny I am now, but I’m not. It’s just another reminder that I’m alone, that Sloane isn’t with me, and that he doesn’t care. He’s all about curves, or at least he claimed he was, always making sure I ate when he was around; always grabbing me and telling me just how hot he thought I was.

  Thinking about him, as I eye my shoes on the floor, I cringe. I recall one of the last times I saw him. He had swayed into the house, drunk and smelling like a brothel. I was so pissed. It was our anniversary, and we were supposed to be going out for the evening.

  I took off my shoe and threw it at him, screaming like a banshee as I started throwing everything I could get my hands on toward him. I wanted him to hurt as much as he hurt me. He fucked me against the wall that night, broken glass all around us, as tears stained my cheeks.

  Closing my eyes for a moment, I can almost hear his voice as he whispered in my ear, his cock buried deep inside of me, my back pressed against the wall. “I’m no fucking good, Genny. Goddamnit baby, I’m so fucking sorry. I wish I could be better.”

  Shaking my head, my straight blonde hair flying around me, I try to rid myself of the thought of him. I step into my nude high heels and grab my coat off of the bed. I have a date tonight. As much as I want to stay home and wallow in my self-pity, Graham has been so patient and kind to me, I owe it to him, and myself, to give us a chance.

  My doorbell rings, and I suck in a deep breath. Graham and I haven’t been intimate yet, but I can tell that he’s anxious for that step in our relationship. Though he’s been incredibly patient, a man can only be so patient—a lesson learned from my failed marriage. They need sex, and Graham and I have been seeing each other for four months. He’s without a doubt at the end of his rope with me. There’s just something that doesn’t feel right though. Maybe it’s me, or possibly him. I don’t know, but I can’t seem to go there, yet.

  “Hello, darling,” Graham greets as soon as I open my front door.

  I watch as his eyes do a sweep of my body. When they land on my face, his lips curl up in a sexy smirk. I wait for my belly to do flips or to clench, or for my skin to heat at his perusal of me, but it doesn’t. I feel like I’m looking into the eyes of Kip, or maybe even my oldest cousin, Dale.

  “Hello,” I respond with a fake smile as I take his outstretched arm.

  “I brought the BMW,” he announces, “It’s easier for you to get in and out of in your heels.”

  Inwardly, I roll my eyes. His other car is a Land Rover and just as easy for me to get inside of. I don’t care about cars, about stuff, not anymore. Life isn’t about stuff, it’s about love and living and being happy. I learned a long time ago that stuff wasn’t what I wanted to make me happy. You can have the worlds things at your fingertips and still be miserable.

  “We’re going to Gary Danko for dinner,” he announces. I gag a little as he closes the door and goes over to the driver’s side. “You’ll enjoy it.”

  I won’t enjoy it. I don’t like French food, not even a little. I don’t know why, but I never have. Caviar is not for me, and the only truffles I enjoy are the chocolate kind, not mushrooms.

  “So, how was your day?” I ask as we drive toward fisherman’s wharf. I don’t know why we don’t go somewhere with less tourists, but I don’t say anything. I choose to bite the inside of my cheek.

  “Long and full of things that would bore you,” he murmurs.

  I hate it. He acts like I’m too stupid to talk about his work. Although I probably am too stupid to understand every aspect, I don’t know why he can’t just talk in generalizations. It’s annoying. Maybe I’m just on edge tonight, with all the talk of Sloane earlier with Kip, but Graham is getting on my nerves more than he ever has.

  “Did you get your dress situation handled for the party?” he asks casually as he pulls up to valet.

  “Yes. My final fitting was this morning, then I had lunch with my mother afterward,” I state.

  He turns to me, giving me a bleached white toothed sparkling smile. It still does absolutely nothing for me.

  “Excellent. You’re going to be the sexiest woman there, I already know it, and you’ll be on my arm,” he announces before he opens the door and exits the car.

  The valet attendant helps me out, and I can’t help but frown at Graham’s words. I watch as he tosses the attendant his keys before he slides up to my side and presses his palm against my lower back. I don’t want to be a trophy anything. I’ve seen what happens to trophy wives in our circle. Once their beauty fades, they’re traded in for a younger, sexier, childless, perky model. I don’t want that. I never have. I’ve always wanted love, real soul shattering love.

  “Can I help you?” the hostess asks.

  Graham tells her his name and that he has reservations. She smiles kindly and suggests that we follow her. Once we’re seated and Graham orders some ridiculous champagne, I decide to ask him exactly what is happening between us.

  “Why are you dating me, Graham?” I ask. He lifts his head from his menu and furrows his eyebrows together.

  “Why wouldn’t I wa
nt to date you, Imogen?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think I’d make a good trophy wife,” I say, scrunching my nose up.

  Graham throws back his head in laughter, and I stare at him, my eyes widening in surprise at his boisterous response.

  “I’m sorry, Imogen, but you’re far from a trophy wife. You’re thirty-five years old, and by looking at you, nothing on you is fake?” he asks, arching an eyebrow as he stares at my chest. My face heats in embarrassment and shame.

  “I like you, Imogen. But I’m not going to beat around the bush with you. This is as much because my family approves of you and of your family’s status as it is because I find you attractive. You fit within my world in a way most women don’t. You understand society, what’s expected of you, and you’re not as much of a bitch as some of those other girls. So, while I do find you attractive, very attractive actually, that is not my sole reason for wishing to date you.”

  I nod my understanding, because I do understand. There aren’t many society girls that are single at my age. If they are, they come with a lot more baggage than I do. Graham is Sloane’s age, unmarried, no children, and obviously wants more than a fling with me, especially since he’s been dating me without pushing for sex for the past four months.

  “Okay,” I murmur, not wishing to embarrass myself further.

  “You’re beautiful, Imogen, and if he didn’t see that after twenty years of having you, he’s never going to,” he whispers as he takes my hand in his from across the table.

  “I know,” I shrug, lifting my head and looking into his dark brown eyes.

  They aren’t the light green of Sloane’s, and looking into them feels wrong. Every day I miss him, and I feel stupid for it—completely brainless.

  Graham orders for us, not even asking me what I like. He orders caviar, scallops, shrimp, and several truffle tasting items, all of which I can’t stand. I choke down what I can while he talks about his family, their many houses, and how he’s getting ready to buy a country home, probably in Napa; he doesn’t want to raise a family in the city.

  “Napa is beautiful,” I offer. He nods.

  “I’ll always keep my place in the city and just commute on Fridays and Mondays,” he announces.

  “So, you want to live in the city during the week?” I ask as I choke down a scallop.

  “Yeah, I mean, I’ll be around on the weekends and you can hire a nanny. It’s not as if you’ll have to do everything,” he shrugs. My eyes widen when he assumes that I’m going to be his wife and the mother of his children.

  “Graham,” I whisper.

  “This is happening, Imogen. You need to file for divorce from his ass, and you’re moving on, with me. Next weekend, after the party, you’re staying at my place. Enough pretending like we don’t know where this is going. We aren’t young enough to mess around anymore. We’ll have a small wedding in six-months and start trying for a baby immediately. It’s time,” he announces.

  My eyes widen and my mouth drops open in shock. I don’t know what to say. It’s a big assumption, and we aren’t in love. I’m not even turned on by him. Things could change after we move to the next level, but right now? He feels like my cousin.

  “Do you love me?” I ask.

  Graham’s eyes narrow as his lips purse together. “I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. I respect you, your family, and I’m attracted to you. Our children would come from perfect breeding. It’s the foundation of a successful coupling.”

  I scrunch my nose up at his words—successful coupling. How clinical, how unsexy, and how very much unlike Sloane. Graham stands and walks over to me, helping me up from my chair. He’s poised and always a perfect gentleman. I can’t help but think he’s like this in bed, too, and that kind of makes me feel grossed out.

  I’m used to hot, dirty, sweaty sex. I don’t think Graham has worked up a sweat anywhere but on a treadmill his entire life. Plus, I feel like we’re making an appointment to have sex, and that just makes it even more awkward and unsexy.

  “I’m busy with work the rest of the week, but I’ll be by your place at seven to pick you up for the party,” he announces as we walk out to valet.

  “Okay,” I nod.

  Graham helps me in the car, and we ride in silence back to my house. As ever the poised gentleman, he walks me to my door and I unlock it, reaching for the handle after murmuring goodnight when he wraps his hand around mine and tugs me away from the door. His finger slides under my chin and tips my head back so that I can look into his chocolate eyes.

  “I’m sorry I won’t be available the rest of the week. I wish that I was,” he murmurs. “I’ll make it up to you next weekend,” he grins.

  His promise and sly grin should make butterflies flit around in my belly, but they don’t. When his face lowers and his soft lips touch mine, I close my eyes and wait for something to happen, anything. It doesn’t. Graham doesn’t deepen the kiss, lifting his head and biting his lips as if he’s done something salacious.

  “Just the taste of you has me wanting more, Imogen,” he whispers.

  I wish that I could say the same, but I’m as dry as the Sahara. I tip my lips in a small smile and he takes it as coy instead of disappointing, giving me a wide grin before he shakes his head slightly.

  “I can’t wait to have you underneath me,” he rasps.

  Inside I cringe. It can’t happen. I have to end this before next weekend, maybe after the party. I can’t leave him dateless, and I refuse to go to another society party alone.

  “I’ll see you Saturday,” I offer.

  “Saturday,” he nods before he turns and walks away without looking back, leaving me standing on my front porch.

  My house is in a good neighborhood, but he’s left me on my porch, not ensuring that I’m safely inside.

  What a dick.

  I can say with all honesty, as much of a complete asshole my husband is, he’s always ensured my safety.

  Always.

  With a heavy sigh, I walk inside of my house and unarm the alarm before I arm it again as I lock the door. MadDog left me a message several months ago saying that the threat of the Aryan’s and The Cartel was, for now, gone.

  I’m pretty sure that I’m safe and that none of Sloane’s club stuff will follow me here, but this is the city, and I’m a single woman living alone, you can never be too safe.

  Making my way upstairs to my bedroom, I flip on the light and look around. It’s perfect. Not a single thing out of place. It looks like a magazine, and I despise it.

  Not for the first time, and stupidly, my eyes sweep the floors and I miss it.

  I miss the way Sloane would throw his shit around, not caring where it landed. I miss being annoyed as I picked it up and threw his dirty clothes in the hamper.

  I miss him.

  Even the asshole part of him.

  I miss the way we really did love each other. Beneath all the pain we caused one another, there was love, and I miss it. I need to let him go. He isn’t coming back to me. Even if he tried, he isn’t changing. He’ll go to other women and we won’t have the family I desire; the family Graham is offering me on a silver platter.

  So, I need to find a way to let him go, and to move on completely. Maybe I’ll move away, somewhere where there are no memories of Sloane, and where Graham isn’t—a place where I can completely start over.

  Walking into the house, the place I grew up and left, the place I haven’t stepped foot into for the past three years, is sobering. It looks the exact same, which isn’t normal, considering my mother usually redecorates the whole house yearly, but it’s exactly the way it was the last time I was here.

  “I see you decided to grace us with your presence.” My father’s harsh, booming voice fills the air.

  Rolling my eyes, I respond to his statement, “I wasn’t on vacation, it’s not like I could just come over any time I wanted to.”

  “That bed of shit you made yourself, son. When are you going to get your fucking head out of y
our ass, be a man, and get a real job?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, not wishing to get into it with him right now.

  “Your wife is living alone, fucking other men, and here you are being a goddamn pussy. Do you realize how this makes me look? You were sent to prison for three years, and you can’t keep your fucking wife on a leash? You know how many parties she’s showed up to either alone or with another man? You don’t think about anybody but yourself, Sloane. You’re so goddamn selfish that you don’t think about how that makes your mother and me look; you don’t give a fuck about anybody,” he shouts.

  “Sloane,” my mother slurs from the top of the staircase. She’s looking right at my father, but he ignores her, which is par for the course “You don’t know what they’re going through. It’s just a rough patch.”

  My father turns his head, and I can practically see the lasers that he attempts to spear my mother with, coming from his eyes. “Why don’t you get back to your bottle? Doesn’t it miss you?” he sneers.

  She snorts. “Your whores missing your money? Because I know they don’t miss that limp fucking dick you’ve got.”

  I close my eyes for a second. Listening to them is like a complete fucking flashback to my childhood, except my mother and I would both end the night with black eyes and bruises.

  When my father’s voice rises again, I shout at them to shut the fuck up. I can’t listen to it anymore, and all I want to do is go in search of a high. I can’t do that, though, and they’re putting me on the fucking edge.

  “You dare to talk to me like that?” my father spits.

  “I do, because you’re being goddamn ridiculous,” I state. “Imogen and my relationship has zero bearing on your life. We’re adults. In fact, in case you didn’t realize it, I’m almost forty fucking years old. Whatever happens between us, is just that, between us. I’m here tonight for Kippy and nobody else. So, you two can go fuck yourselves,” I calmly state. I breeze past them and walk out into the back of the estate.