by Kylie Parker
I stop a few feet away, not sure what my goal was when I started the short journey. I only know I needed to be closer to him. He steps closer, pushes the hair away from my neck, leans in close and inhales a split second before he kisses my neck, just below my ear.
My body moves into him, before I get to revel in the feel of all that hard masculinity, he pulls back, “The car is waiting,” he whispers.
“Oh,” I say, stepping back and smoothing my blouse as if his gentle touch wrinkled it.
He grabs my hand and pulls me out the door. I go willingly. Once tucked inside the black car with the blacked out windows, he pulls me into his side. I can feel the tension in his body.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods, “Work stuff. I don't want to think about that now.”
I abide by his wishes, sit back and enjoy the ride. He has one arm around my shoulders, literally tucking me in under his arm. I have never felt so safe and sheltered. All my life, I have been on my own. Without parents to protect me from this cruel world, I always felt as if it was me against everyone. With Dylan, I can sit back and relax—a little. The world is still mean as hell and once the car door opens, I know it is going to be back to the same old shit.
I watch as the city lights come into view and then slowly fade. He must know some place out of town I muse as we drive towards the outskirts of the city. The car comes to a stop in the middle of what appears to be a parking lot.
The driver opens Dylan's door and he gets out, reaching a hand in to help me out. It's not a parking lot, its a tarmac. There is a small jet sitting there with Hawke Enterprises emblazoned on the side.
“Um, Dylan?”
He ignores me. Another man approaches, carrying a clipboard. I see them gesture a bit before Dylan comes back, grabs my hand and starts pulling me towards the plane.
“Dylan, what are we doing? I thought we were going to grab some dinner?” I ask, with concern. I have visions of him killing me and dumping my body somewhere. Maybe I have seen too many movies, but any normal woman would think the same way.
Instead of answering me, he gestures for me to take a seat in one of the brown leather chairs. A woman meets us and offers to get me a glass of wine. I greedily accept. I'm going to need the alcohol for this ride.
He sits across from me, staring out the window. He is brooding. Instead of pestering him, I wait until after we have been served a glass of wine and the attendant has disappeared somewhere up front. The jet engines fire up and within minutes the plane starts gliding down the runway.
“Dylan, is there anything you want to tell me?” I ask again.
He meets my eyes, “I was craving seafood.”
I nod and smile, “Okay. I think there are plenty of seafood restaurants in LA.”
He shakes his head, “No. I want fresh seafood.”
His body language and tone of voice warn me not to push the issue. The man wants seafood and he intends to get it.
Instead of trying to pry more information out, I sit back and drink my wine. He finishes his glass and out of nowhere, the attendant returns to refill it. I wave her away when she offers to fill mine. I've decided I need all my faculties for this night.
“I'm sorry,” his voice cuts through the silence. He stands and moves to the seat next to mine. Puts his glass in the holder and takes my hand, “I'm being a dick. I know it. I'm sorry. I have a lot on my mind, but you don't deserve my frustration.”
I smile at him, put my glass down and put a hand on his chiseled cheek, “It's okay. Want to talk about it?”
He tilts his head to the side, pressing his cheek into my palm, “Boring work stuff. I won't bother you.”
“I'm your lawyer and I think I am a friend of sorts, you can bother me all you want,” I say softly.
I watch as the crease in his forehead relaxes a little, “Thank you,” he breathes before leaning in and kissing me. The kiss is sweet, literally. I can taste the wine on his lips and tongue. It tastes delicious and I greedily run my tongue across his lips before plunging it into his mouth. His hand moves to the back of my head, pulling me closer to him.
I want to be closer and press in, only to get a crushing jab to the ribs from the armrest, “Ow,” I mumble in his mouth.
He drops his hand and pulls back, smiles when he sees the armrest, “I guess that is a sign, huh?”
I don't want it to be a sign. I want more of him on me. Dammit! Why are we never near a bed or in a private place when the urge to take him comes over me. Am I one of those people who only gets off in public places?
He gives me a quick kiss before picking up his glass and taking a drink, “Sit back and enjoy the flight, Alexa. We have all night,” he says in a husky voice.
My body does some weird shimmy as the words register. The way he said it promises a night of pleasure. Another word pops into my head—delight.
“Dylan?” I ask, needing to know the answer to the question that has plagued me all afternoon.
“Hmm,” he responds, seemingly far more relaxed than he had been.
“What's the dungeon of delight?”
21
Dylan
My eyes pop open when I hear those three little words. I would love to get my hands on the woman that started that rumor. It is all because of that stupid book. Not every rich guy has a red room or whatever the hell it's called. I consider playing dumb, but know she would never fall for it.
I go with the truth. Isn't it supposed to set you free?
“There isn't a dungeon. It is one insipid woman's play on words. She wanted attention and she got it by making up ridiculous stories. I assure you, I am not one of those guys. It was a one time thing. I used some cuffs on the woman. I didn't return her calls and all of a sudden, those cuffs turned into whips and chains.”
I look over to see her reaction, she nods and smiles, “I kind of suspected as much. You don't seem to be much of a dungeon master.”
I laugh with relief. Bullet dodged. I close my eyes and rest my head against the seat again. My mind is tossing around various ideas. Blake hired the PR expert. My first step to redemption was to donate a shitload of money to some charity. I have to convince Alexa to go with me to the benefit gala. It will be our first outing as a couple on the path to marriage. Well, she doesn't know that, yet, but it is in fact, the case.
“We'll be landing in about ten minutes, sir,” the attendant says, placing a hand on my arm and waking me from a nap.
“Thank you.”
I turn to see if Alexa has noticed I had passed out, she had, “Have a nice nap?” she asks.
“Sorry, I didn't realize I was that tired.”
Last night I had gotten little sleep. My future seemed to be dimming very quickly and I felt helpless. I had tossed around hundreds of different scenarios, hoping to find a way out of a marriage to Alexa, but there were none to be had. I felt as if I were making her the sacrificial lamb. It kept me up most of the night.
“We could have stayed in, Dylan. I really hope you didn't go to all of this trouble for me,” she says, slightly blushing.
“I did and I wanted to. I want to take you out to a nice dinner, but we both know that is not going to be possible at home.”
I look into her eyes and prepare myself to do the most rotten thing I have ever done in my life and I have done some pretty shitty things.
“I care about you, Alexa,” I say with as much feeling in my voice as I can muster. I take her hand, rub my thumb over the top and smile, “I want to start over. I want to wine and dine you and show you who I really am. I don't want to be Dylan Hawke your client, I want to be Dylan, the guy you are crazy about.”
I watch as the emotions cross her face. I wait to see if my arrow has hit its mark. I see her pulling back. She is hesitating. I up my game, lean in and kiss her forehead softly, before kissing the top of her nose and then come to rest with my lips pressed against hers. I keep it soft and light, no tongue.
I feel the moment she softens and go in for the fina
l hook, “I was hoping we could maybe get to know each other beyond the office. I want to know you, Alexa.”
She sighs, “Dylan?”
“Hmm?” I murmur softly.
“I know when someone is running game on me.”
I jerk back, prepared to be offended, but end up laughing instead, “Too much?” I ask.
“Yeah, a little.”
“Okay, okay,” I say holding up my hands in surrender. “Maybe I laid it on a little thick, but seriously, I did want to have a nice dinner and get to know you—away from any couches,” I say, waggling my brows. “Seafood is my comfort food. Some people like to dig into a pint of Ben and Jerry's, I like fish and chips.”
She laughs, “Sounds fair. I can deal with that.”
I nearly blew it. I make a mental note not to be quite so cheesy. She will see right through me. The plane jerks forward with touchdown.
“So, where are we going?” she asks.
I give her one of my most charming smiles, “It's a surprise.”
“Am I dressed okay?” she asks, looking down at herself.
“You are more than okay. You are stunning. No one is going to be worried about what you are wearing.”
She gives me a suspicious look.
I use a finger to make a cross over my heart, “I promise. No game. You are truly gorgeous.”
“You're not so bad yourself,” she says with a shy smile.
The attendant appears in the small walkway, “You can disembark now, Mr. Hawke.”
“Thank you,” I stand and reach for Alexa, motioning for her to go in front of me.
The car is waiting like I requested. She doesn't bother asking me questions and crawls in. The driver navigates the roads with ease. I inhale deeply, breathing in the salty air.
“Are you from the east coast?” she asks.
I slowly nod, “Yes. We lived in northern Maine for most of my childhood. My dad moved us to LA when I was thirteen. This place has always felt like my home.”
The mention of my childhood reminds me of how far I have come and how much I have disappointed my father. This place always stirs up good and bad memories. I own land out here. I bought it when I made my first million. It is like owning a piece of my past. The piece I want to remember that is. I don't know if I will ever build a house on it like I originally planned, but it is there in case I someday come to terms with it all.
The car stops in front of a small restaurant that doesn't look like much from the outside, but I know it has the best fish and chips. I know, it isn't exactly elegant, but a Maine boy loves fish and chips made with haddock caught fresh.
“Ready?” I ask her as she looks at the white building that has seen better days.
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
We are greeted by Old Man Marty, or at least that is how I have always known him. He has always been old to me.
“Good to see you, Dylan,” he shakes my hand.
“This is Alexa,” I say. “Alexa, this is Marty. He makes the best batch of fish and chips you will ever eat. The lobster isn't so bad either, but that isn't what has me coming back here all the time.”
Marty gives a big smile, revealing his perfectly straight and slightly stained dentures, “You're a good boy, Dylan. Come on in. We got you the best seat in the house,” he says shuffling into the restaurant.
He moves through the tables, all empty, and seats us at a table facing the dock. I love it. This is my table.
“I'll get started on the fish and chips. Miss, would you like to see a menu?” he asks, seeming to just realize she isn't familiar with his restaurant.
Alexa smiles, “I'll have what he's having.”
Marty nods, “Good girl. Beer?”
I nod, Alexa looks at me, I give her a slight nod and she tells Marty sure. You can't have fish and chips without beer. It just doesn't go down the same.
“I can't believe you cross I don't know how many states to get a platter of fish and chips. Have you tried any of the places around Los Angeles, San Francisco?” she asks. “It isn't like we are far from the ocean.”
I shrug, “The circles I run in don't typically go for finger foods and it isn't the same ocean. I already know there is no way it can compare to here.”
She laughs, “I guess you would know. This is really amazing. You seem drawn to older people. Mrs. Daniels, Marty here, they all really seem to genuinely like you.”
“That strikes you as odd?” I ask.
She shrugs, “Well, let's face it. You aren't exactly loved by the masses in LA. I mean, we're thousands of miles away eating dinner because you can't show your face in the city.”
I shake my head, “I can show my face. I choose not to. All the idle gossip and ridiculous rumors are mine to deal with—not yours.”
She doesn't look convinced. Marty returns with a couple of cold beers and the sauce for our coming order before scurrying off again.
“If this place is so good, why is it empty? It's dinner time,” she says, looking around the small restaurant.
I smile, “Because I asked Marty to close it down for me.”
Her eyes widened, “Dylan, how's the guys supposed to make a living?”
I look away, “I pay him quite well.”
“Like you pay Mrs. Daniels?”
“What?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Mrs. Daniels—she told me that house we are in is actually hers.”
I chuckle, “Technically, yes it is. I bought it for her but she will have nothing to do with it. So, I use it on occasion, but the deed is in her name. One day she may change her mind.”
She looks at me with a combination of awe and what I think may be pride, “You are a very generous man, Dylan.”
Alexa turns and looks around the empty restaurant. I can practically see the light come on over the top of her head, “Now I get it. No wonder he is so happy to see you.”
That stings.
“No, sorry, I didn't mean it like that,” she says reaching over and grabbing my hand. “I can tell he truly likes you, but not having to serve a bunch of people and still making money has to be a nice break for the man.”
“I suppose. I have known Marty since, I don't know exactly, ever since I can remember. He is a good guy. He lost his wife a couple of years ago. This place is all he has. It struggles in the off season. I tend to eat a lot of fish November through March,” I say with a wink.
Instead of laughing, I see a weird mix of emotions cross her face, “That is incredibly kind of you,” she says softly.
I smile. Without even trying I have managed to impress her. I mentally pat myself on the back.
Marty delivers two massive platters piled with food. Alexa's eyes nearly pop out of her head, but she handles it with grace and thanks Marty.
I pick up a piece of fried fish, “So, will you tell me something about yourself? Who are you? Do you have family around LA?”
She looks at me, winces and takes a long drink from the bottle of beer. I realize then I have hit a sore spot. Open mouth, insert foot. Good job, Dylan.
22
Alexa
My past is not something I like to talk about let alone think about. I feel like I have to tell him something. I wish I could tell him I am a pod person. It would make life easier.
“Long story really short,” I start, “I was ditched at a fire station when I was a few months old. Was adopted, those parents turned out to be worse than the set that dumped me. I got put into the foster care system at eight, bounced around a lot before finally escaping and emancipating myself at sixteen. I have no family—at least that I know about.”
I can see the look of disbelief on his face. Nobody can believe my story. It is that fucked up that it makes it hard to believe, but that's my story. I don't bother going into all of the gory details. That is not a story any potential boyfriend wants to hear.
“I don't even know what to say to that,” he says. “I know you don't want to hear any platitudes or stupid shit like that.”
“Well, if you want to talk about it, I'm here,” he says softly.
I ignore the little twinge I feel in my heart. It is like being pinched. No, it is one of those heart strings I have heard about. His acceptance of my story and understanding why I don't want to rehash it is very thoughtful. I watch him dip his fish into the pink sauce and feel myself falling for him a little more. He is certainly not the man I have heard about in the media.
Dylan is actually a very caring man. I imagine he would be more at home sitting on a dock, fishing then he is in his big, fancy office wearing a thousand dollar suit. This is a side of Dylan I know I could grow to love.
“What?” he stops, midway to putting the fish in his mouth. “Is there something on my face?”
I smile, “No, I was only thinking about what makes you tick.”
He gives me one of those lecherous smiles that turns my stomach and makes me a little wet, “You, at the moment. You make me tick, among other things,” he says in a low voice.
“Are you planning to retire out here one day?” I ask.
He shrugs, “I don't know. What about you? Where do you see yourself landing when you are old and gray?”
I take a minute to think about my answer, “The mountains. A big spread of land with trees, deer and no people.”
“You want to be a hermit?”
I laugh, “I guess maybe I do. I don't know, I love the tranquility of the forest. It is so clean and peaceful.”
He nods, before taking a long drink from his beer. I can see his mind is spinning, but I have no idea what he is thinking about.
We eat in silence. I don't want to bother him. He is really enjoying his meal. I will admit, it is pretty damn good. Marty drops two more ice cold beers on the table. I cannot believe I am drinking beer with Dylan Hawke.
I start giggling. I can't help it. I am in Maine, eating fish and chips with one of the richest men in the world. How in the hell did I get to this place? A week ago, I was wondering if I would ever get to work with a client and scraping together change to buy my morning coffee.
