Storm Damages

by Magda Alexander

  Eyes blazing, he turns toward me. Big ropy arms. Hard muscled legs. Impressive erection. Adrenaline has done a number on him. “Are you fucking him?”

  I reel back. How dare he? “Who I fuck is none of your business.”

  Nostrils flaring, jaw clenched, he stalks into my space to loom over me. “You made it my business last night.”

  “Don’t hurt her!” Casey yells. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him moving toward Storm brandishing that deadly blade.

  Oh, God, please no. “Casey, stop! It’s all right.” Only after he freezes in his tracks do I turn my attention back to Storm. I’ve never seen blood lust in anyone’s eyes, but damn if his eyes haven’t turned red.

  “Well, are you?” He jostles me a little.

  I should be afraid, terrified of this man. He’s so much bigger and stronger than me. But I’m not. My traitorous body is aroused by the sight, smell and caveman behavior of him. But I got to get him calmed down, before blood spills. I stroke his bare chest, hoping to quiet the wild beast within. “No, Storm. I’ve never had sex with him.”

  His gaze pinballs back and forth across my face, no doubt searching out the truth in my eyes. He must see what he needs because his hold on me relaxes, easing the tension between us. “So he’s not your lover?”

  “No.”

  He releases me and turns back to Casey. “How can that be?”

  Casey’s gaze bounces from Storm to me, a questioning look on his face. I shake my head, a warning not to reveal anything about our past. He shrugs. “Ask her.”

  “We grew up together.” I explain. “He’s my best friend. Now give me the bat.”

  “Here.” Storm steps back and surrenders it to me.

  But as he does, Casey’s hand twitches around his blade. He might be a pro at handling knives, but I don’t trust him right now. In the heat of the moment, God only knows what he’d do. I stride in his direction and shove the Louisville Slugger at him. “For heaven’s sakes, Casey, put away that knife.”

  He buries the blade into the knife block with a resounding thunk but maintains his own blood-in-the-eye glare fixed on Storm,

  The testosterone in the room’s sky high. Hard to say who’d come out the winner in a fight. Storm might be taller and more powerfully built, but Casey grew up on the mean streets of D.C. where fighting dirty was the only way to survive.

  I need to put distance between these two before they hurt each other. “Storm, why don’t you go get dressed.” For a second he hesitates, scrubs his face. Shadows mar the skin beneath his eyes. No wonder. We didn’t get much sleep last night. I probably resemble one of the walking dead myself.

  He grabs his jacket from where he left it on the couch and races up the stairs two steps at a time. He’ll have a hard time dressing without his shirt, but I’m not about to follow and hand it to him. Not until Casey calms down. I’ve seen the kind of damage he can inflict with his fists, never mind kitchen utensils.

  The kitchen clock—a black cat, tail swinging, eyes darting left and right—shows it’s six. Just about dawn.

  “Thought you’d sworn off men while you were going to law school.” Casey’s dark gaze drills into me.

  I toss back my hair. “Had a relapse. Don’t worry. Won’t happen again.” It wouldn’t. The facts haven’t changed. I still work for Smith Cannon. And Storm still heads the other side of the deal.

  I catch the warning in Casey’s eyes before the clatter of feet alert me to Storm’s presence. Did he hear me? I hadn’t exactly lowered my voice.

  Framed by that elegant tailored jacket, he stands shirtless, tight six-pack fully in view, and a smattering of hair descending into his belted pants.

  No wonder he “dressed” so quickly. He barely spared enough time to throw on his coat and slacks.

  “Would you like me to call a cab for you?” I ask, all politeness, trying very hard to keep my eyes from drifting to that hard chest of his, the very one I licked last night.

  Storm shakes his head. “Samuel should be out there. I texted him to pick me up at six. Just about that time now.”

  When had he texted Samuel? He’d been with me all night. And by his admission, his cell had been stashed in his coat which remained in the living room until thirty seconds ago. But I don’t dare question him now. Not with Casey itching for any excuse to get into it with him. So I walk him to the door. Sure enough, his limo’s out by the curb.

  Goodbye trembles in the back of my throat, trapped there by the realization I don’t want to see him go. I want more of what we had last night.

  But before I have a chance to say a word, he hauls me into him and devours my mouth, bruising my lips. And fool that I am I run my hands up his steely chest, plaster myself to his hard length, and kiss him back.

  After one final suckle of my bottom lip, he lets go. “We are not finished. Elizabeth.” His gravelly voice warns.

  I tremble under the force of his gaze, and then, barefooted and shirtless, he disappears into his limo.

  I close the door to find Casey’s severe gaze on me. “Who is he?”

  Suddenly chilled, I wrap my arms around my waist for warmth. “Gabriel Storm.”

  He scowls. “As in Storm Industries?”

  “Yes.” Of course he knows about Storm’s company. Not only because I shared what I was able to disclose, but because the negotiations made the business headlines in CNN and The Washington Post.

  “Jeezus, Lizzie. What happens if your boss finds out?”

  “He won’t, because this will never happen again.” I have no choice but to put a stop to my hunger for Storm. To do otherwise would spell disaster. Intending to tie my hair in a knot, I lift my arms, and the scent of his cologne drifts up from his shirt, reminding me of the passion we shared. I grow wet in an instant. God. Even his shirt turns me on.

  “You sure?” His upper lip curls. “That kiss did not look like goodbye to me.”

  “It was a one night stand. That’s all.” I head for the stairs, driven by a desperate need to rip off Storm’s shirt, take a shower and get his scent off me.

  Casey’s “Uh-huh” reaches me as my foot lands on the first step.

  I turn. Doubt and skepticism mark his face. He does not believe me.

  Not sure I believe me myself. But even though I know better, I can’t let that “Uh-huh” go by.

  “Look, I appreciate you looking out for me, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m all grown up now. I don’t need Jiminy telling me what I should or should not do. And I especially don’t need you to tell me who I can have sex with.”

  He jerks back as though I’ve punched him in the gut. “Sorry.” His brown-green eyes telegraph hurt.

  God! I can’t believe I’m yelling at Casey, the one who made sure I got to school on time, fed me, took care of me when no else would. The one who’s been there for me since I was six. My shoulders hunch. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  I expect his easy smile, a ‘that’s okay’ , his usual response when I go off the rails. But this time, he rubs his hands across his tight-to-his-skull cut, looks askance at me. “Maybe it’s time for a change, Lizzie.”

  My stomach clenches. “A change? What are you talking about?”

  “Been thinking about this for a while. Gina and me? Well, things are getting pretty serious between us.”

  Gina, his girlfriend, a nurse at Georgetown University Hospital. They’ve been dating for six months. I teeter on the edge of a precipice, dangerously close to the brink, fearful of his next words.

  “She asked me to move in with her.”

  And I plummet into the abyss with nothing to break my fall. You can’t do that, I want to say. But of course he can. He’s given up his whole life for me. It’s time he had one of his own. I swallow my disappointment. “When?”

  “End of summer. I figured it would be okay. It’s been a long time since you’ve had nightmares.”

  I’d suffered bad dreams most of my life, but finally manage
d to beat back the demons a couple of years back. Oh, I still have plenty of issues to work through, but at least now, they no longer attack me at night. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Three months should be plenty of time to find another roommate.”

  Is he trying to convince me or himself? I shrug like it’s no biggie. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Plenty of people want to live in Old Town.” Alexandria is a happening city, lots of restaurants, a bustling nightlife, and an easy commute to Washington, D.C.

  He eyes me suspiciously. “You’re not upset, are you?” No doubt the moisture in my eyes troubles him.

  I hitch a shoulder. “No.” From somewhere deep, I dig out a smile. “It might be fun having a new roommate. And let’s face it, you haven’t been around much. What with the restaurant and Gina. It won’t be such a big change. I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s close to six fifteen. “I need to shower.”

  “Lizzie?”

  Turning back to him, I cover up my desolation with that same fake smile.

  His voice gentles. His gaze grows soft. “If you want me to stay, I will. You only need to say the word.”

  And he would too. “No.” I shake my head. “Go and have a life, Casey. You’ve done enough for me.”

  He says something, but by now I’m racing up the stairs, seeking the safe harbor of my bed. Pain pounds in my chest while I shake and shake and shake. How will I live without Casey, without my best friend?

  The years roll back to the first time we met. Me, a skinny, ugly six year old still recovering from neglect at the hands of my mother before being absorbed into the foster care system and placed with a woman who could have cared less. Him, a boy, skin the color of chocolate, hair trimmed tight to his skull. Much bigger than me even though he was only nine years old.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Lizzie.” I said,clutching my rag doll, the one whose face is missing, ripped off by one of my mother’s johns.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing.” Lots happened, but at the time I didn’t have the words to explain the extent of my suffering.

  “You got a mama?”

  My bottom lip trembled. “My mama’s dead.”

  “What about your daddy?”

  I hitched a shoulder. “Don’t know.”

  “You hungry?”

  I nodded. I was always hungry, had been hungry for a long time.

  He took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen, pulled a chain from around his neck to which a key was attached and unlocked a cupboard. “This here’s our food. Yours and mine. Nobody else’s.” The cupboard was filled with boxes and cans. Only later did I find out he’d negotiated a deal with our foster mother. He wouldn’t tattle about her drug habit in exchange for a weekly allowance of $50 cash. “What do you want to eat?”

  I pointed to a blue and yellow box.

  “Mac and cheese? Good choice.” He pulled out the box from the cupboard, milk and butter from the fridge and cooked it up for me.

  I scarfed down the whole bowl, to the point my stomach hurt. That night for the first time I didn’t cry myself to sleep from hunger pains.

  “You too skinny. I’m gonna fatten you up. I’m”—he thumped his nine year old chest—“a great cook.”

  He’d been that and more. He made sure I wore clean clothes to school, did my homework, got to bed on time each night. When three years later, they tried to separate us, he claimed he was my long lost brother and we couldn’t be split up. I doubt either the social service worker or the judge believed him, but they believed the strength of his love for me.

  Years later, I graduated summa cum laude in Economics. And he stood there like a proud papa beaming from ear to ear. As well he should. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

  Screwed, because I fucked Gabriel Storm, and opened the Pandora’s box of sex again.

  Chapter 8

  ______________

  AN HOUR LATER, I’m stepping into a yellow line train when I hear my name called.

  “Liz. Woo-hoo. Got a seat right here.” I turn toward the voice and there’s CeCe smiling at me.

  I groan. The bomb Casey dropped this morning gave me a headache which three ibuprofens and a hot shower have not cured. So I’d hoped for some quality alone time to brood. No such luck. Granted, it’s not the first time I’ve encountered CeCe on the subway, but do I have to run into Miss Busybody on my way to work today?

  While I fight the crowd of commuters to get to her, she gives the stink eye to a hapless guy making a bid for the empty seat. “Honestly, didn’t he see me waving at you? Humph.”

  Grateful for the seat after last night’s and this morning’s events, I plop down next to her. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, honey.” She pats my hand. “How did the rest of the meeting go? Had to leave early. Kid’s little league game.”

  “Mr. Carrey seemed to be pleased.” Given the sensitive nature of the negotiations, I don’t wish to discuss more than that in a public setting.

  “He should be. You worked hard to put that meeting together. Working with facilities, ordering all the food, making sure every technical detail was taken care of. You did good, girl.”

  When she gives me an ‘atta girl’ nudge to my shoulder, I fight to control my emotions. Why can’t I get this kind of recognition from my boss?

  “And how about that Gabriel Storm? Whoo. Those pictures do not begin to do him justice.” Everyone working on the SouthWind transaction, CeCe included, had been given the Storm Industries’ dossier, which included photos of Gabriel Storm on social dates, playing polo, presiding over a board of directors’ meeting. “Is he yummy or what?”

  The flavor of his skin spikes sure and strong in my mouth. He is quite tasty, I’m tempted to agree. Instead, I brush away non-existent lint from my skirt and voice a noncommittal answer. “He’s very handsome.”

  “Handsome?” She fans herself with one of those flyers they practically force down your throat at every Metro entrance. “The man’s smoking hot. Bet he’s amazing in bed.”

  Yeah, he is. Perspiration dots my upper lip, the apex between my legs grows wet. But as much as her words affect me, I can’t let her outrageous remark go by. “You’re a married woman.”

  “Oh, honey. Just because I can’t buy what he’s selling doesn’t mean I can’t window shop. Besides there’s not even a remote chance he’s interested. It wasn’t me he had his eye on yesterday.” Her head swivels toward me. She arches a dark brow.

  Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask. “What are you talking about?”

  She rolls her chocolate brown eyes. “Honestly, Liz. Are you telling me you didn’t notice?”

  Oh, I noticed him all right. But it happened when CeCe wasn’t present. “Notice what?”

  “He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

  Had he been that blatant? I wouldn’t know since I refused to look at him after he asked me out for drinks. “And when exactly did you notice this?”

  “When I came to the meeting to deliver a message to my boss.” CeCe worked for Terry, one of the senior associates on the SouthWind team. “You got up to hand something to Carrey, and Storm”—she fanned herself some more—“girl, the look he sent you darn near burned a path across the conference table.”

  “Maybe he was looking at someone else.”

  “Nope. He had his eye on you.” Her gaze focuses on my neck. She leans closer and her voice drops. “Umm. You have a mark on your neck.”

  “A mark?” I choke out.

  “Yeah, right there.” She points to the left side of my neck. The image of Storm nuzzling my throat, nipping it riots across my mind.

  How could I have missed it? Easy. Deep in grief over Casey leaving, I’d gone on automatic pilot this morning, barely glancing in the mirror as I brushed my hair, smoothed on my makeup. I clamp down on the impulse to dig out a mirror and check out the ‘mark.’

  “Yeah, you’ll need to put some cover up on that. In the me
antime”—she takes off her scarf, a gorgeous turquoise with abstract motifs and hands it to me—“if you wrap this around your throat, no one will notice.”

  “CeCe, that’s not my style. Someone’s sure to say something.”

  “If anybody asks, tell them you saw it on that Models Gone Wild show. You know, the one where they scratch each other’s eyes out. Fun show.”

  “Is it that noticeable?” I whisper as I tuck the cloth around my neck.

  “Yeah, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear ...” A knowing look blossoms in her eyes. “Wait a minute. Did you have a date last night?”

  “No.” It’s the truth. I didn’t. “I spent the night analyzing Storm Industries’ proposal for Mr. Carrey.”

  “What? Do you mean to tell me that man piled on even more work on you?” And she’s off on another Carrey rant. A good thing, because it keeps me from obsessing about the ‘mark’ on my neck.

  When we arrive at the office, we part ways. She heads off to the cafeteria, and I drop off my analysis on Mr. Carrey’s desk before heading for the ladies’ room. I follow CeCe’s advice and dab makeup over Storm’s love bite before rearranging the scarf, turtleneck fashion, around my throat. Somehow the scoop neck grey blouse and turquoise scarf complement each other.

  Before I go back to my secretarial station, I check in with facilities to ensure everything’s ready for today’s meeting and, while I’m on the second floor, pick up a bagel and cream cheese. When I arrive at my desk, Mr. Carrey’s there, analysis in hand, waiting for me. “Come into my office, Liz.”

  “Yes, Mr. Carrey.” He calls me Liz. I call him Mr. Carrey. Those lines can never be crossed. I grab my notebook and trail after him.

  “Take a seat, please.”

  Wow, a please from him. A first.

  “I read your analysis, as well as Brian’s and Terry’s.” No surprise he’d asked his two senior associates to evaluate the report. “Yours is the best. You not only wrote a concise report about Storm Industries’ proposal but provided quite innovative suggestions to improve our deal. Great job.”