Chasing Darien ~ J.M. Stoneback

by J. M Stoneback

  Gunner has me on my toes today—get him coffee, call this CEO, that CFO, set up a conference call with Darien. Then he hands me his platinum Visa and tells me to pick up his dry cleaning and groceries. The only reason why I do the last two is because he promised me he will give me a five-dollar raise. And if he wasn’t my brother then I would have to tell him N-to-the-fucking-O.

  By five o’clock, I am beat. Want to text Darien and tell him to cancel our little date, but I go home, freshen up, and change into white sweatpants and a black long-sleeved shirt with a Batman logo on it. Yep, I love my comic books, don’t judge me. DC Comics are so much better than Marvel comics. I knock on Darien’s door. He swings it open wearing nothing but a pair of ripped jeans, way different than his expensive clothes. The dark ink I fantasize about touching makes his skin look more tan. He ushers me in. The scent of garlic and herbs lingers in the living room and my stomach growls. I haven’t eaten anything except a blueberry muffin for breakfast.

  I take off my black Converse and place them on the shoe rack. He goes to the kitchen, and I follow him. He turns the knob on the stove and takes a spatula and removes salmon from the sizzling pan and places it on the plate.

  “The food is almost ready. Have to wait until the mashed potatoes are done.” He grabs two glasses from the black wooden cabinet and sets them down on the granite counter. “You thirsty, sweetheart?”

  “Um. Sure.” His body is hot, and he looks better with his shirt off. Pictures on his Facebook don’t do him justice. I bite my pinky nail as I imagine him exploring my body with his big hands like I’m a map.

  He pours red wine into the glasses, and I walk to the counter and grab mine.

  “Make yourself at home,” he says, disappearing to the back. Hate that saying. Exactly how do I make myself at home? Do I go through his fridge, get myself something to drink? Or do I turn on the television and prop my feet on the table?

  The wooden floor is cold under my bare feet as I walk to the wide window. The sky is inky blue. You can’t see the stars because of the city lights. Looking down, you see people walking to their destination. It is a lovely view. Might talk Crystal into renting one similar to his. I feel Darien’s hands on my shoulders, and my body breaks out into goose bumps.

  “Why don’t I get this view in my apartment?” I whine. Darien doesn’t answer. Instead, he pushes my hair to the side, exposing my bare neck. My breath hitches and my heart flutters in my chest like it’s ready to break free from my ribcage. I turn to face him. His eyes concentrate on my lips, and I swallow hard.

  “There is something you should know,” he says, continuing to look at my lips.

  “Go on,” I whisper.

  “I’m going to fuck you.”

  There you have it, ladies and gents, my panties are wetter than the Atlantic Ocean. My brain can’t fathom any words, and I continue to stare and his eyes, saying, You’re mine. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. I know he will, but it’s a matter of when and how. Darien is a few inches from my face, and for a second I think he’s gonna kiss me. But he doesn’t. He takes a few steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “So what about this proposition?” I ask. Well, that’s a great way to kill the tension between us.

  He exhales and says, “We will discuss it during dinner.”

  The timer on the high-tech stove goes off.

  “You want to set the table?” he asks.

  “Sure.” I follow him to the kitchen, and he grabs two red placemats and two fancy square plates, handing them to me. I set each one on the beige marble table across from each other. When I look up, a big glass chandelier looking like something from the Victorian era hangs in the center from the ceiling. Wine holders decorate the dark brown walls.

  He brings a bowl of mashed potatoes and a plate of salmon smothered in a creamy yellow sauce and sets them in the center of the table. Everything about this feels domestic. Like I’m his wife and he is my husband. I almost imagine how it would feel to be married again—almost. Grabbing the big wooden spoon, I slap mashed potatoes on both our plate and I use a spatula to scoop the salmon onto our plates. I sit in the brown suede chair across from him. Darien cuts his salmon into small pieces.

  “I broke up with Tate, and before you get all cocky, I didn’t do it because you told me to.” The spoon scrapes against the expensive plate as I scoop potatoes in my mouth. Hmmm. The potatoes melt in my mouth like butter. Oh my God. This is so good.

  “Why?” He looks at me with gleaming eyes and begins stuffing his face.

  I bite into the salmon. The garlic and herb melt on my tongue, and I let out a slight moan. “He wanted me to be his girlfriend, and I didn’t feel that way about him.” I continue to eat and enjoy the food. Don’t know why I feel the need to explain myself to Darien.

  He clears his throat and says, “I want us to start fucking.”

  “That’s your proposition?”

  “Yeah,” he says, before taking a swig of his red wine. Should have known.

  “Just fuck buddies?”

  “More like friends with benefits. All I ask is for you to attend events with me.” He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “We will be exclusive. Better not catch your perky ass fucking another man.”

  I roll my eyes at the last statement. Yeah, like I would jump from dick to dick. “And if I don’t agree?”

  “You will.”

  So freaking arrogant.

  “I’ll think about it.” I already know my answer, but I’m going to pull his chain a little bit.

  Lifting his eyebrow, he says, “Think about it?”

  Darien walks to my side of the table, squats down, and rubs his paw-like hands on my thigh. I shudder under his touch. Standing up, I go to the shoe rack and slide on my shoes, lacing my laces.

  “Fine. But I’m not a patient man.” Darien is on my heels, following me. If I don’t get out of here, I will rip his clothes off.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I say, before leaving his condo.

  Darien

  LISA WALKS IN with an iPad in her hand and stands in front of the desk. I run my hands through my hair.

  “I need you to schedule a conference call with Gunner Underwood, order a Transformers toy to be delivered to Jade’s house for her son’s birthday, and send a dozen roses and a note to Alana Underwood.” I tap my middle finger on the glass table, and I tell her what to write on the message.

  She looks at me with her mouth wide open and says, “Oookay. Is Alana your girlfriend?” Her face turns the shade of her red silk blouse.

  Lisa and I never discuss my personal business, and I plan to keep it that way. Ignoring her question, I say, “Push back the meeting with Burk Thompson until tomorrow, and clear out my schedule for today.”

  Her freshly manicured fingernail taps the glass screen, and she tucks her iPad under her armpit and says, “Cody Williams is waiting for you.”

  “Bring him in,” I say.

  Warm heat blows from the air conditioner, making it stuffy as hell, so I unbutton my thousand-dollar dark jacket and place it on my chair. She leaves my office and Cody Williams, the private investigator, walks in. His right arm is in a loose sling, and the guy has a pot belly that hangs over his jeans. His torn and worn-out shoes squeak across the polished wooden floor. His hair is greasy and stringy. For fuck’s sake, it doesn’t cost much to wash your hair. Maybe he can’t afford it. I’ll throw in an extra few hundred when I pay him. He looks around my office and extends his left hand, and I shake it firmly.

  “Nice office you have here,” he says, taking a seat across from me.

  “Thanks,” I say, and he slides a thumb drive across the table.

  “All you need is on there,” he says.

  I stick the thumb drive in the monitor of my Mac computer. Several seconds later, pictures pop up of Mia leaving the building that I bought shortly after we got hitched. A picture of her kissing another man pops up. She is sitting on his lap, and they look like they are about to
fuck. Doesn’t surprise me. When she is high on coke, she fucks anything that has two legs. Mia has her black hair cut into a bob, and she is thin as a rail. She looks like shit. Don’t care what she does—she can fuck Santa Claus for all I care. Just want her out of my life for good.

  “She lives in the condo in the Upper East Side and hangs out with a drug lord named Luke Harper. He got arrested for having three million dollars’ worth of cocaine ten years ago, and he is out on parole.”

  “Do you know where he is staying?” I ask.

  Cody gives me a folded piece of paper. “It wouldn’t be wise to go on his territory. It’s dangerous.”

  I tell him thanks, dismiss him, grab the divorce papers from the drawer, and call a driver to pick me up. Don’t feel like driving today and I’m tired as shit.

  Outside, the weather is bipolar. One day I’m freezing my dick off and the next I’m sweating my dick off. Today, it’s warm and humid, the sidewalk is wet from the rain earlier, and the sun gleams in the sky. Tristan tilts his hat to me and opens the door of my black Maybach.

  “Take me to Madison.”

  “Yes, sir,” he says, shutting the door.

  On the ride to New York, the rain thumps against the window and the lunch rush hour is pissing me off. We are stuck on I-78.

  I couldn’t sleep last night because I had my mind on a little redhead who wants me to chase her. Saying she will think about the proposition? That is the best she’s gonna get out of me. Normally, I don’t ask women for this. Just fuck them and send them on their way. I can have almost anyone I want and the one I do want is making me jump through hoops like I work for the damn circus. When we finally fuck, I’m going to take my anger out on her sweet little pussy. I don’t cook for any woman since my ex-wife.

  My phone dings with an e-mail. I click on the envelope. Gunner sent a message reminding me of the gala this Saturday. Closing out the app, I send a text to Alana.

  Me: We got a date night on Saturday. We r going to the gala. Wear something formal, sexy, and no panties.

  Red: LOL. Can’t. Someone already asked me.

  Me: Who? So I can kill him.

  Red: You don’t know him. He works for Gunner.

  Me : Cancel the date.

  Red: No.

  Me: I’m not playing games. Dump his sorry ass. I’ll see you Saturday.

  This is complete bullshit. If Alana thinks I will give up that easily then she is in for a rude awakening.

  Alana doesn’t respond to my message, so I tuck my phone into my breast pocket. An hour and some change later, we pull up to the tall beige brick building that I own. Cars litter the side of the street. I step out of the car with the papers tucked under my arm and tell Tristan to wait for me. Raindrops hit the collar of my white dress shirt. The doorman tilts his hat to me as I go straight to the elevator and hit the thirty button. As I type in the code, I push the door open. The place is so neat and clean that you can lick the floor. The housekeeper must have cleaned the place, because Mia is messy. I search every inch of this condo, and she is not here. Everything is how I left it. The furniture is all white, with white rugs—even the kitchen is white with marble floors and white granite countertops.

  Three years ago, we moved out of here and moved into a mansion because I wanted kids and she didn’t. Not gonna lie, I was a bit pushy on the subject. She wanted to continue to pursue modeling, and I wanted to start a family. Thank fuck I didn’t knock her up, otherwise I would have followed in my dad’s footsteps.

  I lock the door, take the elevator to the bottom floor and speak to the maintenance man about changing the code. Might speak to a realtor about selling this condo. Also, I drop off the divorce papers to Leroy, the manager, and tell him to make sure Mia Casey gets the paperwork.

  When I get home, I change from my expensive suit into sweatpants. I open my liquor cabinet, pour brandy into a glass, and drink the brown liquor. After the day I had I need a drink or three. I was gonna go to the gym but decided to catch up on Breaking Bad. Had too much of a shitty day and I need to relax. I check my phone and have a message from my dad saying he doesn’t need a ride to the gala and a text from Alana.

  Red: Stop being jealous, D. Thanks for the roses. You’re nasty! The thought of you putting chocolate on my clit and licking it does sound tempting.

  Me: No problem, sweetheart. Come over so I can do it. Did you dump your date?

  Red: I’m at work. You have nothing to worry about. My date is gay, he will probably be checking you out when he sees you. Humor me, I’m bored. Who is ur favorite superhero and why?

  Me: In that case, he will be our third wheel. The Flash, because he is super-fast. Wbu?

  Red: Harley Quinn, because she understands how to love someone, no matter how crazy that person is. And she understands that love is painful. She’s smart until she meets the Joker. So yeah, she’s my favorite.

  Me: She’s not a superhero. Sweetheart, she’s a villain.

  I drink my brandy, and the next episode comes on the screen.

  Red: In my eyes, she’s a hero because she knows how to love unconditionally. It takes a strong person to be with someone who is mentally ill. And the Joker is sick.

  I set the glass on the coffee table and run my fingers through my hair. Maybe I am an asshole for leaving Mia. But I fell out of love with her two years ago. Does that make me a monster because I don’t want to have anything to do with her? I tried to get her the help she needed. Paid for fucking rehab but she never showed. Paid off paparazzi to keep their traps shut so they wouldn’t go to the media about her drug possession. I tried to be the best husband I could, sticking with her, waiting for her to love me and believing her empty lies that she would stop using cocaine. Crying myself to sleep because I knew I failed her. Now I’m ready to leave Mia behind and start fresh. I’m not saying I don’t care about Mia—believe it or not, I’m not that much of an asshole—but to continue to put up with her shit . . . that’s a no from me.

  What about Alana? Sometimes when I look at her, she looks heartbroken.

  Me: You don’t have an option on this, Red. We are fuck buddies. Tired of you holding out that sweet ass of yours. Who hurt you?

  Red: Ask me nicely, Darien.

  Me: Fine. Be my friend with benefits? Please.

  Can’t believe Red’s making me beg. For fuck’s sake, I never beg.

  Red: Sure.

  Me: Who. Hurt. U?

  She doesn’t respond, so I toss my phone on the table. I drink until I pass out.

  Alana

  D : Who. Hurt. U?

  I STARE AT Darien’s text from three days ago. Haven’t spoken to him since then. I toss my phone on the bed.

  I want to answer Darien’s question. Want to pour my heart into a text, but I don’t. He is not my boyfriend, and I’m not his girlfriend, and I don’t owe him any explanation. But I like to see the soft side of him. He is possessive, aggressive, but I sense something more under that hard exterior.

  I like our little arrangement and the fact that it is a fling and I won’t get my heart involved. My heart is jumping for joy at that. And no more being pressured into being in a relationship. No more him wanting to take it to the next stage.

  Crystal walks into my room with her Catwoman leather outfit from the Arkham City video games. She has her goggles on top of her head and the leather outfit hugs every curve on her body. She is a lot curvier than I am. And did I mention how short she is? She is five four. She sits on the edge of the bed and reads the latest Game Informer magazine and crosses her legs. I pull the blonde wig over my hair bun, studying myself in the floor mirror. A sky-blue skirt brushes against my knees and a white crop top stops in the middle of my stomach with the Superman logo stamped in the middle of my chest. Gunner has a Halloween party every year—my brother is the king of throwing parties. Haven’t been to one since I was seventeen years old. Charles never wanted me to go because he was scared that I couldn’t take care of myself when I got wasted. But I think it had something to do with
him and Gunner not getting along. Well, Charles is not around to treat me like a delicate flower. And today, I’m going as slutty Supergirl. I’m single, why not? Love to dress as one of my favorite comic book characters.

  “Wow. You look amazing,” Crystal says.

  “You do too. Try to have fun, okay?”

  She nods her head. Crystal has been in a slump about her breakup with Clarence.

  I hold her right hand and say, “We have a lot of shit on our plate, but tonight we are forgetting our problems.”

  “Would it make me a slut if I make out with a hot guy?” she asks, letting go of my hand.

  “Not at all, but don’t have sex with anyone. Don’t want to risk catching anything from anyone,” I say.

  We head to the elevator, and we’re getting looks. Men whistle and women shake their heads. One guy says, “Let me be your Superman.”

  I wink at him. The weather is supposed to be nice but just in case the temperature drops, I wear a short leather jacket that covers my upper body. I hit the down button, and several minutes later, the door whistles open. Darien leans against the silver wall, and his eyes damn near pop out of their sockets. I stare at his clothes. He must not be going to Gunner’s party.

  We step into the elevator and Crystal stands next to me. Darien pulls me into his arms and at the same time slaps my ass hard. I yelp and no doubt I’m going to have a red mark on my flesh.

  His lips press against mine, and just like that, my body hums to life. Sparks fly between my legs like the fourth of July. His hand slithers around my waist, pulling me closer. My hard nipples press against his hard chest.

  I pull away, breathing heavily.

  “Get a freaking room,” Crystal says, positioning the goggles over her eyes before we step out of the elevator. We walk to the car garage, and Darien insists that we all drive together since we are going to the same place, so we ride in his black Range Rover. How many cars does he have?

  “Who are you supposed to be?” I ask him. He is dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt with dark jeans.