by S. Ann Cole
Fascinated, I can only stare at him.
As if sensing my eyes drilling into him, he flicks his gaze up from the screen without lifting his head. “Problem?”
The waiter returns before I can respond. Wine! Finally.
“Good to see you have arrived, sir,” greets the waiter as he places two wine glasses before us and proceeds to open the bottle with unnecessary flourish.
“Nope. Wrong guy,” Playboy corrects. “I’m just hungry.” Then, picking up the menu, he adds under his breath, “And horny.”
Jesus Savior. I glare across the table at him.
With wide, bewildered eyes, the waiter glances back and forth between us, but says nothing as he pours our wine.
Sighing, I tap the menu and tell the waiter, “I’ll have the Caesar Salad, sans dressing.”
Playboy peeps at me over the top of his menu with a hiked brow, before he shakes his head and shifts his gaze back to the menu. “Typical.”
“And you, sir?” the waiter asks. “Are you ready to order?
“Yes.” He sets the menu down. “I haven’t eaten in six hours, so I need protein and carbs. Lots of carbs.”
When the waiter just stands there looking confused, Playboy shakes his head and simplifies, “I’ll have a Chicken Alfredo. But bring some warm bread and butter in the meantime, please. I’m surprised there’s not a basket here already.”
“There was, sir. Miss Bentley requested it be taken back.”
Playboy eyes me. “Watching your weight? What, you a runway model or something?”
The waiter frowns disapprovingly at him before turning to leave.
This man is utterly provoking. “I have to be a supermodel to eat healthy?”
“Eat healthy at home,” he replies. “Not at a fancy restaurant.”
“Would you still want to sit here with me were I three-hundred pounds?”
“Most definitely,” he answers without pause. “I enjoy women of all shades, shapes, and sizes.”
“Except redheads.”
“Except redheads,” he affirms.
The waiter is back in a jiffy with a basket of bread and a saucer of butter, while I had to wait a decade on my wine. Guess who won’t be getting a tip?
Playboy immediately attacks the basket of bread. I laugh into my glass of wine as I watch him stuff a buttered slice into his mouth, humming in delight as though he hadn’t eaten in days.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
One eyebrow hikes up at me again. “Companionable silence, remember?”
“Hey, man, you just barged your way in here. Eating my bread and drinking my wine. I’m allowed to ask questions.”
He stares back at me, chewing contemplatively.
His zinc-colored eyes stare without apology, intense and confident. “Khol. Spelled K-H-O-L. Short for Kholton. Kholton Sharpe. Anything else?”
“Yeah.” I take a sip of my wine, watching him with as much intent as he’s watching me. “Why is your hair white?”
“’Cause I’m a rebel.”
I fight my lips from curving up. Can’t give this tool the satisfaction. “What do you do for a living?”
“Teach.”
I scoff. “Teach what? Sex Education?”
“Nope,” he replies without taking umbrage. “I teach Math, Accounts, and Finance, and sometimes Physics to a wide range of people, from high school students to stay-at-home moms.”
I almost choke on my wine. “You’re joking.”
He just looks at me. He’s serious.
“Forgive me,” I say, “but you don’t look like a teacher. And a high school teacher at that.”
There goes that hiking eyebrow again. “What do I look like?”
I reply, “A night-club going, ménage-loving, high-fashion model playboy?”
He blinks at me. Then, “Can I finish eating my bread now?”
I nod, mostly because I’m somewhat bemused. What kind of math teacher looks like that?
And, he doesn’t care who I am. And, he doesn’t like redheads. And, he picks up girls as easy as replacing a no-show blind date with a willing hostess. I’m piqued. I want to know more. I need to know who he is and how he came to be.
“You’re staring at me again,” he says without looking at me, slathering butter onto bread.
“Because you’re an enigma.”
“Not true,” he refutes around a mouthful. “What you see is what you get here.”
“And what you are is an extremely good-looking math/accounts/physics teacher who lives to get fed, laid, and a good night’s sleep?”
“Pretty much.”
“And that’s it?” I prod.
“Yep.” He shrugs. “Life’s not complicated. Humans are just dramatic. You live, and then you die. Sadly, some die and forget to live.”
Yes, I very much want to know him. Khol. Short for Kholton. Kholton Sharpe.
He’s such a twist from all the other men I’ve ever met. Including Alaric. He’s as self-assured, arrogant, and confident as Alaric, but there’s something different here.
It’s one thing to be a playboy but quite another to be a smart playboy. Anyone with the right qualifications can become a teacher, but it takes a special kind of person to choose to stand in front of fickle, attitudinal high school students and teach. To choose to sit down and teach anyone, for that matter. One would need to possess great patience, deep discernment, and sincere understanding for such a job. One would first need to care.
If he really is who he says he is, then there’s more to his story. A whole lot more.
“You’re still staring,” he grumbles, scrolling through his phone now.
“Don’t you want to know anything about me?” I ask
“Nope.”
“Not even my name?”
“Red Witch is enough.”
“But my name isn’t Red Witch.”
“Don’t care.”
I should find his casual dismissal of me offensive, but I don’t. Again, I find it refreshing. So much so I can’t help smiling. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts, because I won’t ever see him again after tonight.
“Why do you hate redheads so much?”
At this, he looks up from his phone and studies me through those daring zinc-gray eyes, tracing the curve of my face with what resembles appreciation. Then, slowly, that look of stifled appreciation transmutes to something akin to resentment. “’Cause they’re my weakness.”
Whoa. I did not see that one coming. So blunt and matter-of-fact. Not many people would openly admit to something like that. Maybe he really is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy.
“Oh, I get it,” I say, “you got your heart broken by a redhead and now we all suffer.”
“Penny Walters.” He sets his phone face-down and narrows his gaze at me. “Third grade. Prettiest girl in class. Flaming red hair and big green eyes. Peppery and precocious. I crushed hard on her. Stole twenty-dollar bills from my grandmother’s purse every chance I got and gave them to her.”
He shakes his head, as if disappointed in his younger self. “I picked fresh flowers for her. I got her Bon Bon Lollies. And once, I even gave her my homework because she didn’t do hers and I took a beating from my dad. Then, I caught her in the Boys’ bathroom lifting her skirt up for red-faced Benny the Bully.”
Mouth agape, I stare at him. “Are you serious? You hate all redheads because in third grade some redhead named Penny took all your granny’s twenty-dollar bills and then showed the goods to someone else?”
“Disloyal witch,” he mumbles under his breath, taking a sip of his wine.
I can’t help it. I guffaw. Because, what the hell? “You’re mental.”
He scowls at me. “Thanks for the sympathy. Wish I could get those twenty-dollar bills back. That little witch got off with about eighteen-hundred bucks. I could use that right now.”
“Well, at least you don’t have to work for it anymore,” I say with an amused smirk. “Look how far you’ve come. From w
orking hard with stolen twenty-dollar bills and Bon Bon Lollies, to walking into a restaurant, have all the female eyes follow you, and effortlessly securing a lay less than a minute after you’ve discovered another lay stood you up.”
“I bet she was a redhead,” he grouses.
“The woman who stood you up?”
“Gotta be a redhead,” he says.
I laugh again.
He looks at me.
I look back at him.
He smiles.
Our food arrives.
Two - Serena
“Nothing but trouble.”
Dinner with Playboy—er, Khol, short for Kholton—turns out to be quite pleasant.
Although he shows zero interest in knowing anything about me, I, on the other hand, ask prying questions. Lots of them.
What surprises me the most is his lack of hesitation with his responses. He doesn’t hold back, despite his attention being either on his plate, his phone screen, or the hostess across the room. He’s so forward and open it makes me suspicious.
I learn he has two siblings. One older brother and a younger sister. He’s a once-upon-a-time trust-fund baby who got himself disinherited when he refused to follow in the path his father chose for him. Born and raised in California, then later relocated to NYC after being stripped of his easy privileges. He likes the gym, the beach, and comics. He also has a rather blunt and optimistic view of life.
See? No one is this open with their personal life. Unless…he’s feigning insouciance and candidness to throw off suspicions.
Or, maybe, my father’s strangling paranoia is rubbing off on me. Ugh.
I want him to keep talking. I want to know more. I want to crawl inside his head for just five minutes and assess his wiring. But before I know it, the hostess comes over to whisper sultrily that she’ll be “ready in five.” It feels ridiculous that an hour has passed already.
Shortest hour of my life.
Feeling a pang of resentment toward the hostess, I pay for our meal without asking him—though he doesn’t seem to care—and get up to leave.
He doesn’t look up from his phone and I don’t say goodbye, too annoyed and…and…I don’t know what I feel. It’s stupid anyway. I’m never going to see the guy again.
“Serena!” someone calls when I’m halfway out the restaurant.
I groan and swing my attention in the direction of the voice.
One of my father’s business associates and his wife. I would offer a wave and smile and keep it moving, but public indecorum is not encouraged where important business partners are concerned. So I have no choice but to plaster on my practiced fake smile and amble over to the couple. They ask me how I’m doing and I reply politely before asking how they are doing even though I don’t care. Small talk, small talk, lots of fawning smiles and compliments, and then I’m free to go.
Exiting the restaurant, I’m surprised to see Playboy Khol leaned against a post, an impatient pull to his brows. He looks up when I walk out, then sags in disappointment when he sees I’m not his cute hostess.
“Aww,” I say jeeringly as I walk past him. “That’s the same look she had when her manager stopped her on her way out. Don’t worry, she’ll come.”
His half-smile is cockily salacious. “Damn straight she will.” He then surprises me by pushing off from the light post to follow me. “Where are you going?”
“Home. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Okay.” He drags the word out as if he doesn’t understand the concept of home. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but all the street lights on this stretch are out except for this one. You’re a woman. A sexy woman, I might add. Alone, in tight clothes and expensive brand-name accessories. You know, that LV purse, those diamond earrings and thumb ring…criminals live for dark moments like this. Stay here where people can see you and get a cab.”
I pause for a beat but don’t turn around. Huh. So he has been paying attention to me. Down to my diamond thumb ring. For some reason, this pleases me.
“I don’t take cabs. My driver is right there.” I point into the darkness where a white Bentley is parked four cars down. “And what do you care anyway? I thought you didn’t like me.”
“Call your driver,” he orders. “Tell him to come up here.”
Eyes rolling to the heavens, I turn to face him. “I’m not one of your students, Playboy. I can take care of myself.”
Just then, the hostess walks out of the restaurant, glancing left and right. When she spots him, she grins and calls, “Hey, you ready?”
“Go on,” I tell him. “It’s not like I’m offering you anything.”
He hesitates, then mumbles, “Fine,” as he turns and strides toward his impending orgasm, shaking his head.
Something foul fills my nostrils. It smells like indignation. Or is that stench jealousy? Whatever it is, it’s stupid, unwarranted, and it stinks.
He’s…he’s…he’s a playboy! With white hair. I cannot be interested in him. Nope. Nope. Nope.
As he reaches the hostess, she launches herself at him and cups his face in her hands.
I turn around before I can witness the collision of their lips and continue toward my car. My heel snags in a crack and I stumble and almost fall, but I’m able to right myself. Five steps later, I trip over something and this time I do fall.
“Dammit.” It really is dark. I probably should have listened to Playboy, but with the street being one-way, my driver would have to circle two other avenues just to get back in front of the restaurant.
As I’m pushing up to my knees to right myself, I hear the screech of a car. Bright lights almost blind me when I glance up. Three giant, masculine figures in all-black are suddenly silhouetted in the headlights. Are they wearing…masks?
Holy shit. OhmyGodOhmyGod.
Panic jolting through me, I hastily attempt to clamber to my feet. But I’m not fast enough. Rough, powerful hands seize me, one clamped over my mouth to kill my scream and the other crushing my rib cage. Unable to scream, I wildly kick my legs out, flailing, fear growling like a caged beast in my belly.
This isn’t happening. This is not happening. Again!
“Hey! HEY!! The hell are you doing?!”
That voice. It’s Playboy. Kholton. He saw. He’s here. He’ll help me!
“Mhheeelppp!” I scream into my abductor's gloved hand.
“Call 911! Now!” he shouts at someone. “Let her go, asshole!”
Struggling, I try to turn my head to see him but I can’t. I’m being hauled off to a waiting van.
“Walk away, man,” a gruff voice warns. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Like hell,” Khol growls back.
There’s a tussle. Grunts. The sounds of a fist fight.
My assailant tries to stuff me in the back of the van, but I don’t make it easy for him, kicking and wailing. He’s stronger than me, though, so he gets me in and has me cuffed to the van in no time.
I can hear Kholton’s curses at the assailants, undaunted and provoking.
Another cracking punch.
The “zzzzt” of a taser.
Seconds later, two men roughly stuff him inside the back of the van with me. In the next second, he’s cuffed beside me and the van is screeching off with us.
Sprawled belly-down on the floor of the van, a spasm jolts through his body when he turns his head to me. I expect to find fright and concern for me in his face, but instead I find rage and accusation.
“See?” he grits out, “This is why I give myself a restraining order against redheads.” Another spasm rocks through his body and he snarls with belligerence. “Nothing but trouble.”
Yikes.
Three - Serena
“Take off your shirt.”
“I think I’m scared.”
As if regretting his decision to intervene, Kholton looks up at the ceiling of the van and sighs. “You should be.”
The van has been on the move for almost two hours. It smells like r
ancid socks and sour milk, and the windows are blocked out with what resembles a soundproof sponge. A suspicious duffel is tossed in one corner and a dirty overall is bundled up near my feet, along with duct tape and a coil of cable ties.
The abductors in the front are engaged in a heated row.
“So…I probably should’ve listened to you.”
Kholton snorts. “No shit.”
Hands bound behind his back, he’s twisted in an awkward, painful-looking position. His lip is busted, and a shiner is quickly spreading around his eye.
I have to know, “How are you not freaking out right now?”
He grunts. “’Cause if I’m about to die, ‘freaking out’ won’t help.”
My heart stops beating. Holy shit, he thinks we’re going to die?
As I silently freak out across from him, struggling not to be a craven, wailing weakling, he twists onto his side and eyeballs me.
“You’re in a burning high-rise, on the highest floor, the smoke and fire are flaming from the ground up. You’ve got two options: ‘Freak out’ and jump out the window to a nasty, splattering death. Or, find a corner, relax, inhale the smoke and let it knock you unconscious before the flames devour you.” He pauses and attempts a shrug with one shoulder. “Right now, I’m choosing to inhale the smoke.”
That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Still, my mouth goes arid as my heart pounds. Keep calm. Keep calm. Keep calm and think. “You won’t die,” I tell him. “It’s me they’re after.”
“That’s precisely why they’ll kill me first.” He frowns in thought. “Why do you think they’re after you? Are you a mob boss’s daughter or something?”
Numbly, I shake my head and exhale a shuddering breath. “No. Not a mob boss. A billionaire. A legit billionaire. Real estate. I’m…an heiress.”
Brows drawn in, he scans my face, and I can see him putting two and two together. “Miss Bentley…Bentley…” he muses almost inaudibly. “Ah…You’re Aaron Bentley’s daughter. Huh. That explains the bling.”
“I was surprised you didn’t know me. Everyone in this city knows me. Even paparazzi shows interest on occasions.”
