by Tara Wyatt
This pretending shit was going to get really old really fast, he suspected. He wasn’t used to second-guessing his instincts around women like this. He didn’t like it.
She cleared her throat softly. “What’s your favorite movie?”
He hesitated for a second, not because he was surprised by her question but because he was still caught up in admiring the way she’d blushed. “Probably Rocky. You?”
“Dirty Dancing. Or possibly Romancing the Stone. Or Bridesmaids.”
“I’ve only seen Bridesmaids.”
She gasped, an adorable expression of mock horror on her face. “I don’t think this relationship’s going to work out.”
He laughed. “Sorry, sweetheart. For the time being, you’re stuck with me.”
She smiled softly and let out a long sigh. “Thank you.”
“Of course. I’m glad I’m able to help.”
She met his eyes and bit her lip, her fingers digging into his bicep with a bit more pressure. Her head still propped against the couch, she smiled up at him, something warm and soft passing between them. Something that didn’t need words, an easy, quiet comfort.
In that sweet, peaceful moment, the realization slammed into him that he’d never felt quite like this with a woman before. Like he didn’t have to try so hard. Like he could be himself, and give what he had to offer, and that would be enough. Like he’d do just about anything to take care of her, make her laugh, smile, whatever she needed. Like just sitting here quietly with her was the best part of his day.
The front door opened, and as Sierra’s and Taylor’s voices echoed through the hallway, Alexa jerked her legs away from him as though she’d been electrocuted, tucking them up under herself. A flicker of hurt stole up through his chest.
“Dude,” said Taylor as she came into the living room, her attention focused on Alexa. “Are you okay? What the hell’s going on? I tried to get it out of Sierra, but she was all, ‘That’s not my story to tell.’”
“Because it isn’t!” called Sierra from the hallway.
Alexa’s eyes darted back and forth between Zack and Taylor, and she nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay. Or at least I will be. I think. Everything’s kind of a mess right now.” She shook her head slowly, as though she still couldn’t believe it. “My dad…He’s not who he seems. He’s…” She swallowed thickly. “He’s a criminal. And I need to talk to you and Sierra and apologize for so much, and…” Alexa took a shuddering breath and hugged her arms around her middle, obviously struggling to hold it together. More than anything, Zack wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her tight against him, and hold her until she felt okay. Until she knew that he’d never let anything happen to her.
“Aw, honey,” Taylor said, plopping down between him and Alexa and throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Welcome to the shitty father club. The initiation package includes confusion, guilt, fear, and drinking, the latter of which helps with all of the other shit.” Taylor turned to look at Zack, and once again Alexa’s eyes ping-ponged between them. “Sierra said that you’re assigned to her.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“We’re pretending to date.” Alexa blurted out the words as though they’d been eating at her, desperate to break free.
Taylor frowned slightly and glanced from Zack to Alexa. “Uh…okay. Why?”
“I’ll explain everything. You’re not mad, are you?” asked Alexa.
God. She was in danger, her life turned upside down, and she was worried about hurting Taylor’s feelings.
“Of course I’m not mad. Really fucking curious, but no. Not mad.”
Sierra came into the living room and sank down onto the floor in front of Alexa, laying a hand on Alexa’s knee. “Sean said that you guys found out some stuff at the police station?”
Alexa nodded, and then her face crumpled. “I’m so sorry, guys. I’m so sorry.” She reached out a hand and touched Sierra’s shoulder while leaning harder into Taylor. “You almost died and…and it was all his fault.”
“Whose fault?” asked Sierra gently.
“M-my father’s. The police think he’s involved with something called the Golden Brotherhood.” At that, Sierra and Taylor slowly turned to look at each other, solemn expressions on their faces. “But I’m going to fix it. I’m going to make it right.” She sniffled, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. “That’s why Zack and I are pretending to date. So he can be my bodyguard without my father knowing that I have a bodyguard.”
Zack’s phone buzzed from the front pocket of his hoodie, and he slipped it out, feeling as if he was intruding on this moment between Alexa and her friends. “Shit. I have to go. I’m late for my afternoon training session,” he said, pushing up off the couch. “Do you want to come with me?” he asked Alexa, reluctant to leave without her.
She sent him a wavering smile. “Another time, yes. But right now I think I need a hot shower and a nap.”
“She’ll be okay here, Zack,” said Sierra.
“Colt’s off today. I can ask him to come by if that’d make you feel better,” said Taylor, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of seeing her new husband.
Zack nodded. “That’s a good idea. I don’t want to take any chances.” He gave Alexa’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “I’ll be back later.”
She wiped at her eyes again, yawning. “Have a good practice.”
Taylor rose from the couch and followed him to the door. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I can’t believe her dad’s involved with the Golden Brotherhood. Insane.”
“I know. I couldn’t believe it when the detective said it. But she had folders full of info, including mug shots of your dad and Baker.”
Taylor shuddered slightly, wrapping her arms around herself. “If anyone can handle these guys, it’s you. Thanks for looking after my friend.” He nodded and had turned to go when Taylor laid a hand on his arm. “Keep her safe, Zack. Sierra and I, we love her. We need her safe.”
He simply nodded again, because he damn well needed the same thing.
Chapter 10
Alexa stood in the upstairs hallway of her parents’ mansion, the house dark and silent. Every single door was closed, and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. She took a step forward, almost tripping when her legs became tangled in the pure-white gown she wore.
Her father’s laughter echoed from behind one of the doors, followed by the sharp bang of a gunshot. Gasping, she gathered up her heavy skirt and started to run for the stairs. But as though the house had yawned, the hallway stretched ahead of her, longer than it had been a second ago. Struggling against her skirt, she redoubled her efforts, but the staircase stayed exactly where it was, twenty feet in front of her.
Her feet tangled in her dress, and she tripped and fell, landing on the floor with a hard thud that echoed in the silent hall. Finally, practically swimming through the yards of white silk around her, she reached a door and shoved it open.
Bright lights blinded her, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes. An octagon stood before her, surrounded by padding and a chain-link fence.
Zack stood in the center of the octagon, wearing a T-shirt and shorts, punching a bag that hung from a heavy metal chain. Hope and relief filled her at the sight of him, and, gathering her skirts up, she started to run toward the cage.
“How could you?” Taylor’s voice came from behind her. She stood a few feet away, a guitar in her hands and a wounded expression on her face. “I thought you were my friend. I thought you were good.”
“I didn’t…I would never…We…It’s pretend…,” she rasped out. Her dress had turned from white to a dirty, sullen gray.
Another gunshot sounded, and Alexa shut her eyes tightly. Silence surrounded her, and when she opened them, she was in her father’s library.
He sat behind his desk, wiping blood from his hands with a handkerchief. Her eyes darted to the corner, and she caught a glimpse of herself, age seven, her tiny face barely visible through the s
lit in the door that led to her hiding spot. An unconscious man sat roped to a chair in front of the desk, his face beaten and bloody.
She’d watched her father slam his fists into the man’s face as her father’s friend Elijah stood by. They’d taken turns asking him questions that she hadn’t understood. They hadn’t liked his answers, though. That much had been clear.
“What happened to your dress?” Her father looked up at her from his desk. She glanced around, making sure he was speaking to her, the adult Alexa, and then down at her dress. The gray had deepened, dull and smeary.
“I’m sorry,” she said, smoothing her hands over the fabric.
“You should be. Mr. Hendricks wasn’t impressed with you at dinner.”
At the name, her stomach revolted, and she swallowed hard, fighting against the wave of nausea roiling through her. “I’m sorry,” she said again, hating that she’d disappointed him and hating herself for hating it.
“I think you might still have a chance at the role, though,” he said casually, dropping the bloody handkerchief onto his desk. “He’s staying over. He’ll be in the main guest room. If you go see him in his room, I’m sure he can be persuaded.”
Hot tears rolled down her face as shame and humiliation washed over her. “No. Not that. I won’t do that again.”
Calmly, he rose from his desk and closed the distance between them. “You’ll do what I tell you to do. If that means playing the whore, that’s what you’ll do. Seems to be the only thing you’re actually good at.”
His words were like a knife, piercing her heart and twisting. Tugging and sawing until it wasn’t recognizable as a heart anymore.
“I won’t. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
He slapped her with the back of his hand, and pain crashed across her face in a hot, dizzying wave. “You’ll do what I tell you to do.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Detective Morales from the doorway, her gun pointed at Alexa’s father.
All the blood drained from her father’s face, his fists shaking with rage. “How could you?”
“I’m…I’m not sorry,” she whispered, and watched as her dress changed from gray to black, inky patches blooming on the silk like dye in water.
“Then you’d better run, little girl,” her father snarled at her, and she gathered up her skirt and pushed out of the library, running and running and running, feeling as though she were underwater, moving slower with each step. Finally, she reached the stairs, but as soon as she moved to place her foot on the top step, they vanished, and she fell, her dress disintegrating into ash.
Alexa jerked in bed, her skin slick with sweat and the sheets bunched around her. The duvet had fallen completely to the floor, and as she moved to untangle herself from the sheets, cool air greeted her overheated skin. Lying back down, she pressed a hand to her chest, her heart pounding fiercely against her palm. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on her breathing, but when she did, all the images of the dream came rushing back at her, jumbling together until her head throbbed and she thought she might throw up. With a frustrated sigh, she reached over and turned on the lamp. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she rested her chin on her knees and let the tears come, knowing there was no use fighting them.
God, she was probably dehydrated, she’d cried so much over the past day.
And right now they were selfish tears. She wasn’t crying for her father’s victims, or even because she felt bad about what was happening. Right now, alone in the middle of the night, she was crying for herself. For the scared little girl she’d been. For the abuse she’d suffered as a teenager. For the life, the identity she’d lost, everything she’d known turning to ash around her, just like her dress in the dream. For the way she ached for Zack, a man she had no business wanting.
She was a horrible person. A disloyal daughter and a greedy, uncaring friend. A naive fool. A whore. Damaged and broken. A liar who hid her true face from everyone she loved, lest they see her for who she really was.
“Ugh, stop,” she chided herself, wiping her tears away and shoving her hands through her slightly tangled hair as she tried to stop the downward spiral. She had friends who cared about her. A safe place to stay. A plan to help prevent her father from hurting more people in the future. Zack to keep her safe. So many things to be grateful for.
She picked up her phone from its spot on the bedside table to check the time. 12:42 a.m. She’d taken a nap earlier when Zack had gone to his training session, and after a dinner that she’d barely been able to eat, Alexa had crawled into bed, completely worn out. She’d slept soundly until that damn nightmare. And now she was wide awake and, truth be told, a little hungry.
With a resigned sigh, she padded barefoot across the room to the door. Opening it, she paused for a second, listening. The house was dark and quiet. Peaceful. She knew there was leftover pizza in the fridge from the party, and her stomach rumbled encouragingly at the thought.
Stepping gently down the stairs, she emerged into the living room and was surprised to find that the main level wasn’t completely dark. A dim light glowed from the direction of the kitchen, and she took a few steps forward, wondering if Sierra or Sean was still up. Standing on the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, she froze at the sight of a wonderfully broad, deliciously muscled bare male back. Even in the dim light, she knew just from the outline of his shoulders and his hair that it was Zack. A tattooed series of Asian characters formed a line between his shoulder blades, and she wanted to trace those swooping lines with her fingers.
With her mouth.
Her lips and fingertips tingled at the thought, which she pushed gently away. She couldn’t let herself go there. A hint of the shame she’d felt during the dream came back, a shadowy whisper of guilt.
Sweatpants hung low on his hips, his abs flexing as he moved around the kitchen. Cut lines along his hips disappeared into his sweatpants, along with the trail of dark hair that started under his belly button and arrowed downward. His chest was strong and smooth, the muscles cut and defined, and once again her lips and fingertips tingled as warmth swirled over her skin. He apparently hadn’t seen her, and she watched as he tossed his phone down on the island and then opened the fridge, sticking his head inside. She noticed another tattoo, this one on the underside of his left bicep. About the size of her fist, it looked like a crescent moon emerging from behind clouds, but she couldn’t tell for sure. A tribal dragon, faded and more crudely drawn than the others, decorated his right shoulder.
He emerged with an orange in his hand, and as the door fell shut, he began peeling it, his strong, thick fingers working the peel free. The sharp scent of citrus cut the air. She inhaled, pulling the scent into her lungs, and he turned to look at her, his white teeth flashing as he started to smile.
“Alexa? Are you okay?” His voice was a little bit rusty. As she took a step toward him, his eyes dipped down her body, lingering on her breasts. She glanced down to find that her nipples had pebbled into hard nubs under her thin T-shirt.
From watching him. From staring at all that skin, all that muscle. The tattoos. His hands. The way he moved.
Every little thing about him.
She shook her head slightly, stepping farther into the kitchen. “I had a dream and couldn’t get back to sleep.” She tipped her head at the fridge, trying to ignore how suddenly hyperaware she was of the scrape of the fabric of her shirt against her hardened nipples. “Did you see any pizza in there?”
He set his orange down on the counter. “I sure did. You want a slice? You must be hungry. Didn’t eat much at dinner.”
She nodded, both surprised and touched he’d noticed that she’d barely touched her food earlier. “Please.”
He pulled the fridge open again. “You want to talk about it?” He pulled a container out. “The dream, not the pizza. You want it heated up?”
“No, cold is good.” She stepped up next to him and pried the lid off of the container, then pulled a slice f
ree, taking a hearty bite. Zack slid the container back in the fridge and stood across the island from her, his hands braced on the granite. She couldn’t stop her eyes from doing a slow walk down his body, over each chiseled muscle, and something hot pulsed low in her stomach.
As she chewed she mulled over his question. Did she want to talk about the dream? Just thinking back to it had her on edge, a restless uncertainty crawling through her. Telling him about it would mean opening up about her past, not to mention revealing the quagmire of her feelings for and attraction to him. She could leave that stuff out, but then she’d be lying about the dream, and that wasn’t really the point of talking about it, was it?
She almost jumped when Zack’s knuckle brushed her temple. She’d been so deep in thought that she hadn’t seen him move.
“I can hear you thinking from all the way over here.” Her eyes darted up, and he smiled crookedly. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“No, I do. I’m just trying to figure out how to explain it. I’m still processing,” she hedged, because she found that, despite her reservations, she did want to talk about it. She didn’t want to carry it alone. Taking another bite of her pizza, she found she wasn’t nearly as hungry as she’d been a moment ago as she rolled the details of the dream—still fresh, still vivid—through her mind. She swallowed, and the food lodged uncomfortably in her chest. A surge of anxiety tore through her, and she grasped for something else to talk about. She pointed at his shoulder before she could stop herself. “Is there a story behind the dragon?”
He frowned and glanced down at his shoulder. “You mean the ugliest tattoo you’ve ever seen?”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No! That’s not what I meant.”
He laughed quietly, his brown eyes gleaming in the soft light. “I got it when I was eighteen. I thought it was badass, but I was too cheap to go to a good studio to get it done, so now I’m stuck with it.”
