by Linnea May
Yuka is a drummer in her band and saved up for a long time to be able to afford her own little drum set. It is rather small sized but still takes up almost half of her room.
She is out for band practice shortly after our chat. After that, she has another shift to cover at the bar, just like last night.
And I am just sitting here, alone in my room, with nothing else to do but to wait for a message from him.
I feel worse about myself with every minute that passes, so I decide to pursue the one activity that Yuka cannot call her own: Running. I run a lot, not only because I like to stay in shape, but also because it is the best way to clear my head and be just by myself for a few minutes. My phone always stays in my room, and sometimes I even decide to run without music and just take in my surroundings.
Not today, though. I need to move and get out, but I don't want to be completely alone with my thoughts. I don't want to think about him too much, and my music could help with that.
It has been more than five hours since he has read my message by the time I leave the house for my run.
Six hours by the time I get back.
Seven hours by the time I have showered and prepared myself a simple dinner.
Almost eight hours, when I finally hear the relieving beep.
I am standing at the kitchen sink, right in the middle of washing the dishes when I hear it. My phone is placed on the table behind me, next to the magazine. The little light that announces there are new message is blinking.
I take a deep breath and quickly dry my hands before I turn around to fetch it.
It's him. Finally.
"Do you want to see me again?" he asks.
I frown at the screen. Has my last message not been quite clear about that?
I ponder whether I should make him wait just as long as he did with me, but decide that I have displayed enough childish actions for this weekend.
So I start typing.
"Yes. That would make talking to each other easier, don't you think?"
I hesitate for a moment before I hit send. If you ask me, it is his obligation to provide now, no need for me to be all sweet and begging.
I put the phone aside and turn around, ready to continue my dish washing duties, when the phone beeps again.
My hands are shaky when I pick it up this time.
"Do you think that's the way to talk to me?"
Damn. Okay, he does not take my sassy side well today.
Another message pops up.
"If you want to see me again, I need you to say it. And address me the proper way when you do."
Address him the proper way?
My cheeks blush when I realize what he is talking about. The dominant type, huh. I didn't know this sort of power play would be extended beyond the bed room.
An excited little tingling inside me tells me that I like it. A lot.
I quickly look around as if to check if there was anybody who could watch me. Ridiculous, of course. I am all alone. Yuka's curious eyes are far away and not concerned with me at the moment.
And I would never have to tell her about this. I never will, I am sure.
I am nervously biting my lower lip as I type my reply.
"I would really like to see you again, Sir."
Send.
It is baffling to me, how exciting this is. So different from the way I usually act toward other people – and especially men. And so incredibly satisfying.
This man makes me want to please him, serve him. And only because it gives me pleasure.
This realization is only underpinned by the gigantic leap my heart takes when I read his instant reply.
"Good girl."
CHAPTER XI
Evan
That girl is in dire need of a good spanking. While I’m flattered to see how nervous I appear to make her, I’m also annoyed at her childish behavior. Calling me, not saying anything and then dropping the phone to the floor while laughing like an idiot? I’m not impressed.
Although, I’m quite sure that the laughter I heard in the background wasn’t hers. The fact that she wasn’t by herself when she called me doesn’t make things any better, though. I don’t like to feel like I’m being made fun of, and this incident provoked exactly that kind of feeling.
I was just about to leave home when she called. After finishing a leisurely breakfast on top of the hotel, I called my driver to bring me home, so I could change before I head for the office again. It’s the weekend, but work never really stops for me. Besides, I have nothing else to do, nothing else that I’m passionate about enough to devote my weekend to it.
I don’t have time for silly games and decide to leave Nicky a message instead of calling her back. Who knows if she’d even be able to speak properly?
I put the phone into my suit pants and leave the high rise building that has become my home and get into the black limousine that’s waiting for me outside.
“The office, Sir?” my driver asks, casting me a quick look over the shoulder.
I nod. I hardly have him take me anywhere else. Office, the occasional hotel, the penthouse, other people’s homes – and that club a few days ago. That was an exciting change, not only for me, I assume.
My penthouse still feels a bit alien to me. I just moved here a short while ago and have only recently begun to decorate the place. Of course, I hired someone for that. Home décor is not part of my many interests and I prefer to leave these decisions to a professional. A woman.
There has never been another woman at that place except for my interior decorator and I intend to keep it like that for a while. Privacy has become a rare good in my life these days.
A short jingle coming from my phone announces that I received a text message. I produce my phone and feel my heart sink when I see the message. When I see that it is from Nicky and has a picture attached to it, I’m excited for a second, before I see the content of it. It’s one of those dreadful articles that I couldn’t prevent from being published. The kind of article that would only tell and show her the most ridiculous things about me.
“We need to talk.”
I sigh. Yes, we do. But not now.
I put the phone away, determined to give myself a while before I get into that conversation. I knew it was only a matter of time until she would find out. Who knows, maybe the girl who was giggling next to her was the one who told her. It was surprising enough that Nicky had no idea, I had to expect that she knows someone who does.
I lean back into the soft leather seat and close my eyes. Regret. I hate that feeling, but it keeps coming back to me every time I’m faced with the consequences of that failed relationship.
Sheila. I’m not even mad at her, not anymore. I loved that woman, but she destroyed more than she knows. The scars and repercussions she left me with are so deeply rooted within me that it’s impossible to let go off her properly. She casts her shadow over everything, and my encounter with Nicky was no exception.
As if things weren’t already troubling enough, my phone rings to announce the last person I want to talk to right now.
Roy. My publicist. I hate the fact that I had to hire him in the first place, because I don’t enjoy the dances people like him arrange and work with.
“Yes,” I say as I pick up the call.
“Evan,” he says. “Glad to get a hold of you. How are things going?”
I hate small talk. I know why he’s calling me and I hate that he’s not getting straight to the point.
“I’m not doing an interview for those people,” I say, repeating something I’ve said before. “Nothing has changed.”
I hear him sigh at the other end. “Yes, yes. I know. I’m not calling to press you about that again. I got your point.”
I arch my eyebrows in surprise. “What’s this about then?”
“The event,” he says. “The charity event. You promised me you’d go to that, and I just wanted to remind you.”
“I promised?” I ask. “That doesn’t sound like me
.”
“Evan,” he pleads. “Please. This is not about some girly magazine and satisfying a bunch of horny single ladies. This is business. You’re involved in that charity, you need to show your face, your empire needs to be present.”
“I understand that,” I say. “But if even one person comes up to me asking for an interview I’ll—"
“That won’t happen,” he promises. “Pictures, yes. You can’t avoid that. And I have no power over what happens with those pictures. But no interviews, I made myself very clear in that regard.”
“Good,” I say.
“So, we’re good? You’re coming?”
“Yes, for God’s sake.”
“It starts at eight and—"
“I know the details,” I interrupt him. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
“Well, don’t act like a child. That’ll make things easier for the both of us.”
“Goodbye, Roy.”
I hang up before hearing his reply. These things are so bothersome, but I know that Roy has a point when he says I should show my face. It’s easier said than done, but it’s necessary.
I glance at my phone again, wondering whether I should send Nicky a reply, but decide against it. After her little teenage stunt, she can wait for a few hours.
Besides, I have work to do. Weekend or not, there are things that need to be dealt with and they’ll keep me busy until the evening. I’ll have a better grasp of my upcoming schedule by then, too, because contrary to what I just told Roy, I’m not a hundred percent sure of that event’s details and other appointments I might be forgetting about.
I’ve never been good in keeping up with these things, especially when my mind gets derailed by a mesmerizing distraction by the name of Nicky.
CHAPTER XII
Nicky
We agree to meet the next day. For coffee. Just coffee, I try to remind myself. Yet I make all the preparations that I would usually do before a date that leaves the option for sex.
It wouldn't be the worst to happen, after all.
But it is not planned. I keep repeating that – to myself and to Yuka, who is displaying one of the broadest grins I have ever seen on her face when I get ready to leave.
"I won't wait up," she pipes as I am about to head out the door.
"It's an afternoon coffee, Yuka," I reassure. "Don't get too excited!"
She just shrugs and sends me off with a friendly wave.
I am surprised to find him waiting for me at the end of the stairs in front of our house when I rush through the door. Yuka is not the only one in our household who is always late. I am usually running when I leave the house, too.
He looks so dashingly handsome that it is intimidating. His clothes are more casual today, but still fancier and more dressed up than me. He is wearing a thin pullover in anthracite and blue dark jeans, both of which he clearly did not buy at a cheap retail store. His hair is gelled and looks more like it did on the picture in the article than it did on the night we met. I don't like it this way; it makes me want to ruffle through it. And I might just do that later on.
His appearance reminds me why I would usually shy away from too good looking men like him. They make me feel bad about myself. I feel scrubby and cheap next to him, even though I did put some effort into the way I look. I am wearing my favorite black skinny jeans and a colorful top in warm colors that go well with my dark brown hair – according to Yuka. I would consider these my best clothing items and yet I am sure that they must be nothing but low quality attempts at looking fancy from his perspective.
Also, my hair doesn't play along as usual. I keep trying my best at making it look somewhat nice, curled or straightened, but it never ends up the way I imagine.
"Are you stalking me?" I ask. "I thought we were meeting at the café?"
He smiles mischievously and shrugs. "I just wanted to make sure you find your way."
“How did you know where I live?” I want to know. “I never told you.”
“You told my driver,” he says.
“Oh. Right.”
That one was pretty obvious.
I walk down to the end of the stairs and come to a halt next to him. "What would you have done if I hadn't shown up?"
"Ring the bell?" he says. "Knock? There's many ways to make yourself be seen or heard."
"You don't know my last name, though, do you?"
He casts me a naughty smile and puts his arm around me to pull me closer. I am beginning to question my 'just coffee'-mantra as he pulls me in for a kiss.
He gently pecks my lips first, almost shy, before his tongue forces its way inside. He eagerly claims me, invading my mouth as if I was threatening to run away from him. I close my eyes and take him in, enjoying every moment of his sensual invasion. I am so taken in by him that even the noisy street sounds around us seem to diminish during our passionate kiss.
"Who knows," he whispers after our kiss ends. "I might have my ways to find out."
"You're just saying that to scare me," I say.
A little part of me is scared, though. He may just be joking – or not. Either way, I remind myself to be careful with him, despite that enticing kiss. Mesmerizing me like this might just be part of the game.
"You ready to go?" he asks, still holding me in his arms.
"Yes," I reply. "Coffee."
He smile down at me and gently caresses my left cheek with the tip of his finger. "Yes, coffee."
I hadn't even noticed the limousine that is double-parked behind us. He leads me to it and opens the door for me to get in before him. The perfect gentleman. I am rolling my eyes and grinning like a charmed girl at the same time.
The driver brings us to the café that we originally agreed upon as a meeting place and Evan orders me a cappuccino and a cake he insists I have to try despite my protests of not being hungry.
"You'll try it," he concludes after we are seated and our order is placed. "If you don't eat it – I will. But I'm pretty sure we'll have to fight over it."
"So, you decide what I am eating now, too?" I jokingly ask.
He smirks. "I would like that. But I know you're not ready for that."
The fact that he calls me "not ready" confuses me for a moment. Is that really something he would be into?
"You said we need to talk," he adds, looking at me with confident expectation. "What's on your chest?"
"Didn't you see the picture I sent you?" I ask.
He nods. "I did."
I am a bit perplexed at his calm and anticipatory demeanor. Shouldn't he be the one on the defense right now? Why do I need to give this conversation a head start if he is the one with the revealed secret?
"I had no idea," I stutter. "Who you are. One would think you'd mention something like this..."
"Something like what?" he asks. "And what does that mean – who I am? Who am I?"
"Well," I say. "You know... you are someone. Someone who has articles written about himself, someone who has been named one of the hottest billionaire singles of the country, someone who –"
"And does any of that information mean anything to you?" he interrupts. "Would you have been impressed? Would I have been a more likeable person if I had put that information about myself out there right from the start?"
"Well, I mean –"
"Do you really think that's the way I should introduce myself to a girl like you?" he continues. He appears to be offended, angry even. Or hurt. It is hard to tell with his calm and shielded manner.
"A girl like me?" I ask. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know very well what I mean," he says. "Look, all you need to know is: I didn't hide anything from you. I told you my name – and I was pleasantly surprised to see that you had no idea who I was, because in most cases, to women your age who are reasonably caught up on tabloid gossip, I am the ex-boyfriend of Sheila Buffay, that allegedly hot rich dude she used to date a while back."
He leans back and pauses for a moment as our cappuccinos and the cake are b
rought.
"I'm sorry," I say as my hands wander back and forth between him and the cake.
He doesn't say anything, but beckons me to try the cake by nodding toward it. "Try it."
"Yes, Sir," I whisper, just loudly enough for him to hear.
I look up at him to see his reaction as I fetch my fork and lean forward to follow his order. He casts me a satisfied smile.
"See," he says. "That is the part I would like to focus on when we are together."
"What part?" I ask with my mouth half full as I chew on the first little piece of the cake. What a classy lady I am. But damn, it tastes good.
He must be able to read the satisfaction in my face, because he smirks at me as if he caught me doing something naughty.
"Good, huh," he says.
I nod hastily. "Yes, very."
"The part I was talking about," he adds. "Is the unbelievable chemistry between us. I am good at reading people, so you don't have to tell me that you are feeling it, too. I can see it. So, just continue eating your cake, while I tell you what I want you to know, understand?"
I nod and obediently reply with another "Yes, Sir," before I stuff my face with another piece of that heavenly chocolate cake. Geez, I wonder what kind of drugs they add to this to make it taste this delicious.
"So far, you have nothing but a faint idea of what is possible between two people like us," he continues. "You might despise me for who I am or what I represent – though I hope to redeem that image in time – but that doesn't matter for now. All I would ask from you is to give us a chance to explore this chemistry. It is rare, very rare. And you have to trust me when I tell you that I haven't felt like this in a very long time."
"Since Sheila?" I ask.
He sighs.
"I don't want to talk about that now –"
"But I do," I interrupt. "Because there is something I need to clear up."
