by Shandi Boyes
Isaac’s eyes dance between mine, his lips unmoving. He doesn’t need to speak to express his questions, though. I can see the concern in his eyes, hear the elongated beat of his heart. He is so clued in on every aspect of his employees’ lives, he knows precisely what occurred this weekend. I just hope his sixth sense is honing in on Luca’s memorial and not the other equally heart-clutching events of the weekend.
“How was it?” Isaac asks a short time later when he sees the remorse in my eyes switch to something else—something I’m striving to ignore every time I catch sight of my reflection.
I’ll never regret a single moment of my time at home, but I do regret not doing it sooner. Even with Danielle’s batshit crazy idea that I’m a heartless wench in need of saving, the past weekend was good for me. I combatted hurt, resentment, and the fear of being unworthy of love all while surrounded by people who actually love me. It makes a lot of sense when you think about it.
“It was . . . good. Not really an ideal setting for a naughty getaway, but it went okay.” A frisky wink chops up the concern in my tone to more manageable pieces.
Isaac laughs, thankfully accepting my jest in good faith. I want to update him on all the juicy and not-so-juicy tidbits of my weekend, but since I’m not eager to add more worry to his plate, I keep quiet.
The more successful Isaac becomes, the more he has needed to stay on his toes. Unless they’re featured on Sixty Minutes, people don’t like to hear others’ success stories. Jealousy, suspicion, and even sometimes distrust come into play when people believe someone has succeeded them.
That’s why I was so gung-ho about Alex’s comment on two alphas not able to co-exist unless they’re planning to take each other out. Why can’t there be more than one successful person in a relationship?
Take my friendship with Isaac as an example. I don’t loathe him because he’s rich, handsome, and successful. I want to emulate his achievements. And since Isaac’s views are similar to mine, I’ll achieve them even sooner than anticipated.
Isaac isn’t a greedy man. He shares his wealth and knowledge with those closest to him. It’s the reason we’re standing in a derelict warehouse near midnight. This rundown factory is our first joint business merger. I have a thirty percent stake in Isaac’s latest venture. I am a silent shareholder, but I’m not worried. A man as astute and business-conscious as Isaac would never make a stupid business decision. Furthermore, I drew up our agreement. If anyone is in danger of coming out of our deal a loser, you can be assured it isn’t me.
“When will the refit be finalized?” I ask Isaac, hoping to get our conversation back on track before I crash.
I’m not like Isaac. I usually wake before the sun, pound the pavement for two hours straight, then start my day, which means I’m usually in bed no later than 11 PM. The redeye Alex and I took last night already stole hours of my sleep, much less how many times Alex has occupied my thoughts.
Isaac flashes a brutal grin. “He tried for six weeks, but I scaled him back to three.”
I smile at the ruthlessness in his tone. His builder isn’t lucking out—he just wrongly assumed working for Isaac would be a walk in the park. It won’t take him long to adjust. Isaac will ride you like an inmate serving life, but he pays well if you produce what he needs.
“Alright. I’ll get these documents finalized this week before scheduling acquisitions for the parcels of land on each side of ours.” I roll up the blueprints and hand them to Isaac. “Are you still chasing that bakery a few blocks over? I had a chat with the planning commissioner last week. We may be able to switch the zoning from commercial to industrial, meaning the owner will have no choice but to close up shop, but I wanted to check with you first.”
Isaac’s pause for consideration is shocking. Usually he’s on the ball when it comes to all things business. “Let me speak with Cormack. My plans are for Ravenshoe to prosper, not run businesses out of town.”
I wryly grin, loving the honor in his tone when he talks about Ravenshoe. No matter what the crazies tell you, this town belongs to Isaac.
“Okay. I’ll advise Mitch to hold on any mergers until I get word from you.”
I shadow Isaac out of the makeshift door his builders blasted through a double bricked wall earlier today. A smile crosses my face when I spot Hugo, Isaac’s righthand man/body guard, leaning on the front panel of Isaac’s Mercedes. Hugo is a handsome man in his early thirties. His dark hair contrasts with his white face, making his gleaming white teeth even more noticeable. He is a similar build and height to Alex, so I’m certain he’s equally appealing out of his clothes as he is in them, although I could never testify to the fact.
What I said to Alex in the wee hours of this morning is true: Isaac has a stern nonfraternization policy he demands his staff follow. But even if he didn’t, I don’t ever see Hugo and me dancing beneath the sheets. He’s a little annoying—kind of like the big brother I’ve never had. He’s handsome and fun to hang around, but I’m more interested in strangling him than seeing him naked.
A prime example of why we’ll never do the naughty rumba presents when Hugo curls his thick arm around my shoulders to noogie my head. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day. Little Ms. Prim and Proper getting down and dirty in the club scene.”
His comment makes me smile—on the inside. I can’t let him think he got under my skin by smiling for real. He falsely believes my sky-high shoes, pretty dresses, and perfectly made-up face make me a goodie two shoes.
He’s so far off the mark, he’s one of the “girlfriends” I referenced when I said I should have recorded my romp with Alex in the meadow. City slickers often underestimate us country girls. When we get down and dirty, we don’t just get our heels a little smudgy. We get downright filthy.
Hugo’s laughter is cut in half when my elbow becomes friendly with his ribs. Using his distraction to my advantage, I dip under his arm, spin on my heels, then dash for the bustling street in front of me.
I barely make it six paces when the heat of a gaze slows my steps. Isaac’s overprotectiveness is so obvious, I don’t need to hear him speak to feel his concern.
“I’m fine. I’ve got mace in my purse,” I assure him, not bothering to spin around and face him and his stern glare.
“And. . .?”
Hugo’s high tone forces me to spin. He’s giving me the same rueful glare as Isaac, and suddenly it’s like going from one younger brother to two overbearing older ones.
When Hugo’s dark brow becomes lost in his hairline, I murmur, “I’ve also got your gift.” I pat my clutch shoved under my arm.
Hugo doesn’t give fancy bottles of perfume or generous checks like Isaac every Christmas. He hands out mace, knucklebusters, and pretty little guns that slip right into a regular-sized purse.
“No one will mess with me tonight. . . not unless they want a knuckle sandwich.” I say my quote with the same drawl Hugo’s voice regularly dons. It is a weird cross between a New Yorker accent and a Bostonian. “Now go on, get, before I make you shadow me on that 4 AM run you’ve been promising me since last year.”
Hugo grimaces. I barely see it with how quickly he dives into the driver’s seat of Isaac’s town car.
Unfortunately, Isaac isn’t as eager to leave. “Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I’m going straight past your penthouse.”
“Certain. I’m not going home.” I waggle my brows.
He spots my lie a mile out but pretends he doesn’t. Hating that I’ve placed him on a list he doesn’t belong on, I hit him with straight-up honesty. “I missed my run this morning. It’s playing havoc with my emotions. I need to burn off some energy, so I figured a late night walk might do me some good.”
Hearing the truth in my reply, Isaac dips his chin. “Okay, but stay on the main roads. I’ll have Hunter trace your steps.”
Stealing my chance to announce I don’t want his head of security following my every move, Isaac slips into the back of his car. I glare at him through the heavily ti
nted window for several moments, only breaking contact when it dawns on me he has no intentions of leaving this alley until I’m out in the open, wild and free for his hacker/security guard to trace my every step.
With a huff, I continue for the street. Only once I merge onto the sidewalk do I lose Isaac and Hugo’s scrutiny. Thank god. I handled enough machoism this past weekend to last me a lifetime. I don’t need any more. And I’m not solely referring to Alex.
Needing a quick breather, I duck into the little alcove of the nightclub Isaac and I are building. I’m not tired; I’ve barely walked five steps. My body is just kicking up a stink about the number of times Alex has entered my mind today.
I wish my heart was my only body part being uncooperative. My brain is being just as perverse. I swear I can smell Alex’s schmexy scent right now. It’s virile and hot, making me so desperate, I’m five seconds from calling him a pathetic loser.
Ugh! Step it up, Regan. Desperation is your ugliest attribute.
Agreeing with the voice in my head, I move out of the alcove. I complete two whole steps before a deep groan scares the living daylights out of me. There is a homeless man sleeping under a soiled blanket near a dumpster on my right. He’s moaning and groaning as if his body can’t decide whether to vacate the contents of his stomach or bowels first.
Although I feel sorry for anyone required to sleep in an alleyway, Alex’s stance on not giving money to the homeless alters my steps. Instead of walking toward the man in need, I pace away from him. I’m not going far, just to the convenience store on the corner. A bottle of water and some Advil may help ease his pain.
Before I leave the alley, the homeless man grunts something under his breath. I freeze, certain I heard him wrong. If he uttered the name I believe he did, he isn’t just a random homeless guy. He’s someone extremely important to me. Someone who hasn’t left my mind all day.
With my heart in my throat, I jackknife back. My worst fears come true when I spot a snippet of blue snaking out of the blanket tossed over the man’s head. He isn’t a beggar living on the streets because he has no money. He’s Alex.
“Oh my god, what happened?”
I rush to his side, my steps as frantic as my heart rate. My stomach heaves when I toss the blanket off him. His ruse of acting homeless is more authentic since he’s sleeping in pee-scented bedding.
The desire to sanitize my hands for the next year flies out the window when I raise his slumped head. He has a large gash on his right temple sending a stream of blood down his cheeks, his thick and bushy beard a perfect sponge to absorb the mess.
I gag again as my head grows woozy. I don’t do blood. Blood and I are not friends.
“Wait here; I’ll get help.”
I twist then stand, my charge across the asphalt only slowing when Alex faintly murmurs, “No.” For how fast my heart is raging, I’m shocked I heard him. “No police. Help me up.” His words are separated by long, painful groans.
Over a dozen curse words roll through my head when I bob down to aid him from the ground. He either drank two gallons of whiskey for dinner, or the bump on his head did a real number on him. He can barely stand upright.
“Whoa. Slow down,” I plead when he stumbles toward the dumpster he was resting on. If he falls, I may never get him up.
I watch him toss aside pee-stained blankets and soiled cardboard as if they’re feathers as he hunts for something in the trash next to the dumpster.
“What are you looking for?” I ask when his furious growl vibrates both my chest and the area between my legs.
After scanning the alley, he shifts his eyes to me. “They took my gun.”
“They?”
I want to act shocked at his admission he owns a gun, but we both know it would be a woeful waste of time. I’ve known since the day we bumped heads that he carries a weapon—now it’s just a fact instead of a hunch.
“From what I heard while drifting in and out of consciousness, there were at least two perps.”
“Perps?”
I swallow harshly. I’m more worried about him being unconscious than knowing how many men jumped him, but just like I’d never let Hugo believe he got one up on me, I can’t let Alex know how profoundly he’s crawled under my skin either. Not yet. Maybe never.
My hand slides into my clutch when Alex nods. The cool metal under my fingertips soothes me enough I can scan the alley without fear. The men who assaulted Alex better be long gone, or they’re about to find out the lengths Myers go to protect those they care about.
Mistaking the heavy groove between my brow as fear, not shock he’s already on a short list of men I’d draw blood for, Alex advises, “They’re not here. They left ages ago.” His lips quirk in confusion. “What time is it?”
He curses when I twist my wrist to show him it is nearly 1 AM.
“What the fuck did he hit me with? I was out cold for nearly two hours.”
Unsure if he wants me to answer, I shrug. “Are you sure you don’t want to call the police or go to the hospital? You’re bleeding—profusely.”
I’m surprised at how confident my voice is. My stomach doesn’t match. It’s five seconds from tossing.
“No police. I don’t want a turf war,” Alex answers.
I keep my expression just as passive as his, hoping it will hide my confusion about his reply. What turf war is he talking about. . .? Oh no. He’s not a gangbanger, is he? The Italian mob has been trying to get a foothold in Ravenshoe for years. Only Isaac’s friendship with another notorious syndicate leader has stopped it from happening. The same can’t be said for the towns bordering us. Hopeton has been riddled with gang violence the past twelve months.
My focus shifts to Alex when he asks to borrow my cell. Nodding, I rummage through my purse. Since I’m all thumbs, it soon falls to the ground, exposing Alex isn’t the only one packing heat.
“What the fuck?” Alex’s voice is as firm as his fists clench when he spots my gun. “Where did you get that? Is it legal?”
I shrug. I didn’t ask Hugo for the deets when he gifted it to me. I just shoved it in my purse, where it has remained until now.
“Give it to me.” He summons me with two fingers like I’m a dog being commanded to heel next to its owner.
He may be injured, and I may be on the verge of a panic attack, but you can be assured I’ll never be a spineless wench who jumps on queue. With a sneer, I shove my dainty weapon back into my purse before clutching it into my chest. “No, it’s mine.”
Alex steps closer to me, suffocating the putrid scent lingering in the alley with his seductive I can’t wait to drink it all up smell. “Open carry is illegal in Florida. You need a fucking permit.”
His expression twists with anger, but it has nothing on the worry crossing mine. Just the pain smoldering in his eyes when they met mine reveals it took him an immense amount of effort to retaliate to my childish reply—nearly as much as it’s taking him to remain standing.
Realizing this is a fight for another day, I thrust my purse into Alex’s chest. My swing is barely a fairy tap, but it is enough to send him stumbling backward. I barely catch him before he crashes into the dumpster, which is a mammoth effort considering he is nearly double my weight.
Some of the anger on Alex’s face fades as he regains his footing. He’s not grateful I stopped him and the ground from making kissy faces; he’s pleased I submitted to his demand without complaint.
“Did you drive here?”
I wait for him to straighten his polo shirt before shaking my head. It takes everything I have to leash my anger when a furious growl bubbles in his chest. He gives me a look, one that advises a prolonged talk on personal safety has been placed on my upcoming agenda. Goodie—not!
Through gritted teeth, I say, “There is a taxi stand half a block up. We’ll get a cab back to my apartment, then we can attend to your wound.”
My tone is sharp with worry. I’m not concerned about taking him back to my apartment. It is the blood oozin
g from his wound causing my fretful response. The more anger thickens his blood, the wider the vibrant red streak down his cheek becomes.
After scanning the alley for the third time, Alex replies, “We can’t stay at your apartment. We’ll go to a hotel.”
I want to argue, but the slur of his words squashes the need. He’s on the verge of collapse, minutes from succumbing to his injuries. The only reason he hasn’t surrendered is because he’s too panicked about protecting me. How do I know this? He has the same horrified expression on his face my dad did when he arrived at Luca’s accident scene eight years ago.
The howl he released when he thought I was in the car was horrific. It shredded my heart just as violently as it did when the medics pulled Luca from the wreckage. He was right. I was sitting in the passenger seat of Luca’s car that night. I just hid from him as I wish I could Alex right now.
Don’t misconstrue my lack of empathy. I don’t want to hide from Alex because I’m an uncaring, selfish bitch. It is the very opposite that has me running scared. Bit by bit the past weekend, the wall around my heart crumbled. I tried in vain to build it back up today, but all the bricks I stacked toppled the instant Alex reappeared.
I’m feeling things I shouldn’t be feeling—things I haven’t felt in years. That’s why I tried to protect my heart, to rebuild the wall he pulverized, because if I don’t do something to salvage the wreckage, this man could destroy me.
I don’t know how.
I don’t know why.
I just know he will.
7
My mouth burns as if I have swallowed acid, and my head is thumping, but the ache that’s been stabbing my chest the past twenty-plus hours has vanished because Regan is sitting beside me—safe and uninjured. In the seconds leading to me passing out, she was the first person to enter my mind, and she never left.
At a time where I should have been concerned about my safety, all I could think about was her. That’s not surprising. I’d rather take a bullet to the skull than see her hurt—especially if I am the man causing her pain. The absolute terror clouding her eyes when she tossed off the blanket covering me matched the fear they held when she stood up on the podium at Luca’s memorial to give her eulogy. I knew she wanted this; I just didn’t realize her desires were as profound as mine.
