His Kind of Trouble

by Terri L. Austin

  As the coffee brewed, Cal checked all the other cabinets and drawers, finding only plastic utensils. Even Cal’s flat in London had proper cutlery. An expired carton of milk and two shriveled apples hid in the refrigerator. This entire house lacked permanency. She lived like a squatter. This was a place to sleep, like a hotel, except even hotels hung bad artwork on the walls.

  Monica walked into the kitchen a few moments later. Today’s bland color: gray. Gray pantsuit, gray button-up blouse, gray shoes.

  He poured a cup of coffee, doctored it with a packet of sugar, and handed it to her. “Here.”

  Was the rest of the house as dismal as the first floor? Was the bedroom this tragic? He had to know. Without a word, Cal walked past Monica and charged up the stairs.

  “Where are you going? Cal, what’s wrong with you?”

  She dogged his steps as he peeked into the two small bedrooms on the second floor. A few unpacked moving boxes lined the walls, but the rooms were absent of furniture. Then he strode into the master bedroom.

  It was equally as appalling. An unmade bed—sloppy, his girl—no headboard, just a mattress and box spring and plain white sheets. Blinds covered the windows, not curtains. There were no personal touches whatsoever. No books, no knickknacks, nothing that said Monica Campbell lived here.

  “Cal, get out.”

  He thrust his hands deep into his back pockets while his gaze spanned the room, and after taking everything in, settled on her. “I’ve seen hotels in Bolivia that have more personality than this. The clothes I get. I despise them, even though I understand them. But this?” He removed his hands and flung an arm outward. “You need pink pillows and pretty bedding and pictures of your family. Where’s a photo of your mother?”

  “Get out of my room.” She set the cup down on a bedside table. She only had the one.

  “Where’s your mum? I haven’t seen a picture of her or your sisters or your father in this entire house.”

  “I haven’t had time to decorate. I keep telling you that.”

  “I’m not talking about decorations. I don’t know a single woman who doesn’t put her own stamp on a place. Darling, no one’s too busy to prop a family photo on the dresser.”

  She held up her hand. “Do not compare me to all the other women you know. You need to leave so I can go to work.”

  “What do you imagine I’ll do here alone, steal your cache of paper plates?” Cal tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for this pathetic house. But really, the house was just a symbol—like her clothes, like her job. The only time Monica spoke of anything personal was after sex, when her impenetrable guard lowered ever so slightly. Occasionally, she’d share a story about her mother, about her childhood with Allie and Brynn. But even then, Monica never revealed more than morsels, little bits of herself doled out in tiny increments. She always left Cal eager for more, but the minute he asked a personal question, she’d clam up.

  Monica Campbell bought hot-pink, fuzzy steering-wheel covers. That was frivolous. She wore frilly bloomers and bras that made his cock stir to attention just thinking about them. But they were hidden beneath her conservative suits. She’d dated Ryan What’s-his-tits, a bloke so utterly devoid of charm, even his own mother must loathe him. Cal would bet his trust fund the man had never given Monica the type of rough, raunchy sex she needed. Yet she’d stayed with him for a year.

  Monica Campbell’s entire life was a well-constructed lie.

  Cal walked past her to the closet, ignoring her sputtering. Surely she had to own something besides knickers, something that revealed her true nature.

  He turned on the light. For a walk-in closet—even a small one—she had very few clothes. All suits, mostly trousers, in every shade of hideous. In the back hung three long dresses covered by plastic dry cleaner’s bags. For her charity galas, obviously.

  “Cal.” Monica now tugged at his arm. “I’m serious. Get the hell out of my closet. Get out of my house.”

  “Why? There’s nothing here, is there? Not one bit of the real you.” Cal had never been so angry in his entire life. A sensuous, funny woman lay beneath all that fucking gray. “Whatever the hell you’re wearing under that ugly suit, that’s the real you. What color is it today? Purple? Bright blue?”

  “Stop it,” she yelled. “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

  He strode past her, out of the closet, and stopped in front of her dresser. He began yanking open drawers and grabbed handfuls of colorful lace. “This”—he shook a hot-pink bra at her—“this is who you are. Colorful and sexy and whimsical.”

  Monica marched forward and jerked the scanties from his hands. “What the hell’s gotten into you this morning?” She shoved them back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “When I let you give me a ride home, that wasn’t an invitation to insult me or paw through my personal shit.”

  He slowly walked toward her, and Monica skirted around the dresser, retreating until her shoulders hit the wall. Her wide eyes registered shock, but it quickly turned to anger as he kept stalking toward her.

  “I’ve tasted and touched every single part of your body,” he said. “But you don’t want me looking in your bedroom, your closet. There’s not one personal item in this entire god-awful little house. Why are you hiding?”

  Monica shoved at his chest with both hands, but he didn’t move. Wouldn’t move, not until he had an answer.

  “Why are you doing this? I’m not hiding. This is me. This is the real me.” She sounded desperate, as if she were trying to convince herself as well as him.

  “Are you really that thick?” He studied her, puzzled by her implausible assertion that this Spartan room, these dull colors, were a reflection of her true spirit. They were just the opposite. Camouflage. “You’re living a lie. I don’t know if it’s for Allie’s benefit or your own. Like that fake Statue of Liberty on the Strip, this character you’re playing is a cheap imitation of the real thing. And the real Monica is brilliant.”

  “Shut up.” She shoved at his chest again, harder this time. “Don’t criticize me for being a responsible adult, something you could never manage. And don’t talk to me about living a lie, because when life gets tough, Cal, you run in the opposite direction. You don’t exactly confront things head-on—you haven’t talked to your mom in weeks. So who’s the one hiding, you or me?”

  Cal’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I never claimed to be something I’m not.”

  “Fuck. You. I don’t owe you any explanations.” Her breath came in shallow gasps as she stared up at him. Twin pops of color brightened her cheeks.

  “The hell you don’t. You act like one person when you’re in my bed, and another person when you’re out of it. Will the real Monica Campbell please stand up?”

  “There’s an easy solution. I’ll never be in your bed again.”

  “Really? Are you having me on right now? You want me every bit as much as I want you.” Now he was breathing heavily, as if his lungs couldn’t take in enough air. He and Monica simply stared at each other, the anger palpable between them.

  Then they lunged at each other. Monica threw herself at Cal, ripping at his shirt. He returned the favor, grabbing her blouse and tearing at the buttons. Red-and-white polka dots trimmed in white frills. That’s what she wore beneath the bland gray costume.

  She leaped into his arms, and he caught her, stumbling backward until the mattress hit his calves, then he tumbled down and rolled over, pinning Monica beneath him.

  Angrily, he kissed her as he yanked her shirt from her trousers in quick, impatient movements and finished ripping open her blouse.

  Monica fumbled with the hook on her slacks, and Cal lifted his head. Nudging her hands aside, he helped her lower them down her hips.

  She pulled on his collar, scraping his neck with her nails in the process, and jerked at his T-shirt. “Take it off.”

  Cal sat up and stripped out of the shirt—she’d ripped the neckline, but the rest remained intact. After dropping it on the floor, he
moved back on top of her.

  Things often got frenzied between them, but this felt different. Raw and primal. Monica dug her nails into his sides. Cal kissed her too hard and grabbed fistfuls of her hair.

  Curving her body around him, she wiggled her fingers into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Condom,” she said, gasping for breath.

  “Get one, and hurry up.” He didn’t want protracted foreplay. He wanted to fuck. Hard. Take every bit of his frustration out on her. Unzipping his pants, he wrenched them low enough to free his cock.

  In seconds, he had the condom on and placed himself at her entrance. In one powerful stroke, Cal rammed inside her. As he moved, his eyes met hers. Her light blue irises appeared glassy, and her pupils dilated. Cal held her gaze as he pounded in and out of her.

  Biting her lip, Monica lowered her eyes until they drifted shut.

  Cal stopped moving. “Look at me.” He waited until she complied. This time, her eyes weren’t unfocused—they were full of rage. “Say my name.”

  Her lips pinched together. “Asshole.”

  He gritted his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “Almost. Try it again.”

  She hesitated. “Calum.”

  “Again,” he grated, pulling out of her, then driving back inside.

  “Calum.”

  He continued, bucking his hips over and over. She felt so good, so tight.

  Monica reached down to rub her clit. Every time her eyes would start to close, he’d stop moving. After the fourth time, her gaze never wavered.

  For once, he came first. Burying his head in the crook of her neck, he continued thrusting until his balls emptied. Monica came then, shuddering beneath him. Her legs twisted against his, her trousers bunched at the ankles.

  Afterward, he didn’t move, but kept his full weight on top of her. When his heart resumed its normal pace, Cal rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Neither spoke for several minutes.

  “I don’t know what you want from me, Cal,” she finally said. “But I’m not going to turn myself inside out for you. You’re not worth it.”

  “No, I’m not. But you are.” He turned his head to look at her. Her hair, so perfect a few minutes ago, had become mussed again. He shifted to the side, propped his weight on one elbow, and stared down at her. “I’ve seen a lot of terrible shit in this world, Monica. Truly heartbreaking stuff that I can’t banish from my head, no matter how many beaches I see or how many ruins I visit. Beauty and ugliness go hand in hand. Pleasure and pain coexist, and it all seems so fucking random. But you…you’ve buried the best part of yourself in this life that you hate, and it’s unnecessary. It guts me.”

  “Okay.” She sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed before standing. “We’ve dissected me. Now it’s your turn.” She tugged up her pants, jerked at the zipper, and pulled together the tattered edges of her blouse. “You think if you keep moving, never settling in one place, nothing can hurt you. So you wander around without any purpose, without putting any thought into your life at all. And you throw money at people in order to feel better about it. Except it doesn’t work, Cal. Because you can’t outrun all the shit you feel inside, all the isolation and pain. And by the way, I’m not one of your cars. I don’t need fixing or restoring or whatever the hell you do. I’m not broken. Now get out.”

  Chapter 18

  How dare he? Monica stood in front of the bathroom mirror, attempting to untangle the knots from her hair. How dare he accuse her of living a lie? She was living like a responsible, rational human being. She had an important job. She had a home, a family. What did Cal have?

  He wandered around, looking at the world but never being a part of it. He never talked about friends, he didn’t like to discuss his mom, he hadn’t seen Trevor in years. Cal was a loner. Monica dragged the brush through a snarl near her scalp and flinched.

  Why did he care how she lived? Their relationship was all about the sex. In six months, he probably wouldn’t even remember her.

  All right, she didn’t believe that, not exactly. After all, Cal remembered everything about their first meeting, down to the color of her dress.

  But if she thought for a second he cared about her… Of course he cared about her, in his own way, and she cared about him—they were friends with bennies. It didn’t go any deeper. Nor did it give him the right to come in here and start insulting her, questioning her.

  Giving herself one last glance in the mirror, Monica took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door. No sign of Cal. She should be relieved he wasn’t there, forcing her to talk, but the empty room made Monica feel more alone than she had in weeks. With Cal, the piercing isolation left her. But now it flooded back in spades.

  Their argument felt final, somehow. Maybe that was for the best. She and Cal wanted different things out of life. Eyes wide open, remember? Yeah, Monica remembered.

  She changed clothes before trotting down the steps and grabbing her bags. The house seemed so quiet, the silence hurt her ears. She dug out her keys and hurried to the garage. Monica didn’t have time to examine her life right now, even if she wanted to. She was running almost three hours late.

  On the drive, she hit rush hour, and as she sat in traffic, automatically reached for her coffee cup. Shit. She’d left it on the nightstand when she and Cal were in the middle of their knock-down drag-out.

  Right before they’d had sex. Angry sex. Monica closed her eyes and remembered the look on his face when he’d told her to say his name. There had been a harsh, cold gleam in his green eyes. His mouth thinned into a firm line, his jaw clamped down tight. He’d been pissed off and commanding. It had turned her on. Cal barking orders with that grumbly voice had made her wet. Of course, when he was playful and gave her a crooked smile—that revved her up too.

  It dawned on Monica that she’d just made a car analogy. Terrific.

  Forty minutes later, she arrived. Pulling into the parking lot, Monica found a spot in the back row. She hustled into the building and when she stepped into the main office, every head turned in her direction.

  “So I’m late one morning.”

  They continued to stare.

  “Was it my turn for doughnuts or something?” Monica set her computer bag down on Carmen’s desk. “Seriously, what’s going on?” she whispered.

  “Where have you been?” Carmen hissed.

  Stella burst out of the hallway and rushed toward her. She cast her steely gaze over everyone. “Move on with your lives, people.” As one, the staff turned away, even Carmen.

  “The shit’s hit the fan, kid,” Stella said.

  “What’s happened?”

  Rubbing her forehead, Stella sighed long and deep. “Allie’s waiting in your office. The ballroom flooded last night. We have no venue for the gala.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Monica hauled ass down the hall and nearly ran into Jules coming out of the break room.

  “Run for your life,” she said. “Allie’s in a rage. On the drive over, she wore this hideous, frightening smile. I nearly shit a brick just sitting next to her.”

  “I’ll handle it. Thanks, Jules.”

  Stella stayed on her heels. “I’ll interrupt in ten minutes with a cup of coffee. Good luck.”

  Monica hadn’t seen Allie in weeks. This was the worst possible circumstance for a reunion. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she opened the door to find Allie standing in front of the window. “Hey, Al. I just heard the news.” She walked across the room and tossed her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk.

  “I tried to call you six times last night. Were you too busy with Cal to answer your phone?” Allie didn’t turn around.

  “My phone died, sorry. And my personal life is still off limits. Now give me the details.”

  “There’s not much to tell. The ballroom flooded, there’s extensive damage. They don’t have anything else available, and we’re going to have to cancel the gala.” Allie spun around, her eyes accusatory. “If you don’t want to talk about Cal, let’s d
iscuss the foundation, shall we?” She tossed a folder on top of Monica’s desk.

  The file she had been compiling on international grants and cost projections for medical equipment. The same file she’d shown Trevor. “Were you rifling through my desk?”

  “It belongs to the foundation,” Allie said. So snotty. So superior. Always playing the big sister. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

  All Monica’s self-recriminations over the past few weeks blew away. This was why she’d been so angry. This right here—Allie’s sanctimonious, I’m-so-fucking-perfect attitude.

  Fury, hot and sharp, lanced through her. She ripped open the middle drawer, shoved her hands inside, and started pulling out lip gloss, pencils, paperclips, and dropped them on top of the folder. “Here. Take these too. All of this crap belongs to the foundation.” She found a stray peppermint. “And don’t forget this.” Then Monica grabbed her purse and upended it, dumping everything until the bag was empty. “I have a few tampons, some loose change.” She threw her wallet at Allie, who caught it deftly in her right hand. “Receipts, my credit cards. Hey, how about I cc you on my bank statements?”

  Allie tossed the wallet on the desk. “While you’re doing pointless research, we have a gala to cancel. But I’m so happy you were having a great time with Cal last night.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t have a life. I should be on call 24-7 in case the ballroom floods. I should have anticipated that.”

  Allie nodded at the green file, peeking out from under the debris. “What about that? What were you planning on doing with all that third-world grant stuff?”

  “Does it matter?” Monica plucked it out and dropped the folder in the trash can. “There.”

  “What were you planning on doing with it?” Allie repeated.

  “I thought the foundation could start branching out, make a bigger impact, have an international presence.”