His Kind of Trouble

by Terri L. Austin

  “Cal. Oh God.” She scratched at the back of his hand. Monica closed her eyes, and her pussy tightened around his cock.

  Cal continued to pound hard while stroking her. Occasionally, he’d swivel his hips, providing a different sensation, a hot friction. Her walls clamped down on him, testing his endurance. A fine sheen of sweat covered his chest and arms. “Fuck. I want this to last.” He clenched his jaw. “Going to come, love.” He stopped playing with her and wrapped his hand around her other leg, then he picked up the pace, slamming into her faster than before.

  Cal came with a hoarse shout, his hands gripping her thighs like they were the only things keeping him steady. His cock jerked inside her, and she shuddered around his shaft, draining him.

  Once he stopped moving, Cal planted a kiss near her ankle, his breath harsh from exertion. “Amazing.”

  He pulled out of her and gently lowered her legs. Cal dropped a little kiss on her shoulder, then slid off the sofa and onto the floor.

  * * *

  Monica sat up and simply took him in. With his chin resting on his forearm, he looked beautifully masculine. He smiled at her—a drowsy, blissful half grin.

  Something about the tilt of his lips tore at her heart. Monica’s day had gone downhill from the time she’d opened her eyes this morning, but it had all fallen away when she’d stepped into his arms this afternoon. They weren’t just having fun—well, she wasn’t. How Cal touched her, like she was special—that meant everything.

  Oh God. She didn’t want this. Not now, not with him. He was going to break her heart, and she’d handed it to him on a platter. Shit.

  The realization brought Monica out of her peaceful haze, making her scramble off the sofa and reach for her underwear. She grabbed her panties and pulled them on. Cal settled his hands over her upper arms.

  “Monica. Look at me, love. What’s happening right now? You’re thinking again.”

  “It’s just been a hell of a day.”

  He stared at her, his light green eyes dancing over her features like he could read her thoughts, but then his expression changed to one of boredom. Cal slid his hands down her arms before relinquishing his hold. “Oh, dear,” he said with a yawn. “Look who’s lying again. How original.”

  “Shut up.” She slipped her bra over her shoulders and adjusted her breasts.

  “I’m not looking to get in a row right now. I’m still basking in the afterglow. Give me a few to work up a lather, and then we’ll have a go.” He stood and threw away the condom before walking to the liquor cabinet. He poured a finger’s worth of whiskey. “Cheers.” He tipped his glass before taking a sip.

  Flicking back her hair, she faced him. He was still naked and semi-hard. How was that possible? “I’m not lying, I’ve had a shiteous day.”

  He picked up the restaurant guide and perused it. “Of course not, darling. You’re living your truth.” His dry tone raised the hair on the back of her neck.

  Marching over to him, she plucked the menu from his hands and tossed it on the floor. “I’m not having this argument again.” Her gaze fell to his penis. She couldn’t fight with a naked man. “Put some clothes on.”

  He smirked. “Makes you nervous, does it? My being in the buff?”

  “Yeah. I’m trembling.”

  “You were ten minutes ago. Yes, you’ve had a bad day. But that’s not what this is about, so please don’t insult me. You’ve been upset since you set foot in this house. If you’re still tetchy about this morning, say so.”

  “I’m not tetchy. I’m not even sure what that means.”

  But he was right. Again. Monica lied about everything—she lived behind a persona she’d created. She’d been running so hard from the mistakes of her past that she’d done a U-turn in her life, and now she was as screwed up as ever. But the lie was comfortable, and the truth seemed almost paralyzing. Buried deep inside, under all the responsible behavior and professional demeanor, Monica’s wild child remained alive and well. And she liked being let off the chain. Monica reveled in hot sex with Cal. She loved the freedom it gave her, the excitement. The emotion.

  She’d been lying about her feelings for him too. Monica thought she could handle a no-strings sexual relationship. All of her peppy self-talk about being in control and eyes wide open was bullshit. She’d fallen in love with Calum George Hughes. How could she be so damned stupid? Loosening the tight reins on her old ways had led to this—love. Of all the men she could have chosen, she’d picked Cal Hughes, a man who never stuck around. A man she couldn’t count on. All those years of playing the good girl, dating appropriate guys, living a straitlaced life—blown to bits.

  Suddenly, her body was on fire, as though every nerve ending burned beneath her skin. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Monica felt as if her heart might burst through her chest at any moment. Pain, sharp and biting, ripped through her torso. All of these revelations at once—they were too much. Maybe she was having a heart attack. This was what dying felt like. “I have to go.” She spun away. “I have to get out of here.” She began gasping for air. She couldn’t breathe.

  He plucked her up in his arms and walked to the overstuffed love seat by the window. Sinking down, Cal held her as she struggled.

  “Let go. Let me go.” She pushed against his chest and tried to rise, but he tightened his hold.

  “No. You’re having a panic attack. Deep breaths.” When she ignored him and tried to break free, he gave her a little shake. “Deep breaths. Come on. In.” He held her gaze with his own. “And out. Again.” He breathed with her. Inhale. Exhale.

  After three or four minutes, Monica’s heart began to slow down. With a shaky hand, she pushed her hair away from her face. “What’s wrong with me?”

  Cal stroked her back. “You’re just scared, that’s all.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” But she was lying, of course. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. In truth, Monica was terrified of him, of herself, of her feelings.

  She pushed off his lap and stood, feeling a little woozy and so embarrassed, she turned away. Who acted like this? Who had a panic attack after the most amazing sex ever? God, she was a freak. Defective.

  “Monica.” He waited until she slowly turned back around. “Let’s stay right here, eat dinner, talk. After that, you can go if you want.” He stood and approached her slowly. With infinite care, he reached out and stroked a hand down the length of her hair. “Okay?”

  When she didn’t pull away, he enfolded her in his arms, hugged her tighter in his embrace. Monica hugged him back. Closing her eyes, she took a deep whiff of him and struggled to remain calm.

  Then Cal stepped back. “I’ll get dressed.” He strode over to where his clothes lay in a pile and pulled on his boxers and jeans. He held up his T-shirt. “You want?”

  She nodded, and he lobbed it at her. Dark green—the same shade as his eyes when he was angry—and it smelled of fabric softener and Cal. Monica pulled it on. The hem hit her above the knees, and the sleeves fell below her elbows.

  Her feelings for him frightened her. That’s why she’d freaked out. She’d never felt like this. Not even with Aaron—the asshole who’d abandoned her in Mexico—and she’d been ready to leave her friends and family for him.

  Calum Hughes was the real deal. He loved his sister, and he’d cared for Babcock in her final days. But he’d leave. If not tomorrow, then next week, or next month. Cal would take off for Bora Bora or Nepal, and she’d be stuck here in Vegas.

  Not stuck. You have your family, your life.

  But what kind of life did she have? Was she going to spend the next five years trying to prove herself to Allie and people like Marcus Stanford? The next ten or fifteen? Just the thought of it left her drained. And for what, a job she hated?

  Monica covered her mouth with one hand. She hated her job. She hated working at the foundation.

  Shit. That panicky feeling threatened to rise up inside her and take over once again.

  A
look of concern filled Cal’s eyes. “You all right?” He walked over to her, raised his hand to touch her shoulder, but Monica moved out of reach.

  “I hate my job,” she said in a rush.

  “Yeah, of course you do.”

  “No, I hate my job. I need this job.”

  Cal crossed to the mini-fridge hidden in the bookcase and grabbed a bottle of cold water. “Why?” He handed it to Monica.

  “Because it’s who I am. Allie depends on me. I have to show her I’m responsible. I owe it to my mom.”

  “Let’s take those one at a time, yeah? It’s not who you are. You hate it.”

  Monica paced to the sofa and sank down. She twisted the cap off the bottle, taking a long drink. She knew Cal wouldn’t criticize her, and because of that, he was the only person she could talk to. “Yeah. I hate it. But I can’t let them down.”

  Cal sat next to her. His long fingers stroked her bare leg. “One thing at a time. You hate it.”

  She nodded. “I hate it.” After several minutes, she smiled and breathed out a little laugh. “It sucks so hard. I hate the numbers and reading grant applications and having Allie question every decision. I like working with the donors, though.”

  “How does it feel to admit it?”

  Her gaze sought his. “Scary.”

  “That’s okay. If you’re scared, you’re alive. You said you have to prove yourself to Allie. Why?”

  Monica flung the bottle onto the coffee table. “Because she’s my sister. Because I’ve fucked up so much in the past. Because I have to show her that I can do this.”

  “She’s your sister. She’s not living your life for you. You fucked up in the past? So what? Everyone has.”

  She shook her head. “Not like me.”

  He scooted to the edge of the couch and faced her. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Most horrific?”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She was too ashamed.

  “Did you run a red light? Wear two different socks by mistake? You’re a good person—what could you have done that’s so terrible?”

  Where to begin? “I was thirteen when my mom got diagnosed. She was sick for a long time. I felt…” She stared at the fireplace grate and shrugged. “I felt like she left me, even though she was still there. Allie quit school and came home to take care of us all. As my mom got worse, so did I. I made life hard for everybody in the family.” It was hard to admit that. Painful.

  Cal continued to stroke her face. “You were a child.”

  “I was a brat.”

  “All children are brats. No exceptions. They’re messy and they smell bad and then they go through puberty. Don’t know why they’re all the rage.”

  Monica didn’t laugh. “After she died, I went off the rails. I drank too much. I toked up, took too many pills. I woke up next to strangers, Cal, and sometimes, I couldn’t even remember what I’d done with them.” She took a deep breath and studied his face. He didn’t look shocked or surprised or disappointed. “Four years ago, I met a guy, and after two dates, I let him drive me to Mexico. In the morning, he was gone, and so was all my money. I had to call Evan to come and get me.”

  After a minute, Cal lifted his hands, palms upward. “All right, so you have terrible taste in men—present company excluded, naturally. And you committed a few youthful indiscretions. You trusted the wrong people.”

  “I got pregnant.”

  Chapter 20

  That one shocked him. His face went slack for an instant before he covered it up with a neutral expression. “I see.” He remained silent, waited her out.

  “Are you going to ask what happened to it?”

  He placed his hand over hers. “Only if you want to tell me.”

  Monica took a shaky breath. “After Evan picked me up and brought me home, I just sort of checked out. I stayed in bed for days. I was ashamed and felt so goddamned stupid.” She tugged her hand back and curled her legs beneath her, pulling Cal’s shirt over them to cover herself. She’d never felt so vulnerable in her life as she did right this minute. But Cal wasn’t looking at her with disgust. There was nothing but sympathy in his eyes. The lines of his body were tense, but he leaned toward her, as if he were barely holding himself back from reaching out. Seeing that compassion made her want to throw herself into his strong arms and never let go.

  But Cal wasn’t hers to keep. So Monica sat up and lowered her feet to the floor. “A month later, I was still a wreck, but I found out I was pregnant. I knew I had to turn my life around. I had someone else to think about besides myself. I had to get my act together and quit making selfish choices. Then I lost the baby.” She tucked her hands under her thighs, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the low-setting sunlight beaming through the window.

  “I’m so sorry, love.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s probably for the best. I’d have made a lousy mother.”

  “That’s simply not true,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone as caring as you. You try to cover it up, but you have the most tender heart of anyone I’ve ever met.”

  With her jaw set, Monica slid him a sideways glance. “It was karmic justice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Monica scrubbed her hands across her eyes. “I told you, Cal, I was relieved when my mom died. I lost my best friend, and I was glad. I’m not a good person at all, I’m awful. When I lost my own baby, it broke my heart, but I deserved it. I deserve every bad thing that happens to me. That’s why I work for the foundation. I couldn’t go back to being that thoughtless, rebellious girl. Not after miscarrying. Not after making such a mess of my life. My mom would have been mortified by my behavior. I let her down.”

  “Come here.” When he held his hands out to her, Monica fell toward him. She buried her face against his solid chest. Then Monica Campbell, the girl who didn’t cry at her mother’s funeral, began to sob.

  * * *

  Cal hated feeling helpless. His poor Monica. She’d been in pain for so long. Holding her close, he rocked her gently in his arms and let her cry.

  Monica was still suffering from grief and guilt. He couldn’t make that go away, but he knew firsthand how brutal and exhausting it was to watch a loved one die. He’d gone through it as an adult for eight months. Monica had been a needy child, enduring it for five long years. Of course she felt abandoned. A perfectly natural emotion.

  And she hadn’t taken a job at the foundation because she needed to prove something to Allison. It wasn’t about responsibility at all. Monica was trying to atone for her perceived sins. That fact was so bloody obvious, he didn’t understand why no one else saw it.

  Once her sobs slowed, Cal continued to stroke her, to soothe her as best he could. “I didn’t know your mother, but she managed to raise three beautiful, smart daughters. I think she’d want you to forgive yourself.”

  She glared at him and pushed out of his arms. “You don’t know anything. I shared one piece of information with you—”

  “Bullshit. You shared your biggest secret with me. Want to know mine? My biggest secret?”

  “No.” She scooted away from him and tried to stand, but Cal snared her arm and pulled her back down.

  “Babcock didn’t want me to know she was ill. She swore my mother to secrecy, but I found out from Paolo. I flew to her immediately. She was dying—congestive heart failure after way too many cigarettes over the years. And I hated her for that—for leaving me and for not seeing the doctor until it was too late, and for keeping it a secret.

  “She shrank, Monica. Literally, she seemed to cave in on herself. By the end, there were days when she barely remained conscious. And Pixie never came to see her once.”

  Monica drew a shaky breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  “After she died, I’d get up every afternoon and head to the beach. Then sit and drink a beer every night. I’ve literally done nothing for the last five months.”

  “You were grieving, Cal. You stayed with her until the end. That’s heroic.”
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  “But I didn’t want to be there.” Guilt flooded him, along with shame and self-loathing. “There were days I resented the hell out of her. She was meant to be the strong one.”

  “Would you do it again?” she asked.

  “In a heartbeat. When you were a teenager, you were overwhelmed by it all. And you didn’t deserve to lose your baby. Bad shit just happens.”

  They sat in silence. Time slipped by until full dark descended. Cal felt a bit lighter. Talking with Monica helped. He could never have told all that to anyone else. Not Jules, not Pix. Only Monica.

  After a while, she wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. “I should go. I shouldn’t have left work early.”

  “You should stay. You haven’t had dinner yet.”

  She gave a little laugh. One that held no humor at all. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “I am.” He stood and walked to a lamp in the corner, flicking it on. The light drove away some of the shadows. Then he walked back to Monica and grabbed her hand. “You can watch me eat. Seafood or steak?”

  “You’re super rich,” she said with a sniff. “Why not get both?”

  Placing a hand on either side of her face, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Good idea.”

  “I’m not very good company right now.”

  “Do I look like I need you to entertain me? I want you to stay.” When she appeared unsure, he caressed her cheek. “Please, Monica Taylor Campbell? Don’t force me to eat alone.”

  She gazed up at him, her bloodshot eyes so sad he couldn’t bear it. “Okay.”

  “Excellent. Go get a shower, and I’ll order dinner.” He turned her around and gave her bottom a light pat. If she’d insisted on going home, Cal would have followed her and sat in her driveway all night, just in case she needed him. He wanted to be her rock.