Nothing But Trouble

by Ashley Bostock

“That’s no joke.” He turned to her and raised his eyebrow, his mouth turning up into a sardonic smile.

  Who did he think he was? “Oh no. You don’t get to judge me. Especially since you’re a big ole boss man. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be getting into fist fights. It will be all over the local papers by tomorrow.”

  “It’s probably already on the internet somewhere. I don’t care. I created the company. I can do what I want. The board isn’t going to fire me.”

  Maybe he was right. She couldn’t imagine any board of directors being happy about their leader being caught up in gossip and fist fights though. But who was she kidding, he probably had enough money that he didn’t have to worry about being fired either way. About anything, really. If not forever, for a long, long time.

  “Let me clean it up for you.”

  “Fine,” he said, surprising her.

  He led her down the hallway and into his bedroom. An extra-large bed sat in the center of the room, between two dark nightstands. An impressively sized dresser with an equally large mirror sat against the wall and next to that was a large sitting area with an electric fireplace. It was decorated very nicely but lacked character. It looked like the rest of his place—impersonal and void of anything that might hint at Michael’s personality or preferences—until her eyes settled on the book he had lying on his nightstand. Gone with the Wind. Was he reading that because of her? She gazed at the poufy gray duvet and the stark, mostly bare walls as she followed him into his bathroom. Naturally, it was larger than her apartment. Large stone tiles lined the floor, massive mirrors hung above the sinks and there was a bathtub—a bathtub she doubted he ever enjoyed—that resembled a small hot-tub and a towering stone wall which she assumed was the shower.

  She’d never seen anything like it. Ever. Maybe in a movie before, but never in real life. She resisted the urge to peek around the stone wall to see what hid behind it. Luxurious shampoo and conditioners, bath soaps and loofahs galore…Who was she kidding? Michael was the ‘in and out’ type of guy. There was probably a bar of soap and one bottle of shampoo. She could only imagine what the shower nozzle looked like. She could guarantee it wasn’t the water saver kind her electrical company sent her last summer to conserve water and thus, lower her bill. Nope. This man probably let shocking amounts of water run over his body while he showered. Sophia swallowed down the arousal that started in her toes, hoping it wasn’t showing on her face.

  He pulled out a washcloth from one of the cabinet drawers and some antiseptic and sat on the edge of the bathtub, their fingers brushing as he handed her both items. If he was so angry with her, she wasn't sure why he was letting her do this. She concluded that somewhere deep in his heart, he didn’t entirely believe that she was after his money. He wasn’t being nice necessarily, but he was being more than what he had been doing—ignoring her calls for the past few weeks.

  This up-close, the heat between them was still there. Her blood pounded through her body, and tension coiled between them so snugly she thought she might burst. It was still there, heating her insides, warming her in places she had never wanted any man to touch the way she wanted him to touch her. She set the pleasant feelings aside as she tended to his minor wound. He wouldn’t look at her, his gaze cast down in the vicinity of Sophia’s chest.

  “The cut isn’t as bad as it looks.” Sophia told him.

  She applied the antiseptic onto the wash cloth and dabbed at his eyebrow. She reveled in the way she felt between his legs, practically folded up into the warmth of his body as she tended to his wound. No words were spoken between them, and she took great care in taking her sweet time. It was slightly satisfying that he’d gotten into this fight if only because she was there to help.

  “There.” Sophia rested her hand on his shoulder and looked at her handy work. Much better. “Would you like a Band-Aid over it?”

  His chuckle rumbled in his chest and everything between them felt so real, it was breaking those chunks out of her heart again.

  “I don’t need a Band-Aid.” Michael’s hand came up and gripped her waist, sending electrical currents through her body. He had to know it. But just as quickly as he made contact, he pulled away.

  “Michael,” Sophia whispered, her heart in her throat. She wanted him to touch her, hold her, set her on his lap and ask for forgiveness for not giving her a chance to explain away their misunderstanding. She wanted to go back to where they were before. Mostly, she wanted to get rid of the grim expression on his face as he watched her.

  “Don’t,” he said tightly.

  Sophia gave a choked, desperate laugh. “No, Michael. Listen to me. Please. I don’t want you for your money. Who told you that?”

  He gently nudged her away and stood from the edge of the tub, putting plenty of distance between them by walking into his bedroom. “Mindy. But isn’t it true, Sophia? You took the money. Quick as that.” He snapped his fingers, and it was she who flinched that time.

  Anger flooded through her. She crowded into him, poking a finger into his hard, muscular chest. “No, Michael, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t want to dance for you, remember? I said no. You threatened my job to Jericho if I didn’t do it! Then you have the gall to believe all I’m after is your money? This is your fault, Michael! You took something good, and you ruined it. Maybe that’s what you do! Why you don’t have anything good in your life besides work? Because you take all of the good things and you ruin them!”

  Michael’s voice rose, matching her own. “She came to me with proof. Proof you verified when you took the cash!”

  “What proof?” Sophia threw the words at him like stones. “I took the cash because I needed it! I don’t live like you, Michael. I don’t have billions of dollars at my beck and call. I have real financial problems that aren’t going to go away. I have a grandma whose health is failing, prescriptions for her that aren’t covered by insurance, rent on a shitty-ass apartment. I scrounge money to save so I’m able to take a single nursing class every semester. At this rate, I’ll be a nurse when I’m like fifty! I have real financial issues and real emotions. I don’t have the luxury to donate millions of dollars to the Art Foundation and have my name on some stupid plaque without ever having met the children whose lives are being changed by that place. I have to put shit on my kitchen counters because I don’t have unlimited cabinet space to store things. I don’t hide behind some rich façade of billionaire status where having framed photographs and real mementos around my house might be too tacky or taboo or whatever the hell your reason is for living so aloof!”

  Her shoulders fell as she sucked in a deep breath. Boy, that felt good. In fact, it felt so good that it dawned on her in that moment, her chest heaving, his dark eyes blazing into hers, that the two of them were completely different people living one-hundred percent different lives. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Oh, God, What the hell was she doing there? There was no way a relationship could ever work between them. He didn’t understand how she lived, and he never would.

  She held her shoulders up at the thought of what he really must think of her crappy apartment where he picked her up. He probably pulled up that first night appalled at the sight before him. Probably was equally disgusted with her temporary career choice – unless it was him getting the show. That’s how most men were in her experience. The sad part was that it took her coming over tonight to figure it out. With surprising clarity, she understood it—accepted it even, with him coming from a place as fancy as this.

  “Why didn’t you—”

  She silenced him with a shake of her head. She laughed humorlessly, “Oh my gosh. This is crazy. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. This was so stupid of me to come here and try to convince you how wrong you are about me—”

  Sophia started to head out of the bathroom to see herself out of his house. Michael laid a gentle hand on her arm as she neared his bedroom door. “Wait. I’m used to women taking advantage of me. Because of who I am. Of my money. Why didn’t you
tell me you were a stripper?”

  “Why? Because Michael, look at you! Look around you. A stripper has no place here.” Sophia choked on the words as she said them. “You need someone like you who doesn’t mind hiding coffee pots and dish towels. Someone who doesn’t have a need for a potato masher. You do know what a potato masher is, right?” She made a gesture of holding something and mashing it down into her other palm. “Okay, that’s beside the point. Look, you wouldn’t have given me a second thought if I’d told you that first night what I did for a living. Would you have? Honestly, would you have?”

  He hesitated. “No. No, I wouldn’t have.”

  “Why?” She flung out her hands in despair.

  He inched closer to her. She stepped back, and he moved forward. Two more steps like that and her calves brushed against his bed. Her heart beat was so loud she was sure he could hear it.

  “I wouldn’t have given you a second chance because when I have a woman I want, I want her to be mine. Completely mine. Showing her body only to me, no one else. Do you get that, Sophia?”

  Oh, she got it. She wanted that, too. She didn’t want to show anyone but him—was practically craving to show him. The feeling of want, need, of only to be Michael’s made her insides spark like crazy. The dark glint in his eyes as he whispered those jealous, yet oddly attractive words to her, left her speechless. She nodded as she thought about what he was saying.

  “So what that means is you couldn’t be a stripper if you were my girl. I want my woman to dance for me. Only me. To jiggle her breasts, spread her legs, in my face only. No one else’s, Sophia.”

  Sophia’s throat felt like sandpaper causing her to be temporarily speechless and she felt the sweet strings of arousal tugging between her legs and she longed for the protectiveness of his arms around her.

  “I don’t like to share my woman. Simple as that. You’re smart and beautiful. Asshole men would be all over you. Especially with tits as firm and plump and as sweet as yours.”

  His breath fanned her face as her nipples strained against the sheer cloth of her bra, silently begging for him to touch them. It astonished her how he managed to take her feelings from one plane to another in a matter of minutes. Who was she kidding? Seconds. Her heart ached beneath her taut breasts. Her clit pulsed with the same achy beat as her heart.

  “That about sums up our relationship then, doesn’t it? I have to work. I’m not giving up my dream to become a nurse for anyone.” Her body betrayed her as her hands hesitated to push him out of her way. This close, she could see every spark in his eyes, every shard of gold fleck and it was making her crazy. Finally, she managed to put some space between them.

  “Sophia—”

  “No, Michael. Coming here tonight made me realize how different we live. It showed me how you still allow Mindy to control you – that you possibly still even have feelings for her. It showed me what having money is all about. Superficial bullshit. Goodbye, Michael.”

  Her body screamed at her to stay as she forcefully put one foot in front of the other and without looking back, without stopping when he called after her in anguish, Sophia left his penthouse and headed out into the crisp, snowy night.

  Alone like she’d always been.

  Seemingly, the one constant she could count on.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It had been two weeks since Sophia stormed out of the penthouse. Two weeks that Michael contemplated everything she’d said. Mulling it over and over in his mind. Which was why he was on his way to the Art Center. Regina didn’t even bother to hide her amusement when he told her he was leaving work early to go to the Art Center to volunteer. Yeah, him. Volunteer. He hadn’t set aside time to volunteer for the past three years, especially for the charities and organizations he gave money to. He assumed giving them money was great enough. That was the bottom line, right? As long as they had the money, they’d have the means to do what they needed. Wrong. Apparently having volunteers was just as important, if not more, than money because they could have all the money in the world and without volunteers, there would be nothing.

  Or so Regina had kindly informed him.

  Which was an important point Michael would have to bring up to Cole if he was seriously considering the women’s shelter organization for those who were victims of domestic violence. Michael wasn't opposed to something like that, but gaining local support was going to have to be a major factor. Pure cash wasn’t going to be good enough.

  He’d shown up in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt he’d found in his closet. Stupidly, he’d given Aslan a three-week vacation and had been managing to get himself around town. Well, almost. He’d donned a hat and a scarf and had taken the bus a few days ago and frankly, there were certain things Michael was not willing to give up. Since that moment of weakness, he’d been taking cabs everywhere he needed to go.

  There was only so much he could change about himself.

  Michael had considered buying a car to drive around while Aslan was gone, but Sophia’s rueful gaze kept appearing in his mind, reminding him how some people didn’t just have billions of dollars to spend. Regretfully, there he was, slumming it with public transportation. He paid the cab and stepped out into the lightly falling snow.

  He made his way inside the Art Center where he’d taken Sophia on their first date and immediately came face-to-face with an overly large African American woman in scrubs with her hands on her hips, her mouth in a grim line. Shit. Maybe this was a bad idea.

  “I’m Michael Vilander.” He smiled going full out on the charm.

  “I know who you are. You’re late.”

  “By two minutes.”

  “You’re still late. Don’t be late again, or I won’t allow you to volunteer.”

  “I—”

  “I don’t put up with back talk, either. Most women might swoon over you, Mr. Vilander, and do whatever you want, but not me. When you’re under this roof volunteering, you’ll do what I say. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He sighed.

  “Good.” She smiled. “I’m the Volunteer Coordinator, Charlet Andrews. Now, follow me.”

  This could be a long day. Michael followed her to the far side of the building. He’d been in this direction before, but it was a long time ago when most of the building had been in a sad state of disrepair. Drywall had been replaced—patched and fixed. New windows had been installed, and the lighting was no longer blindingly bright and impersonal.

  “This is the east hallway. Thanks to monetary donors like yourself, we’re starting to get it back into shape. This room here is where you will start.”

  All the walls in the room were made up of old concrete blocks and had already been painted white by another lucky volunteer. The carpeting was torn up in certain spots, deep stains covered the rest. Someone had already started painting color on one of the walls.

  “See the pattern? One of our volunteers has already begun, but we’d like the entire room like this. There’s the paint and brushes over there and the ladder when you need it. We’ll take you for as long as you can help.”

  What had he gotten himself into? Why did he feel the need to prove to Sophia that he wasn't just a shell with money? Was he trying to prove that to himself or to her? He eyed the wall critically. Starting from the bottom, every square from the left corner, went up in a diagonal direction and was painted one color giving the effect of a rainbow. Michael had never painted in his adult life. Ever. Never needed to. How hard could it be though? All he’d have to do was copy the painted wall with the provided colors. Hell, he’d have it done in no time.

  “Okay. It shouldn’t take me long. Shall I come find you when I’m done?”

  “Nope. I’ll see you when you come back.” She laughed and added, “If you can last.”

  She scurried out, leaving Michael with the paint. Of course he'd last. He was Michael Vilander. He ran a highly successful fucking company. This would be a breeze compared to that.

  Three hours later, he stopped. His
shoulders ached, and his hands felt numb from holding the brush. Not to mention that they were every color of the rainbow. His jeans were ruined, and what he'd painted didn't even look that great. Half the wall had been done and he had no clue how the person who did the other wall managed to get their squares so much better than his. The wall he’d started looked like shit. Absolute shit. There was paint run-off from almost every square where he was unable to keep it on the block and it had gotten into the grooves that separated the blocks. He could see where the colors overlapped from some of the blocks and dripped on to the flooring. Thankfully that was going to be redone or he imagined he’d be in a lot of trouble with Charlet.

  Michael looked around the room. What did he do with the paint brushes? Spotting the plastic trash bin on the far side of the room, Michael chucked them inside and called it a day. He was exhausted. Walking down the dim hallway he couldn’t help the satisfaction he felt over having done something useful. He’d never felt like that before. He’d done things for work but nothing that required giving without receiving anything for it. Donating money used to make him feel good until Sophia pointed out what it meant to give without money.

  He stepped outside, and the light snow from before had turned into a full-on blizzard. Large flakes swirled around him, making him blink as his vision got lost in the onslaught of the flakes as they fell and swirled around him. He pulled out his phone to call the cab company he’d used to drop him off, and the lady promised they’d send someone as soon as possible. With the snow, they were pretty backed up. Since Michael had no jacket he went back to the front doors of the art center and let out a curse when he found them already locked.

  Time went by, and he managed to stand against the building close enough that the snow didn’t swirl into him. After two more calls to the cab company and one more to a different one, both promised they’d be there soon, he finally bucked up and began walking back to his penthouse. By the time he got home, his shoes soaked, jeans wet and ruined and nothing could get him to stop shivering, he realized that karma was a bitch.