by Nikki Chase
I can’t just sit by and watch while the pale paws of sedentary Internet weirdos dirty her up, can I?
I can stop Sarah. Peter would’ve wanted me to do that.
A cynical voice inside me accuses, you’re just jealous because you can’t have her all to yourself.
Well, maybe so. But this counts as taking care of Sarah, right? That was what Peter wanted. He wrote it down and everything.
Yes.
I’ll do this.
I sit upright and grab the mouse, then click the “Private Message” button.
Oh, little Sarah Ellis. Looks like you’re all grown up. If only we could play some adult games together, doll.
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Bonus: Guilty
A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
Prologue
What just happened?
Everything’s dark. Black.
There is some red too, running down my face, turning my vision into a pink, hazy blur.
Out of nowhere, a completely irrelevant thought slips into my mind: This is probably not what people have in mind when they say “rose-tinted glasses.”
There’s more red splattered on the ground, countless little droplets of it covering tiny shards of glass.
I can even taste that red in my mouth. It’s a lot like rust.
Water.
I need water. I need to wash down that metallic taste.
But where?
I need to get up and fix this. Whatever’s happening, it’s not good.
I focus on the tips of my fingers and will them to move.
Why is it so hard? It shouldn’t be this hard.
With horror, I watch my fingers twitch weakly through my foggy vision.
That’s the best I can do? When I’m exerting all my strength?
Help. Somebody.
I need help.
Is there even anybody around?
Everything within my eyesight is covered by a pink cloud.
It’s like one of those pictures that people take with expensive cameras where everything in the background is unclear.
Except my sense of sight is not supposed to show still pictures. My eyes are supposed to be able to refocus.
But all I can see are my hands, just inches from my face. And I can’t even move them.
God. Whatever this is, I hope it’s temporary.
Sometimes, in my more morbid moments, I’ve thought about which of my five senses would be the worst to lose. The answer is always eyesight.
I wouldn’t mind losing my hearing as much. At least as a deaf person I’d still be able to walk places.
It all feels like a joke right now, because none of my five senses is working.
I feel like I’m underwater. I can’t see or hear anything. Not clearly, anyway.
I can still breathe, although my lungs feel like they’ve been crushed. I once watched this show on Discovery Channel with old cars being flattened into cubes by huge metal plates. That’s kinda like how my lungs feel right now.
But I’m still breathing, so I’m probably above ground. That’s one good thing, at least.
My ears are ringing. Instead of the cacophony of noises I’m used to hearing in the city, there’s just a single high-pitched tone.
Wait.
Is someone touching my arm?
I can’t see any moving shadows in front of me. Whoever’s touching me must be behind me.
I close my eyes and strain my ears to listen.
“…okay.” A woman’s voice. It sounds close and far away at the same time.
I force my mouth to open and manage to let out a small groan.
The hand on my bare arm strokes my skin soothingly.
“You’ve been…going to be okay…hospital…”
I can only make out a few words. Sounds like they’re the important words, though.
My heart is still racing, but cold anxiety slowly drains out of my body when someone throws a soft blanket over me. I let the warmth seep into my skin as my thoughts drift away to a happier place.
Cole
“Hi, Cole.” A girl appears from the darkness and hooks her hand around my arm. “Long time no see.”
Three minutes. A personal time record from just walking through the door of a bar to having some girl attach herself to my person.
“I’ve been busy,” I say. I don’t remember her, but then I don’t remember most girls. I sit down at the bar and she follows, planting her ass on the high stool next to mine.
“I’ve missed you,” she says, pouting her glossy pink lips and fluttering her fake eyelashes. Studying her face, I wonder if she’d be more attractive without all those layers of make-up. “Where have you been?”
“Well, I’m here now,” I say. I raise one hand to catch the bartender’s attention. Maybe if I ignore her she'll leave me alone. “Does it matter where I’ve been?”
“Not really,” she says, pulling my upper arm closer and pressing them between her tits, which are almost spilling over her black corset. “It’s just been so boring without you.”
I give her a polite smile, and she blushes and looks away. What is it with girls who hit on you and then act all coy when you’re only trying to be friendly? It’s fake as fuck.
But then again, what isn’t fake these days? Fake girls with fake lashes, fake tits, fake lips, and fake personalities. I haven’t admitted this to anybody, but I may be getting too old for this shit.
I should be worried. I’m only twenty-seven, after all. And I happen to have a reputation. Some people would be seriously concerned about my well-being if they heard about me losing interest in women.
I usually take pride in the quality of my work with the ladies. I get drunk on hearing my name on the lips of naked, sweat-covered, writhing women as they scream out prayers and profanities all at once.
They’d rave to their friends about their toe-curling orgasms. That’s how I get a stellar track record and repeat customers.
Business and women — they’re not so different after all.
I just find myself preoccupied with the former rather than the latter lately, especially now that I have my own project that’s separate from the family business, and it’s beginning to take off.
“Hey, Mr. Big Shot,” Shelley says as she approaches me from behind the bar. She glances at the girl hanging possessively on my arm and shoots me a sympathetic look. “The usual tonight?”
“You know it. And whatever this lady wants.” I’ve been taught to always offer a round to company when I drink. If my mother were still alive, she would’ve found it unbearably rude of me if I didn’t offer the girl a drink.
“A Macallan coming right up,” Shelley says. She turns her attention to the girl. “And for you?”
“Cosmopolitan,” she says as she tightens her possessive hold around my arm. I was hoping to have a quiet, relaxing drink tonight, but I guess that’s not going to happen now.
“Good choice,” Shelley says.
Tall and statuesque with a supermodel strut, Shelley must make women jealous all the time. We had some fun as friends with benefits years ago. Those were good times. The benefits disappeared when she met her boyfriend, but the friendship remains.
That’s the perfect relationship in my books. No fuss, no drama, and no messy loose ends.
Too many girls think “just sex” really means “it’s only a matter of time before we fall madly in love with each other.” And then when I don’t catch feelings on their schedule, somehow I’m the bad guy. Don’t blame me for sticking to the initial agreement.
And that’s why the girl sitting next to me now is a no go, even if I were in the mood tonight. Everything about her screams “trouble.”
She has the crazy eyes. I have no doubt in my mind that she’d be one of those girls who’d end up trying to stab me with the kitchen knife or dousing herself in gaso
line just to get some attention. I’ve had too many close calls with her kind to ever give it another try.
Seeing my pained expression, Shelley suppresses a smile. She slides the drinks onto the counter and takes the bills in my hand. Her eyes glint with cheer when she checks out how much I’m tipping. Maybe Shelley only likes me for my generous tips, but it doesn’t matter. Everybody uses everybody else in some way.
“Just so you know, Rick’s here.” She winks. That’s one perk of having Shelley on my side — excellent service from someone who knows exactly what I want.
I mouth her a silent thank you before she turns around and walks away to serve the fat middle-aged guy who has been leering at her ass and shouting obnoxiously to get her attention.
That’s a special kind of workplace hazard that attractive bartenders all over the world suffer. Shelley once admitted that it’s annoying, but she gets more tips when she dresses up in revealing clothes, and the money makes it worthwhile.
A few seats further from the dirty old man, I spot Rick, partially hidden in the shadows.
“Hey, Rick!” I wave at him and motion for him to come over. He grins and picks up his drink. A few people turn to look at him when he stands up to his full height.
“Hey, man,” he says as he takes a seat beside the girl who’s still hanging on my arm, his shoulders hunched over his drink. “How’s life?”
“Oh, you know. No rest for the wicked.”
“Your father keeping you busy, huh?”
“As usual,” I say.
I don’t have many friends, and Rick is not exactly a friend, but we do sometimes bump into each other here at The Amber Room and chat about stuff.
“Have you met this lady?” I gesture toward the girl, hoping she doesn’t catch on to the fact that I don’t remember her name. But even if she does, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.
“No, I can’t say that I have.” Rick extends a hand toward her. “Hi, I’m Rick.”
“Angela,” she says, shaking his hand.
“I’ve seen you around here before,” Rick says, giving her his signature smile.
“Yeah,” Angela says. “I do come here quite a lot.”
“How do you know Cole?” Rick maintains eye contact with Angela. Despite his height-related awkwardness, Rick has never had a problem getting laid, thanks to his disarming charm and natural interest in people.
“Oh.” She looks down, seemingly studying the knots in the solid wood bar counter in front of us. “We, uh, met here.”
“I see,” Rick says, giving me a quick wink before turning his attention back to her. “Just like we just have.”
“I guess so,” Angela giggles. She slowly loosens her grip on my arm and I inch away from her, letting Rick’s charm do its magic.
I knew Rick was going to distract her. The guy gets along with everybody. And he’s always up for a chat — or more — with any decent-looking girl.
I wait for a few minutes before making a big show out of checking the watch on my wrist.
“Hey, you guys have fun. I need to be somewhere else now.” I exhale loudly to make it seem like I hate having to leave.
I’m not crazy about talking business with my father, but it has to be better than this boring small talk.
“Oh, already?” Rick says the words he’s supposed to say, but he knows I planned to ditch them from the beginning. He’s obviously glad to have some alone time with Angela.
“Yeah.” I pull out my phone and see there are already three text messages from my father. “They’re probably already waiting for me.”
“Alright man,” Rick says. “See you around.”
“See you,” I say. “Good to see you again, Angela.”
I turn around without waiting for her reply. It’s hard to read her expression in the dark, and I don’t care about anything she has to say anyway. I breathe a sigh of relief as I make my way toward the exit.
And that’s when I see her.
She’s all legs, with a tight little ass and perky tits. Her slender body is wrapped in a skin-tight, knee-length red dress with a black ribbon around her waist that forms a bow at the front. Just the right balance between sexy and classy.
Damn. She looks like a present ready for me to unwrap.
She has voluminous blonde waves so glossy I’m sure they’d feel like heaven wrapped around my fist. Full lips that would look so fucking sexy gasping in the night air when I expose her long neck and bite down.
An overwhelming urge comes over me. I want to grab both her arms, pin her to the wall, and take her right there, in front of everyone. It’s been a long time since a woman elicited that kind of reaction from me. I can feel myself growing hard in my pants.
I stop my legs from automatically following her. Don’t be crazy, I tell myself.
I glance at my watch again. The little metal hands glow in the dim light, telling me I’m already fifteen minutes late.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath. I can already hear Pop’s voice telling me to think with my big head, not my small one. And I haven’t even done anything to warrant his lecture tonight.
When I look up, she’s gone. As I scan the room, I can only see the usual faces in the dim light of The Amber Room.
I have no choice but to leave now. Walking out into the balmy spring air, I swear I’ll find her again. She’s awakened my hunting instinct.
Emily
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
I look up at the stars winking in the velvet sky. I study the colors. It’s beautiful, the way the stars bleach the space around them almost white, and the way the sky gradually changes from light blue, to dark navy, and then to almost inky black.
We lie awake in the darkness, letting silence take over.
We’ve been here for a while now, only occasionally moving to adjust the blanket underneath us. There was a bee trapped between the grass and our blanket before, and we laughed while we staged a mini search-and-rescue mission.
But now it’s just the two of us, hands clasped together while the light summer wind swirls around us, caressing our skin.
This is nice, I think to myself. I think I’m actually happy. Happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
Slowly, everything blurs as water fills my eyes, the droplets streaming down past my temples and falling onto our picnic blanket. I turn to look at him and smile. I can’t help it. Looking at him makes me smile.
His eyes are closed. His thick, sandy brown hair is usually long enough to touch his shoulders, but now it fans out on the blanket. A few strands float in the warm breeze.
I turn onto my side and face him. I stroke his hair — I know he likes that. My index finger traces the curve of his forehead, the angle of his nose, the softness of his cheeks.
God, I love this man. I love him so much just looking at him pains me sometimes. Not because he hurts me — he’d never do anything like that. But, as cheesy as it sounds, my feelings for him are so intense sometimes it feels like my heart could burst from the fullness.
He turns his head to look at me and notices the wet streaks across my face. But he doesn’t have to ask to know they’re not sad tears. He smiles at me tenderly, then reaches out and wipes my tears with his warm fingers.
We gaze into each other’s eyes and luxuriate in our oneness. I can read his thoughts and reach into his soul, and he can do the same with me. He knows me, all of me, and he’s still here, looking at me like I’m the best thing he’s ever laid eyes on.
On a night like this, we don’t need words.
And yet the words are bubbling up inside me, begging to be spoken into the world.
“I love you,” I want to say, but my voice won’t come out.
I search for my voice inside my chest and my throat. But it’s not there. I can’t get it out.
I take a deep breath and force my vocal cords to vibrate, and I hear a soft moan in my own voice.
I can do this.
“Ahhh…”
I hear myself speak, and m
y eyes slowly open.
The stars have disappeared, and so has the man.
I’m in my bedroom, all alone in the desolate darkness of the city.
Fuck. Not again.
Tears flow, unbidden. From my eyes, through my hair, and into my pillow. Tears of sadness, of loss.
It’s been more than a year. These pangs of agony don’t torture me every minute of every day anymore, but they appear out of the blue sometimes and destroy all the emotional progress I’ve made.
Sometimes I feel like he’s still around, like he’s watching over me, trying to make sure I’m okay. I used to look out the window a lot, hoping to catch him in the act.
But that’s just crazy talk.
I pull out some Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and blow my blocked nose. I have to be able to breathe if I want to go back to sleep.
I steer my thoughts toward other things.
Like work. That’s a good thing to obsess over. I finally have a good starting point — a beginning to a potentially wonderful career instead of another shitty, dead-end job.
I turn my phone on and find the article I was reading before I fell asleep. Seven Interview Tips That Will Get You the Job. I let the words fill my head and make my eyelids grow heavy…
“Emily!”
I sigh. Do we really need to do this every day?
“Yeah,” I mumble as loudly as I can, fighting my morning lethargy.
“Em!” Footsteps get closer to the bedroom door. I know what’s coming before the knocking starts.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” I say, hopefully loud enough for my sister to hear from the other side of the door.
“Yay!” Alice cheers and stops the loud knocking. It’s not something I like to admit after everything she’s done for me, but the cheerfulness in her voice grates on me sometimes, just a little bit. Especially in the mornings. “I made you waffles for breakfast.”
“Okay,” I say, yawning and rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
I sit up and check my phone. Two more minutes until my alarm. Damn it, Alice. I turn the alarm off and walk toward the bathroom.
