When I Say Yes

by Lisa Renee Jones

  I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up a finger. “He won’t get the chance to attack my father or us. Brandon’s going to get a very lucrative offer to work in a European publishing office. There’s no way he’ll decline.”

  “This feels too good for him. And even so, how can we even be sure he accepts the offer? He’s a real football and apple pie kind of guy.”

  “Neil was able to easily find dirt on him. Brandon will discover just how much he needs to leave the country tomorrow.”

  “What kind of dirt?”

  “I’d rather you not know in case you ever have to testify to that effect.”

  My hand goes to my neck. “Good Lord. I almost married him. How bad is it?”

  “Dirty and ugly. But it works for us. This plan, this solution, works out well for him and us. He leaves. We get rid of him. And while I’d prefer to let him wallow in his fear after finding out he’s been exposed, while freaking out over what comes next, I want him out of our lives now, not later. We can choose war or peace, Allie. I choose peace for our sake, not for his. If he still chooses war, the gloves are off and I promise you my bare-knuckle brawl is better than his.”

  The problem with this statement is that he’s convinced this will never come to that. I, on the other hand, am not. Brandon’s devious. He’s the devil. I’m not sure he’ll leave the country. Will Dash win a war? Yes. Will Brandon hurt him in the process? He might, and that’s my fear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “The greater our knowledge increases the more our ignorance unfolds.”

  –John F. Kennedy

  That quote was in a high-profile book I once edited on the history of the presidency. To me, this translates as a willingness to be dumb and blind, and therefore, we have an excuse for being ignorant. It’s a form of hiding, as is running. I decide that the only way to quell my fears over Brandon lashing out at Dash is either by way of time passing without trouble ensuing, or by arming myself with knowledge, which I’ve always considered a form of power. Therefore, I focus on knowledge.

  I read Dash’s entire interview, starting with the rapidfire questions.

  Q: What, or who, inspired Ghost?

  A: My work experience, a love for movies, books, and an obsession with both the Bond movies and Dexter. Bond is a larger-than-life character, but he is almost too perfect, and a bit sterile, an emotionless machine. Dexter, on the other hand, IS emotionless. He’s a killer, after all, but somehow the writers make you root for him. That’s brilliance. When you can make a viewer root for a killer, you’ve honed your craft.

  He’s absolutely accurate and he could be speaking of himself. Dash has honed his craft. He created Ghost, an assassin, a cold-blooded killer, and managed to make us all root for him. That requires a gift, a magical way of crafting words. He’s a warrior with a pen, but he’s also a warrior for those he loves. And yet, his father would have us all believe he all but shoved his brother behind the wheel of a car and forced him to drive drunk. I will never believe such a thing.

  Ever.

  I move on to the next question and forget about seeking knowledge to fight Brandon. The next question is: What scares you, Dash?

  A: Mushrooms. They’re disgusting.

  It’s a slick answer that is no answer at all. Death scares him, and not his own.

  I keep reading, and by the time I’m done, I recognize how much Dash’s words, both dictated, written, and spoken, speak to me beyond the surface. I understand him. I know him beyond what I’d know of any other person I knew for the exact amount of time.

  I don’t realize how long I’ve been absorbed in a short-written interview until Dash sets a cup of coffee in front of me. “Thank you,” I say, glancing over at him.

  “Any suggestions?”

  “None. You handle reporters with the same finesse you have in writing a book. How in the world did you make this happen so quickly?” I ask.

  “Bella,” he says. “I mentioned being willing to bare-knuckle brawl. She’s a pretty good bare-knuckle brawler herself. But my father’s predictability helped. I knew he wasn’t behind that bullshit signing. I also knew he wouldn’t let Brandon get away with setting us up, either. As for the rapidfire speed to go along with the rapidfire questions, I did the interview all on text and email today at the coffee shop.”

  He jumped through hoops, and guilt stabs at me. “Thank you, Dash. And I’m sorry again about all of this. I should have dealt with him properly and none of this would have happened.”

  “You have nothing to thank me for or apologize for, Allie. As for Brandon, you owed that little bastard nothing but goodbye. This isn’t your mistake, it’s his, which is why he’s about to get the shit scared out of him. He’s not your father. The two situations are not the same.”

  “They’re both things I ran from. I didn’t finish the story.”

  “Yes, you did. You wrote the ending. He tried to change it. What would you have done differently with Brandon?”

  “Besides never saying yes to anything with him?” I ask, without expecting an answer. “I don’t know,” I add. “I guess nothing.”

  “Exactly,” he replies. “He blamed you for foiling his plan to use you. That’s on him, not you. When there’s a snake coming at you, you cut off his head. That’s what you did.”

  “No,” I correct. “That’s what you’re doing.”

  “You had no reason to believe an ending wasn’t an ending with him. On the other hand, you do with your father. You don’t feel right about how you ended your relationship with him. Does he deserve another chance to make things right with you? If you truly don’t know the entire story about what happened between him and Brandon, then maybe. I don’t know. And neither do you right now. You want to know and that’s what matters.”

  “Are you comfortable with how things ended with your father, Dash?”

  His fingers flex where they rest on my leg. “You know he blames me for my brother’s death. There’s really no coming back or together from that for either of us.”

  I remembered the look on his father’s face when he looked at Dash and it was nothing short of contempt. So many words come to my tongue, only to be swallowed before spoken. I settle on, “I want to ask questions. You know I want to ask questions.”

  His chin lifts, his gaze reaching for the sky right through the ceiling before he meets my stare, and he lets me see the pain in his eyes as he says, “Like my father, my brother had a drinking problem that escalated when he joined me at college. I was young. I thought it was just the whole college party thing, but it grew tiresome. I babysat him all the damn time. That night we were at the same party. I’m the older brother. He got behind the wheel. And the only person who hates me more than I hate myself for letting that happen is my father.”

  And therefore, he punishes himself, in a fight club and with someone else’s fist, and of course, that need for pain is driven by his admitted self-hate. As for his father, he could have helped Dash move forward from the loss, he could have loved the son he has left on this earth, and held him close. Instead, he shoved a blade into his heart and that blade cuts him over and over again.

  I climb onto Dash’s lap, straddling his hips, and press my hands to his handsome face. “You are not to blame and I will tell you that over and over if that’s what it takes to make you forgive yourself.”

  He rolls me to my back and settles on top of me, his breath warm, his body hard. “For how many days, Allie?”

  “What does that mean, Dash?” I whisper.

  “For a month? For a year? For three years? For the rest of your life? Because this is not going away. Ever, Allie. It’s not going away.”

  But he thinks I will. That’s what he’s telling me. And I’m not sure anything but full disclosure about what created his father’s accusations and his guilt, which he hasn’t yet given me, will convince him otherwise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Because this is not going away.

  With Dash still on top of me, hi
s mouth a breath from mine, those words radiate between us. “This” I am certain is not just the death of his brother, but his own self-hate, his guilt.

  I barely have time to digest the darkness in those words before he’s kissing me, ravenous, hungry, tormented. I kiss him back, trying to answer a question it feels like he’s asking, without ever asking it. Will I stay? Will I still love him if I know everything about that night his brother died because I don’t yet? My fingers dive into his hair, my body arches against his. A rush of heat and need overcomes us, consuming us. His emotions are a current tugging me under, and I drown in them, live in them, feel them in every way possible. I am lost in Dash and I barely know how we end up naked. He touches me all over, his hand settling on my breast, fingers on my nipple, his cock thick and hard between my legs, pressing into the slick, wet heat of my sex.

  I gasp with the feel of him entering me, and gasp again as he drives hard and deep, and sensations rocket through me. What follows is nothing that I have ever known with Dash or any other man. It’s fucking. It’s lovemaking.

  We move together, we sway together, we grind and pant and demand from each other. Every touch is fire. Every move is wicked. Every sensation greater than the one before it. I crave the moment I shatter. I dread the moment this is over. And yet it must end and before I can delay that inevitable, I shatter, the low groan of Dash’s pleasure melding with my own. Time stands still until my body relaxes into the cushion, and he shifts slightly to rest his weight on his side, but stays on top of me.

  “I don’t want children, Allie. You need to know that.” He pulls back to look at me. “That won’t change.”

  We’ve gone for torment and guilt every day of our lives to kids and he expects a negative reaction. “I’ve never even thought about having kids, Dash.”

  He grabs a tissue from the box on the end table, offering it to me before he pulls out and sits up, but he stays right there, elbows on his knees. I clean up and pull a blanket around my shoulders, and sit next to him. “One day you’ll think about kids, Allie.”

  My stomach flip flops and not in a good way. “Why do I feel like you’re looking for a reason to leave, Dash?”

  He glances over at me. “I’m trying to make you happy.”

  “You make me happy. I come from a broken home, Dash. I love my mother, but she pined for my father, and it affected my childhood. I’m not thinking about my biological clock.”

  He presses his lips together and looks away. “My father and brother are alcoholics. I control it with physical activity, I rarely overindulge in alcohol, but I’m fucked up. I know this.” He looks at me again. “Too much to be a father.”

  “This isn’t an issue.”

  “Did you talk about kids with Brandon?”

  “Actually, no. We never talked about kids.”

  “If I put you in a room with my father, he’d make you hate me.”

  He is naked in every way, exposed, vulnerable, and still affected by that encounter between me and his father at the signing. “Never.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Then why don’t you put me in a room with your father and find out?”

  He drapes his arm around me and pulls me close, his hand on my face, tilting my gaze to his. “Because I don’t want you to hate me.”

  My heart squeezes with the rawness of his tone. “You do enough of that for the whole planet, Dash. You think I haven’t conjured up ideas about what happened and why you feel guilty? I’m still here, Dash. I’m not going anywhere. I can handle this. I promise.”

  “Until you can’t.”

  “Don’t do that. Not to me and not to yourself.”

  “I’m never telling Bella what happened that night. He was my father and stepmother’s son. She wasn’t close to him. What she did to help him was for me and because she’s a good person. She doesn’t need to know.”

  “I won’t tell her,” I vow. “That’s between you and her, Dash. I will never break your trust.”

  “I know that but Allie, I’m just not ready to tell you everything.”

  He didn’t say, “I’m never telling you,” which is more than I expected. I press my hand to his face and say, “I know and it’s okay. Maybe one day you will. Maybe you won’t.” I stop myself there, though I really want to tell him that I can’t fully help him cope with whatever he feels if I don’t understand where those emotions come from.

  “One day,” he says softly.

  “Let’s go home,” is my reply. “I’ll call Mark and talk to him about my job and then let’s just go home.”

  “God, yes,” he replies. “Let’s go home. I’ll arrange our flight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “After all this time, I know exactly where I belong.”

  —Meg Rosoff

  The day I arrived in New York City, my eyes were filled with the wonders of a city that was all bright lights, opportunity, and adventure, a place I was now to call home. Today, the day I will soon leave and no longer call it home, I feel no regret. Not for coming. And not for my decision to leave. Do I hope that my career with Riptide might find a lifeline? Yes. Very much. Will I choose Riptide over Nashville, where both Dash and my mother live? No. No, I will not.

  If happiness is where the heart is and my heart is no longer in New York City.

  It’s in Nashville.

  As John Denver sang, “Country roads, take me home, To the place where I belong.”

  My suitcase is open on the bed and I’ve all but finished packing when Dash enters the bedroom as he sticks his phone back in his pocket. “I already had a pilot on the payroll for the next few days. We’re meeting him at the airstrip. I told him we need at least three hours. I thought you might want to swing by your apartment and get a few things.” He glances at his watch. “That’s still going to put us home pretty late. I’d say nine with no delays.”

  “I’ll just let the movers get the rest of my stuff here. As for the time, I’m okay with that if you’re okay with that. I’d just like to be home.”

  He stops on the opposite side of the bed. “What about your job, Allie?”

  “I do need to call Mark, but they’re not counting on me for Riptide business. I was just going in to work on the valuations for the auction, but really, it can all be finished by phone.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” I laugh. “I’m sure. Stop worrying. This city has not been kind to me, Dash. The only good thing here has been Riptide and maybe I can keep that job somehow. Which is why I need to call Mark. I told him he’d see me tomorrow.” I walk to the nightstand and grab my phone.

  “We can stay, Allie. Don’t leave early because of me. We’re okay, we’re good, no matter where we are.”

  “I know,” I say. “But that’s all the more reason I want to go home. Home feels different and this isn’t my home anymore, Dash.”

  He rounds the bed and steps close, his woodsy masculine scent warming me as much as his hand cupping my face. “Are you one hundred percent sure?”

  “Yes.” I cover his hand with mine. “Nashville is good for my soul. And so are you and my mother.”

  “All right then,” he says, kissing me. “Call your boss. I’ll pack.”

  “Good. Hurry. I’m starving. Let’s get something to eat before we get on the plane.”

  “I would love a New York slice before we leave.”

  “I know a spot,” I assure him.

  “I’m sure you do,” he says, stepping away from me to walk into the bathroom.

  Feeling a little shy about talking to Mark about Dash in front of Dash, I walk into the living area and pull on my coat before stepping onto the balcony. I punch in Mark’s number and he answers on the first ring. “Ms. Wright. I heard he didn’t fight.”

  “You heard right.”

  “Good thing I didn’t bet.”

  I get to the point. “I’m going back to Nashville.”

  “I assumed as much. I’m in my office. Come see me before you fly out.”<
br />
  My heart thunders in my chest. He wants me to come there now? This can’t be good. “How long will you be there?”

  “How soon can you be here?”

  “Thirty to forty-five minutes.” And when I open my mouth to ask if I’m about to be fired, he says, “See you then.”

  He disconnects.

  “Damn it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I whirl around to find Dash standing in the doorway and I suddenly realize I’m cold, really cold. “He wants me to come to the office on our way out of town. I’m pretty sure I’m being fired. Or not. I don’t know. I’m not sure he would have me come by to fire me, but then again, Mark Compton is not afraid of confrontation.”

  “Well, I’m packed if you’re packed. Let’s go see Mark.” He backs up and I follow him back into the room.

  “You want to see Mark?” I ask urgently, not sure where this is going. “Why?”

  “Mark did me a favor last night. He got you to me. And I needed that. We needed that. I owe him.”

  “I’m not sure I want you to be there when I get fired, Dash.”

  “He’s not firing you. You’ve decided to leave. He wouldn’t give you the time of day if he didn’t want to change your mind.”

  “You think?”

  “I do. And if he does, we’ll find a place here.”

  “He won’t.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Okay,” I say, “but I’d rather eat pizza after the meeting, so I know if I’m pigging out to celebrate or to console myself.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dash and I arrive at the Riptide offices thirty-five minutes later.

  The security guard meets us at the door and allows our entry. After we rid ourselves of our coats, leaving them upfront, I motion Dash in the direction we’ll be headed. “I’ll show you to the break room. There’s coffee and cocoa and just about anything else you could want.”

  “Why don’t you show me to Mark’s office?” he says, catching my hand and walking me to him. “I really do want to thank him.”