Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  Was that ... was that a pity fuck this morning?

  I drag my hands through my hair. Jesus. I bet she knows who I am. I bet she knows all about what happened. And I bet she only fucked me because she felt bad for me.

  “Everything okay?” Allison is back. Her eyes are a little less glazed, her spirit a little brighter as evidenced by the slow smile on her face. “These drinks are starting to kick in. Guess this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”

  “Allison, give me a second. I’ll be right back.”

  “Of course.” She offers a gracious smile and lifts her glass to her mouth.

  Within seconds I’m halfway across the bar, laser focused on my target.

  10

  Ayla

  “Ayla.” His voice severs our girl talk and causes Bostyn to scowl.

  Spinning to face him, I try not to gloat because something about this feels like a victory. He’s coming to me. He’s chasing me. He wants me.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  He hooks his hand into my elbow and pulls me off the bar stool like some Neanderthal, leading me to a quiet corner of the bar between two empty tables with flickering candles.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “That was a pity fuck this morning, wasn’t it?” he asks.

  I chuff. “I don’t screw people out of pity, so no. It wasn’t a pity fuck.”

  He studies my face. I think my answer pleases him.

  “Is that all this is about?” I ask.

  Rhett exhales. Apparently the cat’s got his tongue.

  “I want to see you again,” he says after a bout of silence.

  My eyes move to the mousy girl sitting across the bar nursing a lemon drop martini, and my jaw hinges.

  “Seriously?” I ask, arms folding. “You just left your date over there by herself so you could march over here and tell me you want to fuck me again ... and you expect me to say yes to that?”

  His full mouth turns up at one side and he laughs through his nose. “I’m not on a date.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Sure. Whatever you say. But I’m not going to hook up with you again, so don’t waste your time.”

  “She’s my assistant,” he says, his words colored in frustration. “She just got dumped. I’m taking her out for drinks, getting her wasted, and giving her the next couple of days off.”

  “Oh.” I glance her way again. I’ve yet to see her face since I’ve been here, but I vaguely recall bumping into a girl similar in size this morning when I was dropping off his phone charger.

  “Right.” He blows a firm breath through his nostrils. “Anyway, like I was saying, I want to see you again.”

  “Why?”

  He laughs. “You’re asking why?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”

  “I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” I blurt.

  “I’m not looking to be anybody’s boyfriend.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  He moves closer, closing the space between us and just barely cupping his hand to my cheek.

  “I had fun with you this morning,” he says, letting his hand fall. “I’m just looking for a little more of ... that.”

  “So you want a fuck buddy.”

  “Something like that. Yes,” he says. “No strings. No labels. No commitment. Just sex.”

  “You sound like every other red-blooded American man,” I say, sighing.

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Okay, so why do you want that with me? I’m just some girl, that twenty-four hours ago, you’d never met in your life,” I say.

  He rubs his palm against his grainy five o’clock shadow and exhales. “You remind me of myself.”

  My jaw hangs. “No offense, but I’m nothing like you.”

  Rhett laughs. “You’re exactly like me, and that’s why this needs to happen. Now give me your phone.”

  “I don’t know how you do it.” I crawl out of his bed Wednesday morning, all of last night feeling like a hazy blur. All I remember is going to The Prescott Club with Bostyn, getting cornered by Rhett, then letting him program his number into my phone as a sort of nonverbal agreement to be his fuck buddy.

  I texted him when I got home so he’d have my number, and he texted back within minutes, asking me to come over.

  And I did.

  Like a fool.

  “Do what?” he asks as he stirs awake, the blankets pulled up around his waist.

  I bet we got three, maybe four hours of sleep at most, and I’m plagued with a sweet soreness between my thighs today, but I don’t mind because it was well worth it. Rhett fucked me in positions I never even knew existed last night, and I kind of feel like a brand new woman because of it.

  “Reel me in,” I say, standing in front of his bathroom sink. The door is open, and I’m brushing my teeth. Like a dork, I brought an overnight bag, but I figure since we’re not dating and this will never turn into anything more, I don’t have to do the thing where you gradually move your stuff in and let things happen naturally, at their own pace. “I’ve never had a fuck buddy in my life, though I’ve been propositioned a few times. It’s never been my thing.”

  “Are you trying to say I’m lucky?”

  “Yeah. Basically.” I spit the toothpaste in the sink and turn to him, soaking in how beautiful he looks in the warm morning light. “I’m also telling you not to fuck it up.”

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’d be lying if I said this entire situation didn’t flatter the hell out of me. This man was engaged to a Victoria’s Secret Angel slash supermodel slash beauty and fashion mogul. He’s wealthy and handsome. A professional athlete. He could literally fuck any woman on the face of the earth ... and yet he wants me.

  And the clincher? He’s good in bed. So good.

  I leave the bathroom and gather my clothes off the floor of his room, shoving them into my bag in exchange for some clean ones.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask, slipping my legs into my jeans. He’s staring at me, I feel it.

  “Just admiring the view.” He props a pillow behind his back, then interlaces his fingers behind his neck as he wears a sleepy, satisfied smirk. I roll my eyes and pretend it annoys me, when I know damn well it doesn’t.

  My bra is hanging from the chrome knob on his nightstand drawer, but when I try to retrieve it, he reaches for my arm, pulling me into bed. I’m straddling him now, shirtless, and his hands are trailing up my sides, making their way to my breasts before pulling my nipples between his fingers. I flash a half-smile, grinding my hips against his hardness, which is separated by my jeans and his sheets.

  “You want this again?” I tease, lowering myself enough so that our lips graze.

  He kisses me, his hands cupping my face and his fingers at the nape of my neck. It’s a soft, tender kiss, a harsh contrast from the multitude of ways he fucked me last night.

  I’d never been fucked so hard before, literally and figuratively. I caught a glimpse of something when our eyes met earlier this morning, and it made me wonder if he was trying to fuck the hurt out of him, which sounds insane and a little bizarre, but it’s kind of the only thing that makes sense right now.

  And maybe I owe it to him. I’ll let him use me. I’ll do this willingly.

  My brother fucked him over, so now he gets to fuck me.

  “I have to go.” I pull myself off him. “You have my number.”

  He sits up as I fasten my bra a moment later, and he scratches at his temple. His hair is mussed and sexy, and this room smells like us.

  “You can get a hold of me too, you know,” he says. “This agreement of ours, it goes both ways.”

  “Good to know.” I pull my shirt over my head and straighten the hem. I’ve got a meeting today with that lawyer Coach Harris connected me with. He’s going to help me set up this foundation for Bryce. “Think I’ll still let you do the calling.”

  “Of course you will.”

&n
bsp; I flash him a wink and a smart-mouthed smirk, and I show myself out.

  By the time I’m outside, he sends me a text.

  Thanks For That

  Smart ass.

  11

  Rhett

  I can still smell her perfume as Coach Harris yammers away about something or other this morning. I don’t know. I’m not really listening.

  She came by last night, which marked the fourth time in the week that’s passed since we agreed to a no-strings attached arrangement, but she didn’t stay the night because she had a deadline to meet for work and was going to stay up all night finishing her project.

  When she left, I stole her pillow, and this morning, I can still smell her.

  Let me make this clear: I’m perfectly fine being on my own. In fact, I prefer it. But it’s kind of nice not having to be alone with my thoughts at night. In the evening, when everyone’s doing their own thing or no one wants to go out or people are too busy to reply to your text, a man can get all too acquainted with the thoughts he’d been ignoring for the better part of the day.

  But that’s where Ayla comes in.

  I take one look at her ... that ass ... those lips ... and I’m one hundred percent distracted.

  That’s all she is—a distraction.

  And that’s all she’ll ever be.

  “Carson, you get that?” Coach barks in my direction. Some of the guys look my way. I overheard a few of them talking about me earlier, shocked that I could just “go on as if it never happened.”

  Fuck them.

  If they only knew.

  “The charity event.” Shane’s on my left, whispering under his breath.

  “What charity event?” I whisper back.

  “For Bryce,” he says, refusing to make eye contact.

  “This Friday,” Coach says. “You’re all to report to the ice at seven o’clock. We’re holding a skate-a-thon in Bryce’s name, in collaboration with the new foundation being established in his honor. Attendance is mandatory.”

  In Bryce’s name?

  Fuck this shit. I’m out.

  My chair makes an awful screeching noise as I push it away from the table, and all eyes are on me. Coach’s wild gray brows furrow, and he’s telling me to get my ass back in there, but I’m gone. I’m done. I’m not doing a damn fucking thing to honor that man.

  The narrow hallway walls close in on me, and I can’t breathe.

  Sometimes, I can push it all from my mind, forget about it for a while. And other times it hits me, knocking me off my feet and sucking the air from my lungs. No matter how hard I try to ignore it, it’s always there, hanging out in the background of my mind.

  Within minutes, I’m on the street, making my way past tourists and passersby, some of whom recognize me and call out my name, but I keep moving.

  I have to keep moving.

  When you stop and rest and think about everything, when you feel the weight of it all, that’s when you drown. That’s when you sink so deep to the bottom that it’s impossible to claw your way to the top ever again.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I don’t think twice before texting Ayla.

  Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

  Her: WORKING. DUH.

  Me: I STILL DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DO. WRITER, RIGHT? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WRITE?

  Her: MAYBE YOU SHOULD ASK SOMETIME.

  Me: I DON’T DO PILLOWTALK.

  Her: IT’S CALLED CONVERSATION, AND I KNOW YOU DON’T DO PILLOWTALK. I’VE BEEN FUCKING YOU FOR A WEEK NOW AND YOU DON’T EVEN SCREAM MY NAME. KIND OF DISAPPOINTED IF I’M BEING HONEST.

  Me: I CAN SCREAM YOUR NAME IF YOU WANT. I DO TAKE REQUESTS. THOUGH SHOULDN’T YOU BE THE ONE SCREAMING MY NAME?

  Her: PROBABLY.

  Me: YOU DON’T REALLY STRIKE ME AS A SCREAMER ANYWAY.

  Her: YOU’RE PERCEPTIVE. I LIKE THAT IN A FUCK BUDDY.

  Me: COME OVER.

  Her: CAN’T. LOOMING DEADLINE.

  Me: I’LL BUY YOU A LIFETIME SUPPLY OF COFFEE IF YOU GIVE ME AN HOUR OF YOUR TIME RIGHT NOW.

  Her: MUST BE DEAN AND DELUCA OR THE DEAL IS OFF.

  Me: DEAL. SEE YOU IN ONE HOUR.

  Her: YOU’RE LUCKY I’M A SUCKER FOR COFFEE. AND ORGASMS.

  Shaking my head, I chuckle. I normally prefer to have the last word, but I’ll make an exception for her just this once.

  I slip my phone into my pocket and round the corner to my place, stopping at Dean and DeLuca to grab a gift card because I don’t know what she drinks or how she drinks it, and then I head home and wait.

  Taking a seat in my favorite armchair, I flip on the TV and check the clock. She should be here any minute.

  I scroll aimlessly through my phone, flipping through old texts and photos and emails, scanning them but not really. My mind is elsewhere, halfway between nowhere and the edge of oblivion.

  But before I realize what I’m doing, I find myself face to face with a chain of old emails from Damiana.

  My heart stops in my chest.

  The day she died—the day I found out the truth, I took everything she owned, shoved it in a cardboard box, and threw it down the trash chute. I destroyed the photos. I deleted her photos from my phone. Before I’d so much as felt the crushing tightness of loss in my chest, I’d erased all evidence of what we had from my life.

  Except these emails, evidently.

  The last one is dated almost four weeks ago—the night before her death.

  FROM: Damiana Westwood

  SUBJECT: Re: re: re: Date night?

  The Gucci people want me to stay in Florence another week. I’m going to have to cancel our date this weekend. I’m so sorry, baby. I’d much rather be with you, but they had another model cancel and they really, really want me, and I don’t want to let them down because a contract with them would be a game changer for my career. Anyway, I’ll be home Monday, and you can have me all to yourself, I promise.

  I love you.

  Yours, and only yours—

  Damiana

  PS—We need to finalize our wedding cake design when I get back. Can you believe it? Six months until I’m Mrs. Rhett Carson!! Can’t wait!

  I’ve since found out she never set foot in Florence, and her former agent accidentally let it slip that she had never been considered for a Gucci contract nor had she ever worked with them.

  She was holed up with Bryce that week, at some hole-in-the-wall resort in the Finger Lakes.

  A knock at my door pulls me out of this deep, dark place, and reminds me that the only thing that matters right now—mind-blowing, guilt-free, no-strings sex—is waiting for me on the other side.

  “About damn time,” I say when I open the door.

  “Make this quick.” She wraps her arms around my neck, rising on her toes after kicking the door shut and pressing her mouth against mine.

  12

  Ayla

  The final draft of my manuscript is due to my agent at eight AM tomorrow, but here I am, standing in the foyer of Rhett Carson’s apartment, letting him tear my clothes from my body and hoist me into his arms.

  Our lips crash and our tongues meet and my legs hook around his rock hard body and nothing else matters.

  He deposits me in the center of his bed and undoes his jeans with a single hand, letting them fall to the ground. There’s a hint of a smile on his mouth when he pulls his t-shirt over his head, and when our eyes meet there’s a glint in his gaze that makes my stomach swirl a bit.

  Butterflies.

  Butterflies have no business being a part of this equation.

  When he looks at me like that, it’s hard to remember that this is purely a physical arrangement, that it can never be anything else for a myriad of reasons.

  I close my eyes, breathing in the masculine scent of his bedsheets, when I feel the bed shift from his weight. The warmth of his body hovering over mine and the graze of his palm along my inner thigh follows next. My legs spread for him, and my hands reach for his cock, pumping its throbbing length.


  Two calloused fingers slip between my folds, plunging deep inside me, and he isn’t satisfied until I release an audible gasp. A moment later, he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting me.

  “God, you’re so fucking sweet,” he growls. “And wet.”

  Hooking my hands along his torso, I pull his naked body against mine.

  “I don’t have all day,” I tease. “Looming deadline, remember?”

  He punishes me with a kiss and reaches for the top drawer of his nightstand, retrieving a foil packet.

  I collapse on his chest when we’re done, my body liquid and spent.

  He wanted me to ride him today, and so I did. I grinded against him, rocking back and forth while his thumb gently circled my clit. When he told me to fuck him harder, I did. When he told me to fuck him faster, I did that too.

  It’s not a pity fuck when you enjoy it, right?

  Still, I can’t help but want to take his pain, the pain my brother caused, and siphon it into me. He seems so tough all the time, so unscathed, but I know it isn’t possible to go through what he’s gone through and come out on the other side without so much as a scratch.

  It doesn’t happen.

  No one is that cold hearted.

  My palm presses against his chest, and I can feel the steady drum of his heartbeat. When I open my eyes, I see he’s looking at me, but I pretend not to care. Brushing my bangs from my eyes, I carefully climb off him and head to his bathroom to wash up.

  When I come back, he hasn’t moved. He’s just lying there like he’s lost in thought. Or maybe he’s just spent. Something about today felt just as emotional as it did physical, like he was releasing something.