He laughs through clenched teeth. “No, don’t be sorry. I was being an asshole. Probably deserved it. Still. Damn. That’s a hell of an arm you have.”
I go back to my chair, blushing. “I played tennis in high school.”
“Well, remind me not to piss you off again, at least not when I’m inches from death.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you’re just trying to help me with everything you’re doing here, even if kidnapping me is kind of a twisted way to help--and I thanked you by trying to run away. And then pegging a pillow at your head,” I add.
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“So, have you decided to not go back to him?” he asks.
The silence that follows is so thick it’s practically pregnant with the words that still linger, unspoken. What can I say? Can I say that I’m so broken I can’t trust myself not to return to the man who regularly beats me and treats me worse than trash? Can I say that even if I did trust myself not to return, I’m not ready for this strange, wonderful thing between us to end? And how sad would I seem if I told him I still need him to keep me here by force, not because I want to leave but because I’m afraid I will.
“What will you do?” he asks finally.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, fingers crossed.
Another pause. This one longer and more strained. “No,” he says finally. “I should apologize, but I won’t. I took you to keep you safe. To protect you. And it seems I’m not done yet. To be honest, I don’t think I want to be done.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because I want you here. With me.”
I bite my lip. I know I should feel indignant, but I don’t. I’ve never felt like a real hostage. Not exactly. I knew he didn’t want me to leave, but I think if I had just walked away, he wouldn’t have stopped me. He’s only trying to help. It has felt like I’m a charity case to him, but after what he just said, I’m not so sure anymore.
“So I’m still your hostage,” I say slowly, “but now it’s because you want to protect me from the world in general?”
“Something like that,” he says.
“Is there a timeline on this?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re done being my hostage when I’m convinced you won’t try to run away.”
I nod, trying not to smile. I don’t want to let him off that easy. He doesn’t get to see me smile or get any idea of how hard my heart is thumping right now. He shouldn’t know how badly I want everything he’s saying. “Just to make sure I have this straight. You’re keeping me hostage until I want to be with you. Did I miss anything?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I could use an ice pack. My head is fucking killing me.”
The smile comes now, whether I like it or not. “I’m supposed to nurse you back to health, too?”
“Those are your words. Not mine. But while I’m thinking of it, would you be opposed to wearing one of those sexy nurse outfits? You know, with the cleavage and the short skirt.”
“Careful, Dean. I’m not above adding another lump to that hard head of yours if you push it.”
His lips twitch into a grin.
I find Tanner, Selene, Jen, and Murph all lounging in the living room when I go to get ice for Dean. It’s mid afternoon, but you wouldn’t guess it from looking outside. Black clouds spew rain so hard the water is blown back into the air as a mist, shrouding the property surrounding Dean’s mansion in a hazy gray cloud.
Selene has her legs draped over Tanner’s lap as the two of them laugh about something and talk quietly. Murph is playing a computer game on a laptop, slamming a fist into his knee with frustration and muttering something into a microphone. And Jen is sitting a good distance apart from them in the small breakfast nook area near the floor to ceiling windows, tuning her glossy black guitar.
I grab the ice for Dean and hesitate before leaving the room. There’s something in the space that draws me, like a sense of home I never quite felt after my little sister’s death.
An unwelcome image bursts in my mind’s eye, vivid as if it was happening right in front of me. I see the brake lights. I hear the screeching of tires and my own scream. It sounds like it comes from someone else, someone too old and in far too much pain for my small, seven year old body. The woman who gets out of the car screams too when she sees the tricycle lying bent and broken on the side of the road.
I blink, swallowing hard and fighting down the impulse to gag when the same smell of wet earth from that morning reaches my nose. For a moment, I can’t tell if the smell is part of the memory, but then I see the window cracked open by the kitchen and the rain. It’s just the rain.
“Hey,” says Selene, who I didn’t even see get up. She’s rubbing my back soothingly, leaning close to me while she searches my eyes. She seems to see something there that tells her everything she needs to know. Without another word she moves to the kitchen and slams the window shut with surprising anger.
She looks back to me with a satisfied grin and wipes her hands. “Is that for Dean?” she asks, pointing to the ice in my hands.
I look down, realizing my hand is already numb from holding the icepack. “This? Yeah,” I say distractedly. “His face is so swollen. It’s worse than it was last night.”
Selene laughs. “I bet he’s still drop-dead gorgeous. That man would probably still be the best looking person I’ve ever seen even if half his face was missing.”
“Second best looking,” says Tanner, who moves behind Selene and wraps his arms around her, kissing her neck tenderly.
I make a face at them without meaning to. “You two are moving pretty fast, aren’t you?”
“Speak for yourself,” says Selene.
Tanner grins, kissing her ear.
“There are plenty of rooms here,” I say. “You don’t have to maul her in public.”
“Can’t help it,” says Tanner.
I shake my head, not entirely unamused. In truth, watching the way he can’t keep his hands off her makes me long for the same kind of attention from Dean, but things between us are more complicated than that. I know there’s lust between us. Last night proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt. Though I still don’t know why he acted so strangely right before he climaxed. I was recklessly prepared for him to cum inside me, I wanted him to. The idea of being marked by him in such an intimate, permanent way felt like the answer in that moment. It would be an irreversible act, something to prove to myself that Sean no longer has a hold over me.
But when he pulled out at the last second, it made me realize I was the only one having feelings like this. I thought maybe to him I was just an object, a body to get off with. I opened up myself to him and showed him my vulnerabilities, but he didn’t return the favor. So I ran. I may not have known what was waiting out there in the dark, but I think part of me did. Whether he found me outside the gates or days later, I knew he would come.
Going back to Sean would be easier in a way. Staying here with Dean is hard. It’s harder than it should be to do something that feels so good. Every moment is a struggle against the feelings of worthlessness that Sean tried to beat into me over the two years we were together. Not to mention the mental cracks driven into my mind from a lifetime of punishment, both physical and mental. The few days I’ve been here with Dean have been the first days I’ve ever thought maybe he didn’t succeed in breaking me after all. Maybe there is still some part of me left alive and willing to fight back.
Tanner and Selene seem to take me up on my suggestion and they hurry off toward Tanner’s room. I watch after Selene, marveling at how she can go from coming to ‘rescue’ me to shacking up with Dean’s brother in the span of twenty-four hours. Then again, she has always been more open than the average woman when it comes to sexuality. I guess I really don’t have room to talk though. I slept with Dean after only knowing him for two days. And technically, he kidnapped me, which probably adds a whole new level of sluttiness to the equation.
I sigh, setting the ice pac
k down--Dean can wait--and I walk over to Jen, who has her back to me as she strums the guitar and looks out the window.
“I’ve never heard that song,” I say. “It’s really pretty. Did you write it?”
She stops playing and closes her laptop, which was open in front of her.
“You don’t have to stop on my account,” I say. “I really had fun when you let me show you some tricks to work on your vocals. But I’ve never been very good at the guitar, so…”
“Are you trying to learn?” asks Jen, who looks like she has momentarily forgotten she’s still putting me on trial to see if I’m worthy of her father.
“I’d like to, yeah. I play the piano, too, but singing has always been my thing. It’s stupid, but my dream has been to give singing lessons.”
“Why is that stupid?” asks Jen.
A confused smile flashes across my face, but it’s gone as quickly as it comes. “Because I’m nobody. Not really. And I--” I close my mouth, swallowing. What was I about to say? I’m the type of woman who lets a man use her as a punching bag? I’m worthless? Whether I believe any of that to be true or not, this little girl thinks I’m engaged to her father so I can’t say any of it. “I just think that kind of thing is too good to be true.”
She looks thoughtful. “Have you ever tried?”
“What? Giving lessons?”
“Yeah,” says Jen.
“I haven’t,” I say slowly. “I mean talking to you about breathing and working on the basics the other day was the closest I’ve come.”
“Well, I had fun,” she says simply. “I’m terrible at singing. If you can teach me to sing better, you could definitely make it as a vocal coach.”
I laugh, but my smile fades when I realize she’s serious. “Teach you? Like right now?” I ask.
“Why not?” she asks.
My eyes flick to Murph, who is within earshot of us, but he’s currently gritting his teeth and leaning forward toward the computer screen, clicking the mouse furiously, still muttering something in the microphone.
I watch Jen as her big, intelligent eyes search my face. Why not? It’s such a simple question, and it’s the kind of thing only a child would ask. Whether Jen seems wise beyond her years or not, she still carries that bright flame of hope in a way only a child can. It’s the same flame I had when I was young, but I remember the way my parents made sure to extinguish it with their coldness after Vanessa’s death. The way night after night part of me strived to keep the fire going, but endless days and years of icy conversations and disinterested looks snuffed out the flames.
Now this little girl is holding out a spark for me, all I need to do is grab it.
My vision blurs with tears at how innocently sweet her offer is, and at how impossibly kind it is without her even realizing.
She makes a face. “If you’re going to get all sappy, then nevermind,” she says, grinning a little reluctantly.
“Sorry,” I say, wiping at my eyes. “No sappiness. Just… Thank you,” I say. “Let’s start by finding out your vocal range.”
9
Dean
The sound of singing draws me out of bed. That, and the persistent ache in my face and the lack of ice. I sent Camille to get ice for me a while ago, and she seems to be a pretty shitty nurse, because she never came back.
I walk toward the living room, every step jostling my bruised body painfully. It feels good to move around though. I’ve never been comfortable being still, so I welcome the pain if it means getting up and moving.
I find Murph leaning over his laptop, playing that stupid game he’s obsessed with and to my surprise, I see Camille and Jen sitting by the window while the rain pounds against the glass. They are singing together.
Jen strums out a simple string of sad chords and the two of them hum together while Camille seems to signal instructions to Jen with her facial expressions and hands, guiding Jen through the vocal melody with natural ease.
I’ve never heard Jen sing before, not out in the open like this at least, despite her obsession with that guitar of hers and the hours and hours she spends making videos of herself playing to post online. Her voice is a little rough around the edges, faltering when she pushes it too high or too low, but within her range, she produces a stunningly deep, emotional sound that I would never expect from such a young girl. There’s a raspy, heartbroken quality to her vocals. I’d like to think it’s just how she sings, but I can’t help wondering if losing her mother weighs on her more than she lets on, if maybe her music is the outlet she uses to cope with it.
Camille’s eyes are closed as she sings along, and maybe it’s cliché to think, but I don’t give a fuck. She looks like an angel. An honest to God angel. Outside, the sun has started to break through the clouds even as the rain still comes down, casting a warm yellow glow across the window behind her and lighting the edges of her profile in a blazing outline of gold.
I feel it more strongly now. I feel the certainty that this woman is something special. She’s not just exciting me because it has been so long since I’ve let someone in. She’s not just a project I’ve taken because I’m bored after leaving my company. She’s special.
Somehow I can tell she’s holding back while she sings, keeping the power of her voice in check so that Jen can explore her own. But even when she restrains herself, the sound of her voice is unbelievable. There’s sadness in it, just like Jen’s, and the way their mournful vocals twist and flow together carries years of suffering in every note. Listening to them fills me with an overpowering need to protect. I need to be a force in the lives of my girls--my girls. My lips twitch into a smile at the thought. Maybe Camille doesn’t think of herself as mine yet, but I already do, don’t I?
I’m not going to apologize for it either. One way or another, I’m going to make her mine. I have to. I already can’t stand the thought of letting her go, of watching her step out into the world without me and knowing she could fall victim to any of the countless dangers that could befall her. No. She’s going to be safe. She’s going to be happy. And she’s going to be mine.
These are my girls, and I’m going to do every last thing in my power to make them safe and happy. Even if it means I have to keep up the lie I’m telling Jen about Camille and I. Lying to my daughter makes me feel like a scumbag, but I’ve already let this go too far to turn back now. The only reasonable thing to do is turn the lie into the truth. How hard can that be?
I grab the ice pack on the counter, which has accumulated a small puddle beneath it, and limp back to my room. I notice a missed call when I ease back into bed and let out a groan that has nothing to do with the pain when I see the number. Barry Wallace. Fuck.
I knew the call from Barry would come, and I’ve been dreading dealing with it. But I’ve never been one for putting things off, so I call him back and wait for him to pick up.
“Dean,” answers Barry after half a ring. “What the flying fuck were you thinking? You can’t just walk away from the company. There are protocols. Contracts. Investors. Obligations. Do I need to go on?”
“Do what you want,” I say tiredly. “Because I can, and I did. It’s my company. I can do whatever the fuck I want with it.”
Barry sighs. “What’s this about, Dean? What is this really about? Because I’ve known you for longer than I’d like, and I’ve never seen you walk away from anything before. This isn’t like you.”
“I don’t need to explain myself to you, Barry. You did your job well, and I appreciate that, but my role with the company is over. I sold the majority shares to Peterson. If you have problems, take them to him.”
“You don’t need to explain yourself?” asks Barry, who’s clearly trying to contain his rage. He has a right to be mad, I don’t begrudge him that. He was my top business advisor for ten years and he helped me turn the company into what it is. Something about him always rubbed me the wrong way--maybe the ambition I could see behind every word and action, or maybe it was just the way I’d catch him looking
at my desk when he didn’t think I was watching, like he was trying to imagine what it’d be like to sit in it for himself. “You don’t need to fucking explain yourself?” he repeats. “Like hell you don’t. I gave the best years of my life to you and this company and I have to find out from Linda that you quit three days after the fact? You couldn’t call me?”
“Barry, I’m really not in the mood to go back and forth with you on this. Yes. I left. I put the company in good hands. Peterson has--”
“Peterson is a spineless turd who wouldn’t know a sound business plan if it bit him on the ass. Don’t you dare tell me he--”
I hang up the phone, resting my head back on the pillow and sighing. Fuck you, Barry. That’s what I knew I’d say if I didn’t hang up the phone. Well, I gave him his chance to vent, and I’m surprised to find none of it stings like I thought it might. No amount of loyalty to the company gives him the right to pry into my personal decisions. I didn’t need to gather opinions before I left or look for support. When I decided it was the right thing to do, I fucking did it. No hesitation, no questions.
The point I knew I had to quit was just a handful of days ago. The day before I met Camille, actually. We pulled a late night at the office because we were inches from closing a huge account that would have bumped our numbers at least five percent for the quarter. I had a nagging feeling that I was forgetting something all night, but work was so hectic I never had a minute to sit down and figure out what it was.
I came home and Jen was asleep. I paid the babysitter, who was looking at me with this funny expression I couldn’t explain. Then I went to toss a receipt in the trash and saw a welcome pamphlet to open mic night at Lazy Pete’s. I snatched it out of the trash and opened it, knowing what I was going to see but needing to see it with my own eyes all the same.
I ran my finger down the short list of opening acts and found it two spots down. Jen Sharp - acoustic guitar.
Bad for the Billionaires: A Bad Boy Billionaire Bundle Page 70
