One to Chase (One to Hold #7)

by Tia Louise

  That’s it. What just happened is precisely why I should not be with Marcus Merritt. He changes my behavior in ways I do not like. He steals my resolve and leaves me acting like an insecure college girl stalking his calendar. He provokes this gross feeling in my stomach that makes me want to follow whoever that beautiful woman is and spill my drink on her.

  I am not the jealous type.

  If Marcus is dating someone new—less than twenty-four hours after declaring his deep feelings for me—it’s a good thing. Yes? I leave when things get too serious. It’s what I do, and I don’t leave in order to be followed.

  Only, Marcus isn’t following me.

  He’s driving me crazy.

  * * *

  C.J.’s loud voice cuts through the crowd noise. “You wouldn’t think all these trust-fund babies would care about something as gauche as ladies’ night, and yet here it is.” He slaps the shiny wooden bar. “Busiest night of the week.”

  We’re back at Studio O, and it’s teeming with twenty-somethings and members of the old crowd. I lean toward the bar to sip my third French 75. I’m drinking way too much. More Marcus Merritt bad influence.

  “Back in the day, they’d never be caught dead encouraging such a low-rent gimmick,” I say.

  “Don’t be a snob,” he sniffs, finishing his third Poinsettia. I’m a psychic, and I predict we’ll be calling a car to drive us home tonight. “The Chicago dating scene is outrageously expensive.”

  “That’s nothing new.”

  His eyebrow arches, and his voice goes loud. “What IS new is me being allowed to participate in ladies’ night.” He throws both hands up, victory-style, and I nod.

  “Very forward-thinking of the owner.”

  My bestie takes another sip, lowering his arms. “Clever is more like it. He knows I’ll spend more sending drinks to guys once I’m drunk and horny.”

  I laugh, but his eyes narrow. Pushing his beige linen blazer back, his fist rests on a narrow hip clad in tight coral pants. “Speaking of horny. What’s this new development in your love life?”

  “No new development.” I take another sip. “Let’s do a shot.”

  “Stop distracting me and spill.”

  “I’m serious. It’s nothing. You know how I am.”

  I’m about to say more when I’m cut off by a mini-buzz rippling through the crowd. A couple just entered, and I strain to see who’s causing the commotion. Maybe it’s a celebrity sighting, not that I care. When I see who it is, I almost drop my drink.

  The woman from Marcus’s office stands at the entrance dressed in white-lace short-shorts and a black and white floral crop-top that plays peek-a-boo with her lined torso. She teeters on silver strappy heels, and her long, toned legs seem to go on for miles. Damn. Right behind her is none other than Marcus Merritt, sexy as ever in a grey blazer over a black tee and dark jeans. What the hell?

  “Holy shit,” C.J. hisses, turning quickly toward the bar. “This might be the most interesting thing to happen all spring. Other than your return, of course.”

  I turn fast beside him, and finish my drink. I’m blinking, trying to hide the cyclone of emotions spinning through me. He’s dating her? He’s actually dating that woman?

  “Who is she?” I have to know.

  “Wait, are you pretending to care?” he steps back, but I grab his sleeve and jerk him forward again.

  “Don’t be a pill, Carlton.”

  The bartender walks up, and my friend holds up two fingers then signals to us. “Vodka shots for Carlton and Amalie.”

  The cyclone is tightening into rage as I wait for his answer. Cutting my eyes at him, he laughs and throws an arm over my shoulder. “Settle down, Beavis.”

  Two short glasses appear, and he continues. “That long drink of sex is none other than Paige Goldfarb.”

  I pick up my shot and sip it. “Who’s Paige Goldfarb?”

  My friend slams his back and exhales a loud response. “She’s the newest addition to our world of high-stakes power-posing, but she carries quite the backstory, let me tell you.”

  “Please do.” C.J. loves to be dramatic.

  “She inherited Lady X cosmetics last year. Very out of the blue. Made her a millionaire several times over. And counting.”

  I tilt my head to the side and sneak another glance. “Explains why I don’t recognize her. She’s very beautiful.” A cramp burns in my stomach.

  “Oh, she’s more than that.” His eyes twinkle, and I can’t even imagine. “What everybody knows, and nobody’s saying, is before that bright day in November, our lovely Paige was swinging from the pole at VIPs.”

  “What!” I hiss. I have to hand it to him. C.J. knows how to drop a bombshell. “She was a stripper?”

  “Exotic dancer, please. And girl, she wasn’t just any stripper. Goldie Lux was a star.”

  “Her name was Goldie Lux?”

  “Stage name, darling, keep up.”

  That burning cramp moves higher into my chest. “Well...” I have no idea what to say. “Good for her.”

  “Good for all of us. I’ve been waiting to see how this was going to play out.” He looks back over his shoulder, and I can’t help it. I follow his gaze. “Smart move hooking up with Mr. Chicago himself.”

  Paige and Marcus are standing very close together, facing each other. Her hand clutches his forearm, and she leans into his ear. Whatever she says makes him smile. She laughs, and I want to throw up.

  “They seem very cozy.” My friend takes another sip and murmurs, “Well played, Goldfarb. Well played.”

  I don’t mean to stare. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until our eyes meet and lightning flashes all the way to my toes. His hazel eyes widen, and he has the decency to appear stunned. I’m pretty sure shock and horror are plastered all over my slightly inebriated face.

  “I’ve got to use the restroom,” I say, fighting my absolutely ridiculous response.

  I laid the ground rules. I said no relationships. Fuck him if he wants to fuck her. Oh my fucking god, if he marks her body... I can barely see to walk.

  “I’ll be here,” my friend calls after me.

  Only one other woman is in the lavatory, which is unusual for a bar. I thank all that’s holy and step to the dark wood counter where two white basin-sinks are perched.

  Amber-covered light fixtures separate two round mirrors, casting the entire space in a muted-yellow glow. My eyes are blurry with rage as I wash my hands. I have no idea why I’m washing my hands. I haven’t even used the restroom.

  I’m not acting like this. Things were moving too quickly, and now the problem is solved. But I don’t understand...

  The other woman leaves without a word, and I contemplate splashing cold water in my face. Clearly I’m drunk. It’s the only explanation for why I’m acting this way. I slide my palms down the front of the coral slip-dress I’m wearing. I chose it because it’s light and casual and reminds me of the spring shows. Now I’m wishing it were more substantial. I feel naked and vulnerable.

  Scooping up my clutch, I head for the door. I’ll tell C.J. goodnight and go home. I need some rest. I need to spend some time talking to Sylvia. Get my head straight again.

  I did not expect Marcus to be waiting outside in the small foyer, in all his sexy glory, leaning against the wall. I stop in my tracks and he looks up at me under heavy lashes.

  “Amy.” His voice is a low vibration tingling under my skin.

  “Hi,” I say, not stopping.

  Crisp linen assaults my senses as I attempt to push past him, and he catches my upper arm. I have to fight a whimper.

  “Wait.” It’s a sharp order. Stern, like that day on the boat. Stop it, Amy. “We need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t.” I don’t meet his eyes and attempt to twist out of his grip. It only tightens.

  “Fuck, Amy.” His voice breaks, and my insides feel like they’re being run through a pasta cutter set to spaghetti. “You don’t understand.”

  “Nothing to under
stand.”

  “Something came up. Something... unusual.”

  Focus on his shiny black loafers. Don’t say it. “Is she your gala date?” Too late.

  He exhales a breath. “Yes. I can’t explain why. Will you trust me?”

  I can’t respond. Did he just ask me to trust him? Again? Sure, we’ve had several rounds of extremely intimate, blazing-hot sex, but what does that amount to? Clearly nothing. It amounts to nothing!

  He catches my chin, lifting it so our eyes meet. Pain spirals down through my insides, twisting my heart as it falls. I hold on with everything inside me. Do NOT fucking cry, for God’s sake.

  His eyes reflect the same out of control emotions ringing inside me, and without a pause, he pulls me to him. I exhale a little noise. Both his hands catch my cheeks and he consumes my mouth, pushing it open and finding my tongue. Heat floods my panties. My back is against the wall, and the same driving passion as last week, as this weekend, as on the boat blazes between us.

  I can’t breathe. I want this, but at the same time... Turning my head, I break away, stepping out of his reach.

  “No.” My heart thuds against my chest. “I’m not doing this.”

  “Please.” His voice is an exhale.

  All the emotions we’ve shared, the tiny things, the enormous things, the pieces we’ve given each other, are piling up on top of us, and—

  We’re not alone.

  A dark-haired female is at the corner, and I only just recognize the oversized houndstooth pattern on her black and white dress.

  “How fucking familiar.” Karen’s voice saber-cuts through me. Her hands are on her hips, and her eyes narrow like a snake’s. “I guess some things never change, do they, Amy Knight?”

  Shame scalds my insides. It’s all too much. “I’ve got to go.”

  Pushing past Karen, I don’t stop until I reach C.J.

  “Finally!” he complains. “You’re missing everything. Pill-butt walked in with her entourage, and the icy glares between her and Goldie... Hell, Elsa could reconstruct the Willis tower with them.”

  “I can’t stay,” I manage, fighting tears.

  His brow lines. “I take it this is not okay.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Pulling out two twenties, I drop them on the bar beside his hand. “Thanks for the drinks.”

  “But it’s ladies’ night!” His voice chases me to the door. I only wave in his direction. “I’ll call you for lunch tomorrow!”

  I’m out the door on foot. The car service can pick me up at the next block.

  Chapter 13: Whispers and Wishes

  Marcus

  I’m standing in the dim anteroom, my insides unraveling, and Karen Philpot is right here watching. How has my life come to this?

  No time for post mortems. I rub a hand over my chin, straighten my jacket, and start to go. Of course, the bitch stops me.

  “You’ve always made good choices, Marcus.” Her superior tone tweaks my annoyance. “Don’t let Amy Knight turn you into a fool. She’s been playing men like you since high school.”

  I simultaneously want to strangle Karen and ask her to elaborate. I don’t do either. Amy has been a mystery from the start. Running into her tonight is the worst possible thing that could’ve happened, but I didn’t get to the top by walking away from tough situations—or by being stupid. Karen is at the top of her game as well, for whatever that’s worth.

  Infusing my voice with as much disinterest as possible, I shrug. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” She folds her hands. “She’s a destructive little viper disguised as an ingénue. I don’t know why she ever came back.”

  Turning on a needle-thin heel, she returns to the bar. I linger a bit, considering what just happened. I know Amy has secrets, but I also know how she looked at me just now. Her emotions were plain on her face, and the truth hit me so hard.

  Despite what she said, I did make it in. Somehow I got past the guards, past the running, into her heart. Now I don’t know what will happen. Will she fight me out or will she let me stay? So much depends on how I handle this, and I’ve obligated myself to help Paige.

  With a deep exhale, I return to the bar, to where my date is sitting at a tall table, a pale yellow cocktail in front of her.

  Ice-blue eyes blink to me, and she’s controlled excitement. “What did you do back there?

  I’m not sure what she means, so I stall. “I ran into Karen, but we only exchanged greetings.”

  “I was right, then.” She whispers, sipping her drink. “It’s working.”

  Paige suggested we come to Studio O tonight because she had reason to believe Karen would be here. The two of us appearing together in front of her and her minions seems like the quickest way to accomplish our goals and return to normal.

  “So we’re done?” I quickly scroll through all the possibilities—texting Amy versus calling versus going straight to her house...

  “Not yet.” Paige places a hand on my forearm and leans into my ear. “We’ll see how it goes at the gala.”

  Her lips brush the skin at my ear and then she leans back and gives me a naughty smile. It’s all part of the act, just like earlier when she leaned to me and whispered, “I’m going to laugh like you said something funny.”

  Clearly, we’re very good actors. The betrayal on Amy’s face still hits me like a sledgehammer. I feel like a fucking ass, and all I want to do is find her and hold her, explain all of this to her. But I can’t. I gave my word.

  Smiling, I lift Paige’s slim hand and place it in mine. My voice is so low, only the two of us can hear it. “This charade is seriously killing my chances with someone.”

  She blinks those gorgeous blues up at me and leans her head on her hand. Her smile is pure bedroom. “Think of it as making the world a better place.”

  * * *

  Amy

  I never call the car. I’m on the street, walking east along Illinois in the direction of Sylvia’s Lakefront condo. Wind sweeps down through the high rises, pushing my hair off my shoulders. It’s always so windy in Chicago. I pause and close my eyes, breathing it in. Cleansing breaths.

  My brain buzzes from all the gin-laced champagne followed by vodka shots, and I’m in a haze of confusion over what just happened. Why am I reacting this way? I need to think it out, isolate these feelings, name them, and put them the fuck away.

  It’s simple logic. Marcus Merritt distracted me enough that I stumbled into thinking I need him somehow. Ridiculous. Now clearly he’s moved on, and I’m stuck in the most stereotypical female response on the planet—jealousy, hurt, offense. Good God, Amy! How have I let this happen?

  Shaking myself, I fight it. Emotions are chemicals and social pressure. Marketing gimmicks that make you believe in things like overwhelming love, love you can’t live without, heroes and soul mates, and the fantasy of one perfect person for each human. Take it from a master marketer: It’s all an Enormous LIE.

  I learned first-hand, at my father’s knee no less, love is never a two-way street. It’s always one person giving and another taking—taking everything the other person is willing to give, always demanding more. Demanding everything. Until the taker has had enough or becomes bored or finds something new, and the giver is left broken and empty with nothing.

  A man sits on the street holding a sign about being hungry. Lifting my clutch, I dig through the slim bag and out drops what looks like a fifty. I don’t even care. I’m lost in my haze of buzzed rationalization. He makes a noise, and I stumble onward. Only now, my phone is in my hand. I stop and stare at it several long moments. His name is on the screen and my thumb hovers over the green button. Did I push it?

  Eyes closed, the slim device is at my ear. It only rings once before the warm vibration of his voice fills my brain, flooding my core with humming emotion.

  “Amy?”

  “So it’s like that?” My voice breaks. I can barely breathe, but I take a sniff and push on. “You quit on a dime. No looking back?”

/>   The sound of his exhale meets my ear before he speaks. “What am I supposed to do? Do you even remember what you said to me? How you acted?”

  “I said I needed time.” Good god, I’m crying. “I asked you to give me time.”

  Did I say the same thing twice? I’m so pathetic. A truck races by driving way too fast for the downtown area, the roaring engine filling my phone.

  “Wait. Where are you?” Concern tightens his voice.

  “I have no idea where I am.” I continue walking east, and somewhere in my peripheral, I sense someone following me. “I’m on Illinois. I think Wabash is the next block.”

  “You’re walking on the street? Alone?!” Marcus’s voice sounds like he’s moving fast. A brush over the receiver, and I hear a voice muffled in the background. More fast movements, and he’s back. “Do you see a restaurant or somewhere you can step inside?”

  “I passed Mink’s just a second ago.” Looking back over my shoulder, I catch the eye of a man lurking in the shadows, following me. I think it’s the beggar. My shoulders tense. “Maybe I should go back?”

  A thump sounds through the phone. “I’m in my car headed your direction. Just keep moving. Try to stay near people.” He makes a little growl. “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “I can’t believe you did this!”

  “Amy, fucking Christ!”

  “That’s not my name.” I’m drunk and pouty, and I almost wish something bad would happen to me. That would show him.

  Just then, the guy I dropped a fifty on steps out right in front of me. “I take it back!” I scream, and my phone hits the pavement.

  The greasy, mop-headed man’s brow lines and he seems confused. “I figured you made a mistake.” He holds the large bill out to me. “Did you mean to give me something smaller?”

  I’m not sure if this is a test or if I’m going crazy. “N-No. I mean... I don’t know. Just keep it.”

  Tears flood my eyes again, and I can’t tell if I’m terrified or heartbroken or some mixture of both. He reaches for my arm, and I almost fall in my effort to get away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “You seem like you’re not okay.”

  A screech of tires, and my foggy brain registers Marcus’s voice yelling my name. Next thing I know, he’s throwing the beggar back against the wall. Their voices are raised and the man keeps holding up the money insisting he wanted to give it back.