1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Fourteen

by Kristen Ashley

  We walked out into a plush little hallway that had an armchair and a table with a lamp on it over which was a mirror, all this for reasons I didn’t know since you needed a code to get to that floor so I suspected no one would be hanging there waiting for Marcus to get home.

  It also had a big, gleaming wooden door that had to be a foot bigger than normal doors on every side. This had a shining brass door handle that would fit a manor house, except it was snazzier.

  Marcus walked us to it, but didn’t fit a key into the door. He slid aside the door over a panel on the wall I hadn’t even noticed and entered another code.

  I heard the lock unlatch.

  He opened the door and positioned me to move through it with his hand at my back, saying to the boys, “Tomorrow.”

  “Yes, boss,” I heard Brady say.

  Ronald wasn’t a big talker, apparently, since he again said nothing.

  “Later, boys,” I called, looking over my shoulder at them as Marcus pressed me in.

  Brady grinned at me. Ronald just stared at me through his apparently ever-present sunglasses.

  Marcus shut the door.

  My gaze went to Marcus and I saw Brady had handed off my bag to him.

  “Does Ronald not like me?”

  He got close. “Ronald likes beer, brats, Broncos, and busty women, not in that order. He hasn’t shared, but if I had to guess, my guess would be he loves you.”

  That was good but I wasn’t sure it was true.

  “Brady seems friendly,” I noted. “Ronald, not so much.”

  “Brady is friendly because that’s part of Brady being Brady. Ronald is old school, and as far as he’s concerned, he isn’t paid to be friendly. Especially not to any woman I’d bring dinner to or have sitting next to me in my car.”

  I tipped my head to the side. “How many of those are there?”

  “In my car, enough. Bringing dinner to, one.”

  I smiled.

  He smiled back and got closer. “I’m going to change. Then I’ll show you around. After that, I’ll start dinner.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Make yourself at home,” he invited, lifted his hand, touched my nose, then turned and sauntered up some stairs, carrying my bag with him.

  That was when I noticed the stairs.

  They swept at a curve off to the side of the entry and they had an elegantly carved bannister the likes I’d never seen. All whorls and swirls, it was amazing. And the treads of the stairs were covered with a thick, opulent carpet in the color of the palest mushroom.

  Beyond that, I took in floor-to-ceiling windows with an uninterrupted view of the Front Range. Uninterrupted except for the elegant drape of oyster-colored curtains pulled back at the sides.

  And in the space just beyond the staircase, on gleaming parquet floors, sat a table with a massive spray of delicate butterscotch-colored flowers, the type I didn’t know, these rising up from a huge crystal vase. Two curved, elegant chairs sat at angles to the table for no reason whatsoever, except to look posh, seeing as no one would sit there unless Marcus was throwing a big party.

  I hadn’t even walked in and I knew his place wasn’t class.

  It was class.

  He had all this.

  He could come from living a life that was close to squalor and build a life where this was what he saw when he got home.

  And he’d picked me.

  Me.

  He’d not only picked me, he’d said he’d waited thirty-five years for me.

  So I stood just inside his door and I did this not feeling uncomfortable.

  I felt for the only time in my life outside the time I hit the Denver city limits like I was right where I was supposed to be.

  What I wasn’t going to do was make myself at home.

  No, I reckoned if the entry was that fabulous, the rest was going to blow my mind.

  And I wanted to experience it with Marcus.

  So I didn’t leave the entry. I walked to the windows, stared out at the Front Range, and waited for him to come back.

  “Honey, I told you to make yourself at home.”

  I turned to see Marcus coming down the final wind to the stairs wearing another pair of nice jeans, these topped with a garnet-colored sweater with a handsome, manly shawled collar.

  “I didn’t want to experience your place without you with me,” I told him.

  A look passed his face right before he got in my space.

  I didn’t have a chance to figure out what the look meant seeing as a nanosecond after he got in my space, I was in his arms and he was kissing me.

  And that kiss was another doozy, slightly less of one than what he gave me that morning, seeing as we were standing up and we both had on more clothes (well, Marcus did, I had on a pair of faded jeans with strategically-placed worn spots (a lot of them), high-heeled, gray leather cowboy boots with turquoise ostrich feathers stitched in, and a silvery off-the-shoulder sweater that held on to my boobs by a miracle, so not more clothes, exactly, just more coverage, kind of).

  The kiss was still a doozy.

  When he lifted his head, I was having trouble breathing and I was holding on to his shoulders because my legs had gone weak.

  “Want a tour?” he whispered.

  Hell yes, I wanted a tour.

  Though I’d prefer another kiss.

  Horizontal again this time.

  I didn’t share that.

  I nodded.

  He grinned.

  Then he let me go, took my hand, and gave me a tour.

  And we’ll just say I was right.

  The entry was pure class.

  The rest of it was like a dream.

  * * * *

  “I’m having Kelly clear my schedule so next week we can go to my place in Aspen.”

  I sat at his side at his impressive dining room table where he sat at the head, a fork with linguine wrapped around its tines, Marcus’s homemade buttery, garlicky clam sauce dripping off it halfway to my mouth, and I looked to him.

  There was a lot there. I didn’t know where to start.

  So I started with the easiest part.

  “Kelly?” I asked, then shoved the pasta into my mouth.

  “My PA,” he answered, reaching to the bottle of sauvignon blanc that was in a silver bucket filled with ice on the table (yes, Marcus had a silver wine bucket, making me think that perhaps he had it all and I wasn’t talking about shit you could buy, just it all).

  He refilled my wine while I asked my next.

  “You have a place in Aspen?”

  He put the bottle back and his eyes came to me as he replied, “Yes.”

  I twirled linguine. “What else you got?”

  “A beach house on Coronado. And a set of six lots that I bought in Englewood four years ago that had houses on them that were in a great neighborhood, but not in great shape. I had them razed and then had a number of trees planted so when the time came for me to build there I’d be in the city, close to work, but I’d have nature around me, peace, quiet, and privacy.”

  A beach house in Coronado.

  Nice.

  And peace, quiet, and privacy.

  That sounded real good.

  “Mm-hmm,” I muttered to my linguine before I put it into my mouth.

  “Does that trouble you?”

  I chewed, swallowed, and answered, “Why would it trouble me?”

  “You seem troubled,” he remarked.

  I put my fork on my plate and gave him my full attention.

  “I’m not troubled that evidence is suggesting you’re a lot more loaded than I thought you were, and I thought you were pretty loaded, sugar.” I said my next watching him carefully, which was the same way I was speaking, “I’m troubled because you wanna take me to Aspen next week when I’m gonna be back at work.”

  His head tipped a bit to the side, but other than that he didn’t look ticked.

  However, he did ask, “You’re going back to work?”

  “
Yes.”

  “So soon?”

  “It’s not soon, honey bunch,” I told him cautiously. “By the time I go back, I’ll have been on vacation for a month.”

  That got me a scary look as his eyes went hard.

  “You weren’t on vacation, Daisy.”

  “I’ve been away,” I said quietly. “And I’m a draw. I’m not on that stage, they don’t need the rope outside and the only person who doesn’t hurt because of that is me, seein’ as Smithie has me on paid leave and he pays me a whack. But you know that, I’m sure.”

  He inclined his head and kept his gaze on me. “I do.”

  “So I need to get back to work.” I shot him a smile. “And anyway, I’m runnin’ out of Southern movies to watch. The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood is a kickass book, but the movie sucks.”

  Marcus reached for his bread, murmuring, “I’ll talk to Smithie. He can wait a week while we’re in Aspen, and when we come back, if you still want to dance, you can go back then.”

  I didn’t get into the “if you still want to dance” part.

  I said, “I already arranged it with Smithie, Marcus.”

  He chewed his bread, swallowed, and locked his eyes on me. “I’ll rearrange it.”

  Oh boy.

  “Okay, sugar, just to say, that’s my job and Smithie’s my boss. I know you got a stake in that club but he’s my boss, and we got it arranged.”

  “And like I’ll said, I’ll rearrange it.”

  “I got a Porsche to pay for.”

  “And you’re on paid leave.” He shook his head and took up his fork. “It’s too soon.”

  “Honey, I need to get back to life. I had my time. I got my daisies. I did my drama. I’m not sayin’ nothin’ else is gonna spring up with all that and bite me in the ass. I’m gonna have my moments. But now, sittin’ around the house is one long moment that reminds me my life was interrupted by that asshole.”

  “You won’t be thinking about that in Aspen with me.”

  “True enough,” I agreed. “And I wanna do that, Marcus. I really do. I’ve never been to Aspen and I bet it’s real pretty. And it’s sweet you wanna spend time with me there. It’s just sweet you like spending time with me. But Smithie takes care of me. It’s time I take care of him right back. Maybe after a while, I can take a few days and we can go.”

  “Smithie’s fine, Daisy.”

  “Without me there, Smithie’s bleeding money, Marcus.”

  “He isn’t.”

  “Maybe you don’t get to look at the books but when I say he pays me a whack, he pays me a whack.”

  His gaze steady on me, he socked it to me.

  “He doesn’t. I do. I cover your salary, Daisy, and I have for the last two months.”

  “Say what?” I whispered.

  “I pay your salary. Smithie couldn’t afford you.”

  But I was stuck on the last two months.

  The last two months.

  The last two months where that time ago Smithie took away a whole set, one song off the other sets and ended my lap dances but increased my pay so much, my eyeballs burned when I got a good look at the first paycheck.

  And…

  Two months.

  Before the rape.

  Before anything.

  “Say what?” I repeated, not on a whisper, on a breath.

  “I didn’t want you on the stage for four sets with those sets being three songs, too long alone up there and exposed. And I definitely didn’t want you doing lap dances. So to cover the loss in tips that would be, we elevated your salary, and because Smithie couldn’t pay that and it wasn’t his decision, I covered it.”

  “You didn’t know me.”

  “No. But I knew I wanted to.”

  I stared at him.

  Then I started, “Why didn’t you—?”

  I cut myself off because it felt all of a sudden like something was stuck in my throat and I thought it pertinent to focus on breathing.

  “Daisy?”

  Marcus looked concerned.

  I put a hand flat on the table and pushed through the thing choking me.

  “That was two months ago.”

  “Darling—”

  “Before he got to me.”

  Marcus went still.

  I pushed up on my hand, shoved back my seat, and took my feet.

  “Why didn’t you come to me?” I screeched.

  He was out of his seat, too, and approaching me.

  “Daisy—”

  I scuttled back and lifted up a hand but he didn’t stop moving so I didn’t either as I bit out, “Don’t come near me.”

  “I had things happening,” he said quietly.

  “You saw me. You knew you wanted to take your shot,” I hissed. It all was coming to me, pouring over me like boiling oil. “That day. That day you were there and you left without even looking at me. You were up in Smithie’s office with Smithie. The next day Smithie gave me my raise. You saw me. You knew then.”

  He kept coming at me, stalking me around the table.

  “When I made my approach, Daisy, I wanted it to have my full attention.”

  “If I was Marcus Sloan’s moll, no one would even think of touching me.”

  “I couldn’t have known you’d be raped, baby.”

  I shook my head, still retreating while he advanced and he did it speaking.

  “And you’re wrong. Men like that I don’t get so I don’t get how they can do the things they do, but if he had that monstrousness in his head, it’s doubtful anyone could have stopped him, even me.”

  He was making sense and I didn’t need sense.

  “I need to go,” I forced out.

  “It’s not my fault.”

  That made me stop dead. The words and the tortured way he said them.

  When I stopped, he moved in. Hands cupping the sides of my head, he held it back and bent his face to mine.

  “It’s not my fault, honey. It isn’t anyone’s fault. If I could have stopped it, I would. If I could make a miracle and go back in time to erase it, I would. But I can’t. And you could have been mine then, and unless I had reason to put a man on you, which I can’t say I would do, not in the beginning, it might alarm you and I would do nothing that might alarm you, he would have found his way to get to you.”

  I shook my head in his hands then nodded it.

  “You’re right.”

  He stared into my eyes.

  “I’m…I…I’m…”

  “Just take a breath,” he urged.

  I did that.

  Then I said it.

  “I’m sorry.” I shoved my head through his hands so I could plant my face in his chest and I grabbed onto his sweater at the sides of his waist. “God, I’m so sorry.”

  He wrapped his arms around me, murmuring into the top of my hair, “It’s okay.”

  I let his sweater go so I could wrap my arms around him too.

  Marcus held me and I held him back.

  Eventually, still in my hair, he said softly, “Thinking this is one of those moments you were talking about.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, embarrassed, so I shoved my face deeper into his chest. “God, I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  I tipped my head back. “That was…it was stupid. It wasn’t even logical.”

  “You get a pass on being illogical. At least for another month or six or, seeing as you’re female, another seventy years.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  He grinned down at me.

  His grin faded, his look grew probing, and he whispered, “Good?”

  I stopped giving him the stink eye and nodded. “Yeah, honey.”

  “Go to Aspen with me.”

  “And the hot guy takes advantage,” I muttered.

  His grin came back. “I didn’t get where I am pissing away opportunities either, Daisy.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  He gave me a light shake.

  I rolled them bac
k.

  “Aspen,” he pushed.

  “I need to take care of Smithie.”

  He studied me.

  Then he sighed.

  It took a lot but I didn’t smile my triumph, just felt it warm me deep down inside.

  But I got serious when I asked, “You pay me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that…uh, gonna continue?”

  “Do you like stripping?”

  “I’m fucking amazing on that stage.”

  He shook his head, but did it with his lips curled up, holding me tight. “Then yes, it’ll continue as long as you want to be on that stage.”

  “I rocked a private dance, sugar, but I can’t say they were my favorite things. They were just below having my eyes burned out with a red-hot fire poker, having my nails ripped out at the roots, and having a really bad hair day.”

  He started chuckling.

  It looked good on him but I didn’t join in.

  When Marcus noticed my seriousness, he sobered and asked, “What?”

  “There’s nothing I can ever—”

  He let me go with one hand to put two fingers to my lips.

  When I shut up, he took his fingers away and said, “Something else my sister taught me. If you can give it, you don’t blink at giving someone you care about something they need or they want. No matter how deep it cuts, how much it costs, how steep the price might be in a different way. It’s an honor and it’s a blessing. So giving you the things I can give you means I’m honored and blessed, Daisy. Please don’t take that away from me.”

  I stared up at him thinking Marcus Sloan wasn’t like a dream.

  He was just a dream.

  And on that thought, I blurted, “Miss Annamae would love you.”

  Again, something new moved over his face and I held my breath at its splendor.

  “Consider me paid back,” he whispered.

  Lord.

  He.

  Was.

  Killing.

  Me!

  “Oh my God!” I snapped. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

  “Cry in your linguine, darling, it’s getting cold,” he returned, pulling me to his side and guiding me back to my chair.

  I sat.

  He sat.

  Then I groused, “Who woulda thought some asshole cheatin’ on me or beatin’ on me would be easier to take than some hot guy honored and blessed to spoil me rotten.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Marcus murmured to his linguine.