I opt for a cozy armchair in the corner of the room. It’s perfect in placement. The way it hooks around the fireplace obstructs my full view of Brett. Happy I’ll get a reprieve, I open my Kindle and try to dive into a romance book that I’ve wanted to read for a while.
Reading as a writer has changed everything for me. I don’t merely take in passages, I observe. The usage of verbs, the flow of sentences, the show of emotions, the way this writer brings tension into her scenes. Even her over-usage of the word surrender. I take note, highlighting a few passages that really make me swoon.
My focus shatters when the card players erupt over a crazy hand someone played. I look up and spot Lizzie thumping her hand on the table in laughter. I ignore Brett this time, despite my eyes begging me to look at him.
I promptly refocus on my book. I get lost for a while, but another outburst happens. My attention breaks . . . then it happens again. And again. Each time, I’ve refused to look up. I want to drown everything . . . well, Brett, out.
I won’t let him see me looking. After the last weird pass, I’m done giving my attention to anything he’s involved in, so my head stays down even though I’m dying to know what’s going on.
That’s the game I’m playing tonight—a big fat challenge of don’t look.
I’m winning, until one of the ladies lets out a loud shrill. My shoulders lurch, and I plug an ear. Damn. She could break glass. My face screws into a wince, then I notice Brett is gone. Nowhere to be seen. The space, his space, reverberates with emptiness.
My shoulders deflate with ease, but I grow annoyed at the way my stomach drops at his absence. With my eyes lingering on his open spot, I frown. I shouldn’t want him to be here. I shouldn’t care, but I do, so I’m fixing the situation. I’ll make it to where I can’t look at him.
Closing my Kindle, I weigh my options. There are the stairs which lead to my room. Thinking of Olaf, I shake my head. I’m not ready to snuggle with him just yet. A smile tugs up my lips when thinking of the lower floor. There’s a pool table, fully stocked bar, a few couches, and a TV. The best part is no one is congregated there tonight, so it will be quiet.
I slide off the chair, Kindle in hand, and gently depart for the kitchen. Everyone’s absorbed in the game, Lizzie and Cora included, so slipping out is easy.
My hands smooth over the paneled wall as I saunter down the steps. The quiet in here already has my heartbeat slowing down and I love it. Placing my reader on the pool table, I decide to go for a drink . . . of water.
Thanks to Dad, I never touch alcohol. His bitter words killed my mom. The endless Jack he consumed twisted him into a monster—one that left me only too happy to toss away his expectations of me becoming a lawyer.
To this day, my favorite memory is the one where I told him that I’d switched all my law classes to English lit, writing, and communications. “Consider it a tribute to Mom.” I said it standing on my tiptoes, sneering in his face. “You never allowed her to do anything she loved, and it killed her. You won’t get to do that with me.”
“It won’t last. Stupid bitch.” I remember how those words sliced down to the quick of my soul. I further recall how I didn’t let that show. Even more, I remember the hollowness in his ghost blue eyes, and the way his clothes reeked of piss and drink.
“She didn’t make it because she was dumb. You’re the same. Enjoy being a failure because you walked out on the one thing you were good at. Writing won’t last. You won’t last.”
He was right, of course. My last three books have proven his words. Admitting that hurts like a son of a bitch, but still I smile. I force it to counterbalance the ache in my chest. He’ll never know.
I’ll always have the satisfaction of pursuing something different than what he wanted for me and sticking it to him. As it is, my royalties are enough so I can live comfortably for a while. In a way, I’m not a total failure. I simply didn’t last, just like he said.
Running my fingers over the railing of a bar stool, I round the corner. I’m at the edge of the bar counter, about to go behind to fetch water from the fridge.
That’s when Brett pops to a stand.
“Shit!” I jump. His eyes go wide, mine go wider, and my nerves take flight, rocketing from the bottom of my stomach. With my fingers biting into the ledge of the counter, my body stiffens.
His black eyes narrow and he sets down a half-full decanter of whiskey. “You.” His one word growls out.
It’s a one-shot kill to my heart. Hearing all the sex buried deep within it and having it aimed at me sends my pulse rattling against my neck. My knees squeeze together. I end up shuffling backward, right against the paneled wall.
His wide chest lifts with a breath, then he takes four very decided steps and encloses around me. All my hormones go askew just having him near and I’m granted a much-wanted close-up. His eyes aren’t black, just an unusually dark brown that lets little light in or out. It makes him even hotter.
I inhale and there’s an ungodly calling of soap and earth, and my mind breaks down at the smell. It’s clean and unclean, all jumbled into one. When he props his hand on the wall, caging in one side of my head, a fire erupts in my belly. I gulp, wilting under the heat he stirs in me.
But the flames snuff out when he speaks.
“You better keep your damn mouth shut. If you tell anyone what you saw the other night, I’ll drag your reputation all over town.” He grits his teeth while spewing out his threats, and I finally see him for what he is.
Brett Walker is a bully.
I squint, irritation catching in my blood. “How? You don’t even know me.”
“Oh, don’t I?” His voice darkens, making mine grow stronger.
“You don’t. All you’ve done is stare at me since you got here. What the hell do you know about me?”
My fists tighten when he lowers his tall frame. It brings us closer together, and right now I can’t determine if I like that or not.
“Plenty, romance writer.” His final two words slice. Hard.
“Romance—” My mouth falls open as I’m blindsided with a verbal two-by-four. “How did you—”
“Think I didn’t check up on you?” His gaze hardens and there’s steel in it. That cold look lands on my mouth and stays there. “I make it a habit to find out about people who watch me while I get head.”
“Mmm.” I force a deadened look, even though every inch of me flutters with a nervous yet turned on sickness. “Have that happen often, do you?”
He smirks. It’s just as dangerous as I remember. “No,” he whispers. “I simply remember the desperate looking ones. Think I don’t know you? Your friend Eliza was obliging after you left her party the other night. And from what I heard, you, my dear, are. Desperate.”
When his eyes focus on mine, a shiver rips down my spine. Not one of pleasure this time, and it renders my limbs tight.
“What’s the matter, book writer?” His voice drips with cruel sarcasm. “Your sex scenes not doing it for you anymore?” A harsh chuckle leaves him. “You’re so hard up you have to watch the real deal, is that it?”
Bastard. My heart quickens its tempo, but I ignore that. Opting to narrow my eyes, I slide away from him, hugging tight to the wall. “You don’t know anything about me, and if I do tell Monica’s husband about you—”
“Then I’ll tell everyone about you. That our little single and lonely sex author can’t control her imagination. That she creates bullshit lies because I wouldn’t talk to her.”
The insult makes my jaw clench and my blood bubble with anger. “There’s no problem with my imagination.”
“I didn’t say that, blondie.” He says it after taking in my hair. Mirroring my movements, he’s stalking me down the wall, ensuring I never achieve the distance I seek. “What I said was that your dreary life lacks excitement. That’s why you create stories. Monica Morrison?” His voice spikes with falseness. “Never heard of her. I just moved here.”
Jerk. But I can’t think of anythin
g to say, all that happens is a stilling of my movement. I stop walking, he stops with me, and I look up.
Something foreign seizes his expression. He lets out a long exhale and his hand, resting on the wall near my head, balls up. My gaze flicks over and I watch the black ink of his tats ripple. From a distance, I thought they were swirls. Now I noticed they’re huge, ornate cursive letters. One looks like an A and it’s swooping middle interweaves with a C. They wave and conform to the muscle residing in his forearms.
A hard swallow unleashes down my throat. Yes, he’s being a total fuckwad, but God . . .
I can’t deny that his jaggedness has a way of sucking me in. Poking me in a way that leaves my body thirsty, dying, and desperate to be sliced open. I’m craving to show myself to him. In turn, I want my brokenness to break him open, showing me all the darkness he holds.
For a brief moment, I want that.
Right after I’m done slapping his chiseled face and calling him an asshole.
He leans closer into me, making the wood paneling groan under his weight. My body clenches, even though I hate the reaction—and the idea of Monica being with him leaves a jealous taste in my mouth that I want to erase.
“Hmp.” The husk in his voice rushes over me, raising the hair on my skin. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue, or do you just want me that bad?”
It’s both. I can’t deny that to myself, but to him I deny everything. “I just want to be left alone.”
“And I want your secrecy.” He grits the words out, but then his vision lowers to my mouth. It stays there. “Give it to me.” The way he says it—raspy, dry, and soft. It doesn’t seem like he’s talking about my silence. It sounds like he’s demanding my screams of pleasure. I crumble to it.
Air snags in my lungs and my spine arches off the wood. My breasts brush the front of his marbled frame, and his throat bobs while a moan reverberates from his throat. My mouth dries up and I watch him pant for air.
I should stop this. Because this dude has just threatened me and there’s nothing hot about that.
However, as much as I want to move, I can’t. Just like he commanded the living room, he’s forced me to him. I become a slave to the merciless pounding of my heart and his cruel gaze.
The shackles only release when his head lowers, he licks his mouth, and his eyes hood to a near close.
No way.
Sure this man is hotter than hell, but he’s the biggest tool I’ve ever met. He won’t kiss me—this man will never even graze me with his hand.
I squint. “Touch me and I’ll scream.” My threat growls out.
He freezes. At first, I think I’ve wrangled him by the collar—forced this alpha domineering prowler into submission. A feeling of triumph floods through my body.
Until his shoulders shake with a silent chuckle.
Every ounce of that sensation washes away when he lowers his head more, keeping our mouths a few daring inches apart.
“Trust me,” he laces his dark utterance with sin—my pulse thrums at the point behind my ears. “I’d have to find you attractive to want to touch you.”
The insult kills my heartbeat. I flat line in an instant, then a coldness descends when he rips himself away and leaves the room.
“Damn.” I whisper it, slumping into the wall, finally allowing my knees to buckle the way they’ve wanted to this entire time.
However, while my knees go lax, a sharp twinge sears through me. No matter how much I try to lie to myself and drive his words away, that stung, and it turns out I was correct.
All his hellbent stares are from pure disgust, and I’ll need to stay away from him while staying mum about anything that involves Brett Walker. Including acknowledging the way he sets my imagination and body on fire. Yeah. Especially that.
Chapter 4
There’s a massive ache wrapping around my head while I share coffee with Lizzie and Cora the next morning. Rubbing at my eye, I sigh and replace my mug on the table.
“Bee, for real, when are you going to get checked out?” Cora picks at her thick leggings and frowns. “I don’t think they’re getting better.”
“I know they’re not getting better,” Lizzie replies. She ignores my scowl and directs her attention to Cora. “But good luck getting through. Little Miss here is digging in her heels.”
“Which is ridiculous,” Cora says, shifting to better face Lizzie. “I have no idea what’s wrong with Bianca, but if I were her, I’d be getting an MRI faster than I could blink.”
Lizzie nods. “Or at least getting blood work done. It makes me sad she’s so stubborn. We only want it done for her good.”
“Bah,” Cora waves her hand in the air. “You know she never listens to us.”
“Umm . . .” I hate it when they do this. Talk like I’m not here. It’s a running joke between the two of them. They do it to get their points across when they think I’m being stubborn, but it’s so annoying. “Excuse me—”
Cora and Lizzie don’t make eye contact.
Instead, Cora turns in her seat and faces Lizzie head on, but I know she heard me. A faint smile presses on her thin mouth. “I don’t know why I’m still friends with her, ‘cause all that girl does is bug the crap out of me.”
Lizzie ducks her head and giggles.
I tap my finger on the tabletop, annoyance pricking at my skin. “I don’t know why I’m friends with you.” My eyes narrow. “You know I find this annoying.”
I’m granted a sideways glance from Cora. “Precisely why I said you’re ridiculous.” She readjusts and reaches for her mug. “If it was only me and Lizzie, I would have called you an idiot.”
My mouth falls open, more agitation riling in my veins.
“I wouldn’t call you an idiot,” Lizzie pipes up. She stops the comeback resting on my tongue. “It’s foolish not to find out what’s going on, but you’re not an idiot.” Her brows furrow as she pauses and passes that darkened look to Cora, who in return rolls her eyes. “Getting things checked out is scary.” Her voice softens. “But delaying will not make things better.”
“Exactly.” Cora shoves to her feet and snags up her empty mug. “If anything, it will make it worse.”
My shoulders slump and temporary defeat slaps me across the cheek. I can’t think of a response to deny them. Running my fingers through my hair, a bitter sensation washes over my stomach. I hate it when they’re right.
Cora’s heavy boots break my thoughts when they thud on the wood floor. “I’m gonna pee, then grab a refill.” She points to me and Lizzie. “You two need anything?” We both shake our heads, and she strolls away.
“I’ll say it one more time, Bianca.” Lizzie twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “Go and get checked out. If anything, for me and Cora. We’re only pestering you because we care.”
A weak smile overtakes my mouth. “I know.”
Silence settles and I drain the remainder of my coffee. Recalling Brett’s words last night, apprehension pokes at my psyche. He said all his information came from Lizzie. What did she tell him? Did she really say I was desperate?
I scratch at the back of my neck, uncertainty rolling through my limbs. Lizzie’s always been in my corner, so I doubt she meant to put me down in any way, but still, whatever she told him, Brett is using that.
And my time with Brett this morning wasn’t much better than last evening.
He stalked me around the house, giving me pointed looks. I think he’s keeping tabs on me to make sure I keep my mouth shut, but I can’t be certain of that. Maybe he’s just trying to annoy the hell out of me instead, sending out a reminder that I can’t have him. I don’t know. All I comprehend is how he grinds my nerves into powder. I seriously want to slap him each time we lock eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Lizzie’s voice rips away my train of thought. “It seems like something is bothering you.”
Clearing my throat, I tug at the small pendant resting around my neck. The once pointed edges of the letter K are smooth and
cool against my fingers. K—Mom’s initial. Anxiety makes me touch it, the feel of it leaves me calm.
“Bianca,” She brushes long hair off her shoulder and leans forward. “That look isn’t good. You’re upset. Did I do something wrong?”
A soft sigh slips out, and I have to smile. Lizzie is always concerned about others. I decide to not tag her along in suspense and be as upfront as I can about my situation with Brett. “Did you say anything about me to Brett Walker?”
Warm, large blue eyes light up. “Oh, boy. I’ll say I did.” An indecent yet gentle smirk captures her fine features. Judging from this reaction, I think she has the impression she’s done me a favor. “He was asking all kinds of questions about you after you left. What you did and if you were seeing anyone.”
A lump forms in my throat, stopping the swallow I’m trying to force. “Wh–what did you say?” My question comes out weaker than intended thanks to my knotted-up gut.
“That you were a writer and single.” Her brows waggle. “Very. Very. Single.”
The urge to slap my palm against my forehead and groan is strong. Given the weighted way she’s saying that, I can see why Brett thinks I’m desperate. I hug myself around my middle. “You didn’t happen to tell him in passing that I’m single by choice, did you?”
“It slipped my mind, Bianca.” Long black lashes flutter. “When I was looking at him, all I could think about is how you deserve someone that gorgeous.”
“Thanks but—”
“Sweetie.” Sympathy flashes in her soft gaze. “I know Lance hurt you, but not everyone is going to be like that.”
Lance. His name is like salt to the soul. He ended up being a dick, sleeping around on me and using me for money. A bitter experience considering he was so sweet for a while. It was after he dumped me I decided I was done with relationships. I swirl my finger on the table, letting those painful words re-loop. Nothing lasts. Not even relationships, which is why I refuse to get entangled with anyone these days.
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