VOID: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Stella Noir

  She wants me to look at her, to notice her, and I do. But it does nothing for me. There's something about her common features that just doesn't appeal to me. It's one of the reasons I hired her in the first place. She's a good worker and a great secretary, but if she had been the kind of woman who gets to me, I could not have had her work here. Screwing your secretary is such a clichée and an unnecessary risk to my reputation.

  "How have things been here?" I ask randomly.

  Angie looks at me, startled at my question. "Excuse me, sir?"

  It strikes me as odd that she insists on calling me sir, even though I'm younger than her and have told her several times that it's not necessary.

  "How have things been?" I repeat my question, sipping on my Scotch. "You pointed it out yourself, it's been a while since I've been here. How have things been around here for everyone?"

  Angie chuckles awkwardly and removes a strand of hair from her face.

  "It's all good, really," she assures. "But we've missed you. I don't think anyone would mind seeing their boss around more often."

  "That's good to hear," I say, winking at her.

  She blushes and lowers her eyes. Too easy. Too obvious. While it's fun to play with her, I can't imagine myself being attracted to a woman who is so easily captivated.

  However, I do appreciate the fact that she hasn't commented on the drink in my hand. I've been scolded by others for drinking at the office, and even though it was always in a playful way, I couldn't help but feel annoyed by such paternalistic behavior.

  "Well, I'll be on my way," Angie says, making her way to the door. "If you don't mind?"

  The quizzical looks she casts in my direction is almost hopeful, as if she wishes for me to call her back, maybe ask her to share a drink with me.

  If that's the case, I'll have to disappoint her.

  "Have a good evening," I say, jutting my chin forward.

  A hint of disappointment travels across her face, before she turns and leaves.

  I finish the last of my drink and stare at the empty glass. There's no reason for me to hang out in my office any longer. If anything, it's getting ridiculous because there's absolutely nothing for me to do and most of my employees have gone home already.

  Besides, there are better places to have another drink. I call myself a car and am on my way to the bar down the block just a few minutes later. I haven't been to that place since the interview with Lily because I felt that avoiding the place could help erase her memory. By now, it's become clear to me that nothing is going to do that, so I might as well stop by to have a drink at my favorite place. I'm sure they already miss me over there, or at least my money. Carl, the bartender, is my kind of guy and not a man of many words, but he appreciates the extra tip I leave him for every single drink. As weird as it may seem, I like the quiet understanding we have of each other. I enjoy his company, even without speaking a single word, ever.

  I'm looking forward to a lonely drink, maybe two. A Scotch that would be considered way too cheap and below my standard for those who know the numbers in my bank account. Luckily, I'm not influenced by what I should like according to my financial standing, but prefer to listen to my own taste.

  That goes for drinks and women.

  It's still early when I step inside the bar, not even seven in the evening. I don't expect many customers to be around, and I expect to find my usual seat at the far end of the bar to be empty and waiting for me.

  I turn out to be wrong about that last part.

  A pair of familiar blue eyes greets me as the door closes behind me, and I'm staring right at the face I've been trying to forget for days.

  She is sitting in my usual spot just as I would be, leaning on her elbows, a Scotch placed in front of her, as if she's trying to imitate me.

  She smiles when she sees me.

  And I fucking smile back at her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lily

  For a moment, I almost fear that he might turn around and leave the bar once he sees me there.

  To be honest, I don't know what I would have done if he did. I'm not someone who forces myself on others, even though it wouldn't be the worst quality to have in my line of work. If he runs away from me twice within a week, I should take the hint and just leave him alone, just like Sara – and pretty much everybody else – told me to do.

  But he doesn't run. He freezes for a moment when he sees me sitting there in his usual spot, but instead of turning and making a run for it, he approaches me, taking wide, calm strides as he crosses the bar. His hands are buried in his pants' pockets and, to my surprise, there’s a genuine smile lighting up his gorgeous face. It's more of a smirk really, but at least he doesn't look mad to see me here.

  He's dressed differently today, sporting a tailor-fit suit instead of the well-worn jeans, form-fitting t-shirt and leather jacket from a few days ago. His hair is combed to the side, and he is freshly shaved. He looks clean and professional compared to the man I met a few days ago. But that shadow – that hauntingly deep sorrow – is still there. I can't put my finger on it, but I can sense that something horrible has happened to him and caused him to harden.

  "Are you stalking me?" he asks, his voice husky and deep. However, he doesn't sound, nor look, angry. That's a good start.

  I wink at him. "What if I said I just like this bar?"

  "And this particular spot?" he asks.

  He has come to a halt right next to me, and he’s standing so close that I can smell his cologne and manly scent and feel the heat from his body. My heart is racing, pounding against my chest like a wild animal clawing to escape a cage, and I pray to God that he doesn't notice. It takes every ounce of my willpower to keep from trembling.

  He sits down on the open barstool next to me and waves the bartender over. A Scotch is placed in front of him within just a few moments, again without any exchange of words between the two men.

  "I told you, I'm not doing the interview," he says, as he takes his first swallow from his drink.

  I nod. "Yes, you mentioned that. But I'm wondering why that is."

  He glares at me from the side. "I can't give you what you need."

  The intensity of his voice unravels me. Those words seem to convey so much more than what they suggest on the surface.

  "I think you can," I reply.

  Our eyes meet, and judging from the way he looks at me, it's easy for me to assume that he suspects a similar depth to my words, as well. I hope he does.

  "Why are you here?" he wants to know.

  "For a drink," I lie.

  He raises his right eyebrow and gives me a look that seems to say, "Come on, be serious".

  "A drink with you," I add. "No harm in that, right?"

  "Why would you want to have a drink with me?" he asks.

  Now I'm blushing. I'm not going to say anything unprofessional, regardless of what I’m thinking and how my body is betraying me right now.

  However, his question is legit, and right now I wish I had come up with a few lines ahead of time. Then again, I never thought much beyond just showing up here with the hopes of running into him. I've been stopping by and sitting, waiting, in this exact spot for the past few evenings, and I've always ordered a Scotch. Sometimes I drank it all, sometimes I didn't.

  I look down at my half empty glass and suddenly remember something.

  "Because I owe you money," I say. "You left way too much money to pay for our drinks when we met the other night."

  I don't really think he dropped all that money by mistake, but when I make a move to rummage through my purse to retrieve it to give it back to him, he grabs hold of my upper arm to stop me.

  "It was no mistake," he says. "Keep it."

  "But –"

  "Also, that's the worst excuse I've ever heard. You wanted to return my money," he snorts. "You're a terrible liar. Hasn’t anyone told you that lying is not a good quality to have in your job?"

  I frown at him, unsure what to say.

&nb
sp; "Let me take a guess," he continues. "You haven't found anyone else to interview – but you desperately need this story – so you didn’t have any other choice but to stalk me down. That's why you're so ridiculously clingy."

  "That couldn't be further from the truth," I retort, trying to sound confident, even though he's not completely wrong. I did talk to Joe again and he reluctantly gave me the names of a few other former soldiers to contact.

  The thing is, I don't want to talk to them. I want his story, Jed’s story. I don't know why, but there is just something about him that speaks to me on so many levels.

  He stares at me, nursing his drink, as my heart somersaults in response to his drop-dead handsome looks and raw, rugged masculinity.

  I wish he would touch me. I wish I could touch him. It's as if I’m being magnetically drawn to his muscular body. I find myself leaning closer to him, my leg wandering drifting off the side of my stool so it’s just an inch shy of sliding up against his thick thigh.

  Is this flirting? He must notice the way my body seems to behave around him, even if I'm not doing it consciously.

  I have never felt like this before around anyone. I’ve always been the one who was pursued by a man, Peter especially. When we first met, I had no interest in him whatsoever, but he started pursuing me and eventually he was successful at winning me over. But even then he never made me feel the way this man does just through a look, a glance, a touch.

  "What is the truth, then?" he asks, casting another dark look in my direction. "Are you seriously telling me you have given up on writing your article?"

  I hastily shake my head.

  "I absolutely have not," I say. "And I'm not going to lie to you, I'd still very much like to interview you and include your story in it."

  He grunts and takes another sip from his drink.

  "But I won't force you," I add. "And since you obviously don't want your money back, let me at least pay for your drink tonight. And...."

  I hesitate, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks.

  "And?" he asks.

  "And maybe we could... just chat a little? No interview, I promise!"

  Oh, God, is this what it's like to have a crush on someone you feel is completely out of your league? I feel like such an idiot for even suggesting that we have a drink together and talk, even though he's already sitting next to me and we're having a drink.

  He chuckles. "You're cute."

  Crap. That doesn't make things any easier. Is he making fun of me? I reach for my drink and bring it to my lips so fast it’s as if my life depends on it. I’m surprised I didn’t spill it all down the front of me.

  His eyes are locked on me, and I don't have to look at him to know it. I can feel his eyes watching me, and I know he's noticing just how nervous I am, and he's enjoying it. Of course, he's enjoying it that I’m so flustered. It's flattering to have someone else act like an idiot because of you. I've just never been the one in that position before. I've always been the one on the other side.

  "Well, what do you want to talk about?" he asks.

  Another legit question that I have no idea how to answer. There are a million questions I'd like to ask him, but I know he wouldn’t answer most of them. He’d clue in right away that they were my interview questions, too. If I’m going to get anything useful from him, I'll have to approach it from a different angle, start with something less sensitive.

  "Joe told me you own your own company," I say.

  He nods. "That's correct."

  "Tech industry?"

  He nods again. "Business to business communication."

  I don't know anything about that, so no clever remark comes to mind. I already knew that about his business, but what I don't know is how he ended up where he is now. Especially considering his background and upbringing, this was quite a step up.

  "How did you pull that off?" I ask bluntly. "From what you told me before, you didn't exactly have the qualifications or education to end up where you are now. Isn't that why you joined the Army in the first place?"

  "Marines," he corrects me. "Girl, you have to get your facts straight."

  I sigh. "Sorry. Marines."

  "And, no, I may not have gone the traditional route to the top," he adds, "but just because I didn't go to college, that doesn't mean that I'm stupid."

  "That's not what I meant!" I exclaim, scared that I might have offended him.

  "No, you didn't," he says. "But others have."

  He finishes his drink and motions to the bartender to bring another round for both of us.

  "I haven't finished my first drink yet," I argue when the drinks are placed in front of us.

  He winks at me. "Well, then, you better get to drinking, young lady."

  I blush and try to hide my embarrassment by bringing the glass up to my lips.

  "To answer your question," he says, visibly amused at my predicament, "it's quite simple. I left the Marines, had some money saved up, and was just smart and lucky at investing that money."

  "So you started your own company?" I ask, hoping he notices how impressed I am by that.

  But he shakes his head. "No. I didn't start a company, I invested in one that already existed and was on its way up. Lucky for me, the guy who started it only did it because he felt pressured to by his family. He never liked it and was a bad businessman. They provided him with the capital, he came up with the idea, and while the idea was initially promising, he just made poor decisions to make things work. He was a fucking hippie who almost let his ideals ruin everything. When I stepped in, I not only brought money to the table to bail it out of trouble, but I also implemented a few new ideas to bring the business back on track. And then there came a point when he just left everything up to me."

  "He sold the company to you?"

  "Kind of," he says. "He wanted to get rid of it so he could finally pursue something he could be proud of and that he actually wanted to do, as he put it himself."

  He pauses and looks at me as if to check whether I'm still listening. I'm glued to his every word, enjoying the fact that he's actually saying more than three-word sentences. I like listening to him. His voice is deep and soothing, and so... sexy.

  "What about you?" he asks, startling me.

  "What do you mean?" I ask back. "What about me?"

  "I thought this wasn't supposed to be an interview," he says. "But if I'm the only one talking, it kind of feels that way. It's your turn now."

  I clear my throat and fiddle with my hands, completely lost at what to say.

  "You know what I do," I say. "There's really not much to it. I just started at City Heartbeat, and so far I have failed to get an interview with the lead for my first editorial article."

  He chuckles. "Don't you dare start blaming me for that."

  "I am blaming you," I say. "Who else could I blame?"

  He casts me another look out of the corner of his eyes, and I can tell that his eyes have narrowed and his brows are furled.

  "I'm sorry," I say, fearing that he's about to take off on me again.

  But instead, he comes up with an unexpected question. "What made you want to become a journalist?"

  I tilt my head to the side, surprised at his question.

  "You asked me why I joined the Marines," he says. "If this is not supposed to be an interview, I‘d say I get to ask the same questions as you do."

  Again, he makes a good point.

  I shrug. "I like telling good stories – true stories – but I'm not really good with fiction."

  "So you like to tell true stories then," he interjects. "That's what you're after?"

  I nod. "True stories are often way better than what anyone can make up. Don't you agree?"

  His expression darkens and he turns away from me. I can almost feel the chill.

  "No?" I ask, leaning forward in an attempt to draw his attention back to me.

  "How would I know?" he murmurs.

  I feel bad. I'm sure that the reason for his dismissive behavior is th
at some story from his past wasn’t a very good one, and here I just referred to true stories as "way better" than fiction, or the fantasies that many people yearn for. Including him, possibly.

  We sit next to each other in silence for a while, both sipping at our almost empty drinks, and then he orders us a third round. He's quiet, but he's still here, and even as we sit in silence, there's an easy intimacy between us that usually doesn't find its way between two people who have just met.

  I can feel the warmth of his masculine body in the seat next to me, and the longer we sit together quietly, the more I feel drawn to him.

  What the hell am I doing?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jed

  I shouldn't do it. I'm not the right man for her. More importantly, she's not the right girl for me.

  She thinks she has it all figured out, the little story hunter. Her interest in people’s real, true stories just proves how green she really is.

  I know her kind. I've met her kind, and I've destroyed her kind. I swore to myself I wouldn't do it again, as they tend to eat away part of my fucked up soul every time I break them.

  I have enough reason to hate myself, enough demons to fight with, thank you very much, without adding her to the list.

  But once the idea has found its way inside my head, there's nothing I can do. She's too delicious. Too tempting. Her blue eyes are such a contradiction. Every time she looks at me, I see either complete ignorance or a frightening deep understanding, an intuitiveness, as if she was seeing right through me.

  She's anything but short for a woman, but next to me she still looks delicate and tiny. She triggers me. She provokes the uncontainable desire inside me to break her as much as to protect her.

  And I can see that she feels it, too. She is waiting for me to make the first move. Typical, but it’s to be expected from a girl like her.