by K. Bromberg
My eyes blaze while I try to reject the truth behind his words. He watches my internal struggle until I turn from him and walk back toward the conference table. I don’t want him to see the despair on my eyes. “You play dirty, Colton.”
“And your point?” he retorts, turning and leaning his backside against the glass, a lopsided smile flashing. “Sometimes you have to play dirty to get what you want.”
“And what exactly is it that you want?” I ask, crossing my arms across my chest as an invisible means of protection against him. As if anything really could protect me.
Colton pushes off the wall and stalks toward me, like a lion about to pounce on his prey. He stops in front of me, closer than necessary, and reaches out, using a finger to lift my chin up so that my eyes meet his. “You,” he states simply.
I feel as if all of the air has been vacuumed out of the room; I can’t breathe. Incredulity and willingness flood me momentarily as I accept his answer. The warmth is fleeting as I realize that this is how he does it. This is how he gets so many notches on his bedpost. He makes you feel like you’re the only one on his radar. He’s good. He’s really good. But I’m not going to fall for it.
I walk away from him, creating some distance so I can think clearly. “So why a contract? What are you trying to achieve?” I toss over my shoulder as I circle the conference room table. When I’m across it, I turn to face him. “Are you going to threaten my job if I don’t fuck you?”
“No...” a wry smile turns up the corners of his mouth “...but there’s always that option.”
“Well, why don’t we just save us both the time and effort and get it over with?” I rebuff, exhausted by this game we’re playing. “Then we can move on to what really matters. Hell, we can even use the conference table if you’re that desperate.”
“We could,” he says, laughing, a sincere smile on his face. He presses both hands on the table, testing its stability. “It’s sturdy enough.” He shrugs. “Although it’s not exactly what I had in mind.” His eyes express the lascivious thoughts he’s left unspoken. “And believe me, sweetheart, I’m far from desperate.”
His look sends shivers down my spine. I try to change tactics. Obviously the avenue I’ve taken is not working to deter him. “We both know you don’t need an escort to these functions. Why not have one of your girlfriends escort you?” I continue moving, knowing that if I stand still, I risk the chance of coming into contact with him. And the pull he has over my body is too strong to resist his touch. And if he touches me, then I think my resolve will crumble. “I’m sure that you have a bevy of beauties waiting for you to snap your fingers.”
“I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” he deadpans, stopping me in my tracks.
“Oh, I see. The casual fucking thing is more your style then?” I see anger flash in his eyes before he reins it in, covering it with a diminutive smirk. “I guess I was right to not expect too much from you.”
“Why tie myself to just one woman when there are so many out there vying for my attention?” he goads, trying to push more of my buttons.
“Do you actually believe your own bullshit lines?” My God, the man is relentless and exasperating at the same time. He just flashes me a smarmy smile and folds his arms across his chest. I try to not focus on the play of muscles beneath his shirt. Try not to imagine what he looks like with his shirt off. “You sure are full of yourself, aren’t you, Ace?”
He cocks his head and looks at me. “I can arrange for you to be full of me instead, if you’d like?”
Again, I stop at his words. Regardless of how forward and crass his comment is, all of the muscles south of my waist clench with desire. I can feel the flush of heat creep up my cheeks, staring at a non-existent spot on the wall for a moment, hoping he doesn’t notice. He chuckles softly at my reaction, and my eyes flash up to meet his, my expression belying how dumbstruck I am from his words. It’s only when I stare at him incredulously for a few moments, my mouth opening and closing trying to form words to berate him for his arrogance, that I see the crack in his game. A smile graces his lips, causing the lines around his eyes to crinkle.
“C’mon,” he teases, taking a step closer to me. “You walked right into that one. I couldn’t resist.”
I know the feeling. I stare at him, shaking my head. “Okay,” I concede. “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just say that. But seriously, why don’t you do the girlfriend thing?”
He shrugs casually. “Not my thing. I don’t like strings attaching me to anything. Relationships equal drama.”
A guy with commitment issues, like that’s something new.
“So I was right?” I mutter more to myself than to him, astounded by his brutal honesty.
“About what?” he asks, angling his head to the side as he approaches me slowly. My heart beats faster. The tone of his voice and his aura have changed. I can sense raw desire as he nears. The danger. My body clenches in anticipation, while my brain tells me to retreat quickly.
“What I told you on Saturday—you do like to just fuck ’em and chuck ’em.” My voice is quiet. The temerity behind my words fades with every step he takes in my direction.
“I told you once I don’t take kindly to insults. You just did it again. For that alone you deserve to be taken over my knee.” My thighs clench in expectant desire. I’m not into that type of thing. And yet that type of thing with Colton, his hands on me, possessing me, pushing me to ride that fine line bordering between pleasure and pain arouses me beyond coherence.
I part my lips as he comes within inches of mine. My body is attuned to him. His scent. The intake of his breath. My back arches as he lifts a hand to my cheek. “It sucks, doesn’t it?” he asks as he trails a finger along my jaw line, stopping, then brushing against my bottom lip.
“What does?” I sigh softly as his finger leaves my skin.
“When you have to stick to your guns out of principal rather than giving into the temptation right in front of you,” he whispers, turning the tables on me. “There is no shame, Rylee, in letting your body have what it craves.”
We stand, inches from each other, letting the weight of his words settle in my psyche. I know he is right. My body’s deepening ache tells me so. That I want exactly what he is offering.
“It’s hard to deny it, sweetheart, when it’s written all over your body.”
I jerk back from him as if I’ve been bitten. His words fuel my ire and irritate me. “No! I—”
“Shhh,” he murmurs, stepping back toward me, pressing a finger to my lips, his eyes ablaze with salacious intensity. “Just know, Rylee, the best sex you will ever have … will be with me,” he says in a low, hypnotizing voice that seems to knock all of the air from my lungs and reason from my usually sensible head.
I jump back, needing space from his carnal words and unending arrogance. He’s so forward, so cocksure it’s almost unattractive. Almost. The man can definitely talk a good game. Too bad I’ll never know if it’s true or not, if for no other reason than to teach his oversized ego a lesson.
“I’ll comply with the damn agreement, Colton,” I huff. “For my boys. For the many kids to come.” I stalk toward the table to collect my things. “Not for you. Or your stupid machinations behind it.” I forcefully square up the papers on the table, paper hitting wood is the only sound in the room. I look up, my steely eyes pinning his. “I will not sleep with you, Ace.”
“Yes, you will.” He smiles smugly.
Despite the vicious bang his words spark between my legs, I manage a single chuckle. “Don’t even think for a single minute—”
“Colton!” A sexy voice purrs at the door to the conference room, interrupting me.
I snap my head up to see the svelte Bailey smiling seductively, all wide eyes and batting eyelashes. My insecurities rise to the surface as I swallow loudly, looking to see Colton’s reaction. My eyes meet his because, despite the interruption, his eyes have never left mine. I am unsure what to make of this. He purses his
lips, the unresolved issues left hanging between us.
All of the sudden, I’m not feeling well and want desperately to escape from this room. From this man. From witnessing the familiarity between Bailey and Colton. From being jealous despite expressing that I don’t want him.
Oblivious to the tension, Bailey sashays into the room, heading toward Colton, finger twirling her perfectly straight, perfectly bottle-dyed auburn hair.
Regret flashes across Colton’s eyes as he glances toward her and smiles a warm hello, ever the consummate gentleman. I turn abruptly to leave, knocking into my chair so it scrapes loudly against the hardwood floor.
“I didn’t realize you’d snapped your fingers,” I mutter as I try again to get around my chair.
From behind me, Colton releases a hearty, sincere laugh at my comment that, despite my frustration, makes me smile. As I exit the room, I hear him call my name. I keep walking, wanting to distance myself from him.
“This is by no means over, Rylee,” he yells out.
I continue without responding, right past my office and straight to the elevator doors. I ignore Stella’s call, the blinking voicemail light on my phone, and luck out when the elevator door opens as I approach. I need fresh air to clear my head.
I am a confident woman and not afraid to speak up, so why do I feel like one of those blubbering girls I can’t stand? Why is it that Colton reduces me to a mass of hormones—angry one minute and wanting his lips on mine the next?
I sag against the wall of the elevator in frustration. He gets me so worked up. So angry. I can’t figure out what I want to do more, punch him or fuck him.
THE CALIFORNIA SUN RELAXES ME as I drink in its warmth in my backyard. I recline in the chaise, tilting my head to catch the last rays before they sink and fade to dusk. The leaves of several palm trees that line our backyard fence rustle from the light breeze, calming me.
The day’s events have taken their toll on me. And with Josie down with the flu, I’ll be back at the house in less than twenty-four hours to cover her shift. Despite it being early evening, I really should be getting ready for bed and sleeping off some of my exhaustion. But I’ve let Haddie talk me into a glass of wine and some pizza that she’s making in the house.
I close my eyes, leaning my head back, sighing as I allow myself to believe that the new facilities will become a reality. That our new approach for treating orphaned children can expand and hopefully become the pioneering protocol for change in our foster system. We can strengthen our case that creating small groups of kids under one roof—where they consistently have guardians, rules, school, counseling—will lead to well-adjusted adults. They will have a place where they belong.
A shiver of pride runs through me as I think of all of the possibilities and all of the hope that we can create with the completion of this project.
And then I suddenly feel sick from thinking about him. I still can’t figure out what to make of his comment that he doesn’t do the “girlfriend thing.” Why do I still keep thinking about him if there’s nothing there? Because there is. I can’t deny that he’s more than easy on the eyes. And I definitely can’t act as if the sparks that shoot up my arm when he touches me are imaginary. But I don’t want to get involved with him and his womanizing ways, especially now that I have to because of work.
I sigh heavily when I hear the sliding door open and Haddie walks out with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a pizza box stacked with plates and napkins on top. I suddenly realize how hungry I am. She walks toward me, the sun framing her tall figure, setting her blonde hair alight like a halo around her head. Long, lean legs stretch from short khaki shorts, and her oversized bosom is covered in an orange camisole. As usual, she is accessorized perfectly and styled flawlessly. And despite her tireless perfection that makes me feel inadequate in so many ways, I love her like the sister I never had.
“I’m starving,” I announce, sitting up from the chair to help Haddie place everything on the table.
“And I’m starving for information on what’s going on with you. On why you’re out here so deep in thought,” she prods as she pours red wine into the glasses, and I serve the pizza.
“Just like in our dorm room,” I say nodding at our meal, laughing at the memory .
She was my freshman year roommate. I could have never of guessed that first week of college orientation that the Barbie doll I roomed with would turn out to be my best friend. She waltzed into our dorm room looking like a model out of a Ralph Lauren ad campaign, so confident and sure of herself, her picture-perfect family following behind her. She slowly took in our meager surroundings, the painted brick walls and small closet space. My gawky self watched her, cringing at the thought of having to be reminded every morning of how inferior I was to this beautiful creature.
I sat picking at the hem of my dress as her parents left for good. She shut the door, turned to me, a huge grin on her heart-shaped lips, and said, “Thank God they’re finally gone!” I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she sagged against the door in relief. She angled her head, studying me, sizing me up. “I think it’s time to celebrate!” she said, hurrying over to her suitcase.
Within moments, she produced a bottle of tequila hidden deep in her belongings. She then flopped on my bed next to me. She unscrewed the cap and held the bottle up in the air between us. “To Freshman year!” she toasted, “To friendship, freedom, cute boys, and having each other’s backs.” She winced as she took a swig of the strong alcohol and then handed the bottle over to me. I looked nervously back and forth between her and the bottle, and then wanting desperately to be liked by her, took a swallow, the burn bringing tears to my eyes.
“My God, we were so naïve then. And young!” she reminisces. “We’ve been through so much since freshman orientation!”
“All we need is that cheap tequila to bring us back.” I laugh and then fall silent as the impending night starts to eat the sun’s rays. “Eight years is a long time, Had,” I say, taking a long drink of the tart wine, letting it soothe the anxiety gnawing at the edges of my mind.
“Long enough,” she says, taking a seat, looking at me, “that I know something is bugging you. What’s going on, Ry?”
I smile, so grateful to have a friend like her and feeling cursed at the same time because I can’t hide anything from her. I feel tears burn my eyes, the sudden onset of emotions surprising me.
Haddie leans forward, her perfectly tanned legs bending beneath her as she reaches out and places a hand on my leg. “What is it, Rylee? What has you so twisted up?”
I take a moment to find my voice, wanting to tell her everything, to get her opinion on whether I’m being obtuse about Colton. Maybe I know what she is going to tell me if I confess, and that’s why I find myself holding back. Not wanting to hear that it’s okay to let go and feel again. That being with someone else does nothing to tarnish Max, his memory, or what we had together.
“There are too many things. I don’t even know where to start,” I confess, trying to sift through my mental baggage. “I’m exhausted from work—worried about Zander’s lack of progress, wrapping up all of the details from the benefit last Saturday night,” I say, running my hands through my hair, “and the fact that I’m back to the house tomorrow to cover Josie’s shift because she’s sick …”
“Can’t someone else cover it?” she asks, taking a bite of pizza. “You’ve worked way too many hours this week. I’ve barely seen you.”
“No one can. Not this week. Everyone’s hours are maxed out because of all the extra time I had them put in for the benefit … and since I’m on salary … it’s left to me,” I explain.
“I understand why you do it, Ry—why you love it—but don’t let it kill you, sweetie.”
“I know. I know. You sound like my mother!” I take a bite of my pizza and chew it slowly. “The good news though, is that I think we secured the rest of the funding for the facility.”
“What?” she sputters, sitting up quickly. “Why di
dn’t you tell me? This calls for a celebration,” she says, clinking her glass with mine. “What happened? How? Details!”
“We’re still ironing out the final details before making anything public,” I say, trying to hide my contempt for how we secured the funding, “and then we’ll make an announcement.” I hope that my answer will be enough to keep her questions at bay.
“Okay,” she says slowly, eyeing me, wondering why I’m not being more forthcoming. “So then what’s up with your auction date thing that Dane was telling me about?”
I look down, twisting the ring that sits on my right ring finger. I worry it around and around out of habit. “Not sure yet,” I say, looking up, noticing her watching me twist my ring.
She looks up, tears in her eyes. “It’s because the anniversary is coming up soon isn’t it? That’s why you seem so overwhelmed?” She scoots out of her chair and sits next to me, wrapping her arms around me.
For a brief moment, I allow myself to give in to the memories and to the thoughts that surround the approaching date. I haven’t really put the two together, my sudden sentimentality and my scattered emotional state over the possibility of acting on the nonexistent connection with Colton. I guess I’m subconsciously ignoring the traumatic date, wanting to close my eyes to the grief that will forever exist in the depths of my soul.
I wipe a tear from my cheek and withdraw from the warmth of Haddie’s embrace. “Yeah.” I shrug. “Just too much all at once.” This is the truth, but I feel guilty about not telling Haddie the whole of it.
“Well, sister,” she says, handing back my glass of wine, “let’s drink a bunch more wine, wallow in pity, and laugh at our stupid selves.” Her sincere smile lifts my mood.
I clink my glass to hers, thankful for her friendship. “Cheers, my dear!”
I GLANCE AT THE CLOCK as I finish helping Ricky with his spelling words and shoo him off to play with the others. I have thirty more minutes on shift and then I’m off for a whole glorious two days. I actually have the elusive, rare weekend off, and despite letting Haddie talk me into being her date for a launch party for the newest rum product her company is promoting, I’m excited to have time to myself.
