by Sage, May
So far, all Ray Wither had to show for a thirty thousand dollar bill was the name of the organization all his would-be assassin belonged to: Bass.
Thanks for nothing, mate. Ray had so far been quite unhelpful, but Liam wasn't comfortable with sharing his problems with yet another stranger. Should the press hear about the attacks, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that his shares would be affected. He couldn't afford that, so close to his biggest launch. His entire capital was going into the production and marketing of the X-Ace range; if his company lost most of its value? He might as well file for bankruptcy now.
“Have Beth and Chris got anything yet?”
A good question. They frequently requested files of his, and she sometimes popped in at work, so he had to assume they were still on his case, but he was the very last person they were likely to speak to.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted the non-committal response he'd started, silencing them both.
No one was supposed to knock.
There was a very short list of people Liam considered his friends, and while they certainly knew his address, it wasn't like any of them to turn up without warning, uninvited.
Jack pointed to the back of the sofa but Liam only rolled his eyes dismissively. Hiding, while sometimes advisable, was overkill when they had nothing to go on save for a knock.
However, he let Jack answer the door.
All tension left the bodyguard’s bulky shoulders as he looked through the peephole.
“The bloody florist,” he mumbled.
The bloody florist was one of the many indulgences Liam had allowed himself over the last three weeks.
Julie Oliver, the curvy blond who worked downstairs, had been the first to serve his purpose. She had screamed his name as he played her like a guitar, before giving her what she was begging for.
Minutes after coming inside his condom, though, he'd been haunted by the words he couldn't shake.
The rest is all for you.
The irritating thing was, he could find some truth behind it. He had sex for his satisfaction, and while he liked to think he pleased, he might not always have. He never cared enough to pay more than a passing attention to whether his partner was enjoying herself. Giving it an afterthought, he had to admit that Julie had sounded fake as fuck. Who screamed so loud at the first touch?
“Shall I leave you to it?”
Liam considered it for a moment, but shook his head. Julie was getting too clingy. It was past time to show her exactly who he was. She'd either run a mile, or they'd have a party. Either way, he'd come up ahead.
“Actually, I'd prefer if you'd join in.”
Julie didn't run; he didn't have that much fun.
Five hours later, on their way up the second flight of stairs, Jack was still carrying on about the mediocre performance Liam was attempting to forget.
“Come on, man, you have to admit that woman knew how to use her mouth.”
“Please. She was pretending to adore the taste of your semen.”
“Who cares? It was insane.”
The term he would have chosen was more along the line of insipid.
He understood Jack, though; enrolled straight out of high school, the bodyguard had served for six years before coming back to the civilian life. At twenty-five, with a regular paycheck, he had to work for his hookups.
Liam hadn't needed to even try after the day his picture made it to the seventh page of Forbes. At first, it had been great. He'd fucked his way through a very long list of females between twenty and thirty like there was no tomorrow for a time, only to grow bored of it all.
Sex was an outlet he enjoyed, but to be entirely honest, given a choice, he generally opted for a race in Jace's Lamborghini. His recent promiscuity hadn't been about lust; it had been provoked by Beth's words – words he desperately needed to prove wrong.
Liam wasn't a cruel person. He respected the women who deserved it, and what she suggested – that he might have been taking without giving anything back every single time he had sex – was much worse than a blow to his ego.
It was reflective on his lifestyle, his philosophy, his entire being.
There had been a clear distinction in his mind between the kind of beast his mother had entertained and him, up until Beth had screwed with his moral compass.
Because if his women faked their pleasure to satisfy him, was he any different?
Flora Slate hadn't been a prostitute. She hadn't requested money from her visitors; she'd welcome them with open legs because she had believed that one of them would want the whole picket fence thing with her. The therapist had called her a sex and love addict.
Had women tried to satisfy him in the hope of getting a relationship out of it? Did Julie want hearts and roses out of a double penetration with his bodyguard? Not every woman he'd fucked would have been that naïve, but the realization was sickening all the same because the possibility of more had never been on the table. He should have clarified his intentions, made himself very explicit from the start.
Suddenly, he couldn't bear the thought of another casual encounter – another Julie.
“Right. Made it home alive. Let me sweep the apartment and I'll be out of your face.”
Jack pushed the door open, only to be physically assaulted.
“Scratch that, I'm going nowhere until we deal with that,” the man growled in perfect agreement with Liam.
There was no mistaking that smell: something buttery, rich, caramelized, a faint hint of cinnamon…
Homemade freaking apple pie.
In the background, emphasizing the importance of what came out of the oven, a dark, dramatic rendering of Star Wars' theme was playing, louder than Beth's usual music. When it wasn't plugged directly into her ears, she normally kept her songs fairly low, but today, she listened to the scores at such a volume that the chords almost vibrated under his feet.
They followed their noses from the hall to the kitchen and then, only finding empty trays, to the lounge, where Liam’s steps came to a sudden halt.
While Jack immediately zeroed in on the plate of individual little pies left on the low table, his eyes went straight to the piano, where Beth was seated, very straight, her back to him.
He had had no reason to believe the woman had been musical; she'd never practiced anything, he’d come across no sheet-music. Liam had thought of the instrument as an investment of sort, when he'd found out its price after googling the make.
It wasn't. Her choice of song may not have been pompous, but she played with more ease and less artifice than anyone he'd ever heard.
“Do another one!” their cleaner demanded.
Strange how revelations sometime unravelled under the oddest conditions.
For William, it was that Saturday, a dozen weeks into their acquaintance, after she'd rejected and ignored him, after he'd had sex with nine different women in twice that many days, that it hit, just as her fingers skilfully flew their way out of the Imperial March and into Harry Potter's theme.
He wanted her. Not just every curve of her delightful body, but her music, the cooking, the coffees, the smell of her hair, and the unexpected giggles that came out sometime as she read her damn Kindle.
He may not have been looking for more, but there it was, and letting it slip through the cracks was out of the question.
Liam, calling Jack back with one shake of his head, turned around and left the building. He drove straight back to work, but instead of heading towards his side of the welcome desk, went up the right hand side elevator and soon found himself relentlessly knocking against a red door.
“Jeez, man, give it a rest! I was in a middle of a conference with...”
Charles looked him up and down, before shutting her mouth. He had no idea what she saw, but the next moment, she opened the door wide and let him in without another word of protest.
Charles' office couldn't be more different than his. The uncomfortable designer chairs, the desk, the folders, her laptop, her va
se, the lilies, the paintings were all white. He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd handed him gloves and a respirator.
He stood against the wall rather than opting for the plastic chairs, against which he retrained the most acute loathing from when he'd worked for her. They’d quite literally been a pain in the ass.
“Tell me what's the matter with Beth.”
The rest is all for you.
The words which had haunted his mind for weeks were worse still now he discerned them with more clarity.
They weren't true. He knew a tenth of the partners he'd had over the years faked some degree of pleasure, but the vast majority genuinely enjoyed intercourses.
There was no point beating himself up about it; her accusations weren't reflective on him.
They were about the girl who hid away in dark corners.
The most likely possibility was that she'd had a bad experience. The idea of a man taking this woman without any consideration for her pleasure was infuriating, but would explain an awful lot about her.
It could be worse, a voice at the back of his mind murmured.
Charlotte laughed a great deal, obviously finding his question highly entertaining.
“I saw it coming by the way. Months ago, when you were dating that model. You remembered when I asked if it was serious?”
He nodded, recalling the conversation in question. Lucia had been the closest thing he'd ever had to a girlfriend, but she'd only ever been a long time screw because, gorgeous as she'd been, he could stand her company only long enough for an orgasm or two.
“I said it could have been, had she been as clever as she was pretty.”
“Well, I thought of Beth right away. She's Lucy with brains.”
He couldn't deny the resemblance: the curve of their strong, square jawlines, their golden skin, the pronounced cheekbones… Beth's mouth and the green of her eyes, contrasting with the rest of the package, made her the prettier of the two in his mind, without the shadow of a doubt, but Lucia had been polished, always perfectly groomed. In a line-up, she might have won more votes.
“Let it be understood: I like you. You're a very good friend, Will. However, nothing you say would induce me to betray the confidence of one of my best friends. If it makes you feel better, when she stood here and asked me about you, I didn't tell her anything either.”
That stopped him in his tracks.
“She asked about me?”
Charles, damn her, only gave him a secretive smile.
“Charlotte, I'm walking in completely blindsighted. There is something off about the way she sees some things and if I don't get it, I'm just going to hit another wall. I have to tread carefully, but I'm not sure what I'm trying to avoid.”
Charles stared at him for the longest time, choosing her words with care. When they came, they were vague, but somehow told him everything he needed to know:
“You're a smart man. Work it out.”
He hadn’t wanted to formulate it consciously at any point.
Not when he’d laid awake, recalling the look in her eyes – terror, at first, then subsequent relief when he’d let her go – not when he’d remarked upon the way she avoided physical contacts, or when her words resonated in his mind.
Nobody likes to ever think of those four letters which, when laid out in that particular order, were more effective than a punch in the gut.
Rape.
Chapter 8:
Girls
After rolling out of bed at ten thirty on the first of May, she headed straight to the kitchen, without a concern about the nuclear explosion her hair had taken upon itself to imitate, or the fact that she could feel dried out drool on the corner of her mouth. Chris – should he happen to pop in uninvited, as was his custom – had seen her in worse shapes, and it was a Friday morning: William had left for the office at least two hours ago.
She headed straight to the coffee, before starting on a muffin mix.
Beth had long established that any workout was more effective with the smell of baked good as an incentive. Counterproductive, but oh well.
By the time she was cleaning up her mess, the coffee and her shuffled playlist had managed to wake her up. She was shaking her head left and right, following a random pattern and shamelessly singing along with Meghan Trainor, occasionally waggling either one of her arms.
This kind of scene was the reason why she had, when Victoria suggested they moved in together, firmly put her foot down. She needed her space to be able to relax and err a little bit on the silly side of the scale.
Taken by a sudden inspiration, Beth span around and died. She was quite certain her heart stopped long enough to be considered clinically deceased for a while, anyway.
“Oh fuck,” she cursed.
William stood, leaning against the door frame in an unusually casual get up – jeans and a white t-shirt hugging his large shoulders. His hair wasn’t nearly as messy as hers, but the waves falling on his forehead were a far cry from the usual comb-and-part.
In any other circumstances, she might have stared. As things stood, she was too busy trying very hard to disappear from the face of the earth.
“Quite,” he replied, doing his very best to retain a neutral expression.
“Let’s remember: I actually saved your life back at the hospital. Can we just pretend this never happened?”
Please, please, please, pretty please with cheese on top.
He seemed to consider this for a moment, but shook his head.
“Not a damn chance.”
Dickhead.
“You’re supposed to be at work!” she accused him.
“Not today, no. As a matter of fact, if that’s what happens during the day, I might just start working from home.”
He’d completely given up on maintaining a countenance, outright laughing at her now. Great. There was no way in hell she could ever again pull off the intimidating look in from of him, was there?
“If you’re finished now, I need to” crawl under the covers and never leave the bedroom “get back to…”
“Your singing? Yes, a capital enterprise. Tell me, what else should this future husband of yours do? Hold on, let me grab a notepad.”
If looks could kill.
“Don’t run yet,” he requested when she turned to leave, trying to finally contain his laughter, “I’ll behave if you stay a minute; I need to speak to you. Have we broken up?”
“I beg your pardon?” she cringed as the words spilled out, realizing his meaning.
Publically, as far as his employees were concerned, in any case, they were a couple.
“You haven’t been at the office in ten days: I was wondering if you still needed to pretend dating me.”
“Yes.”
The word, final and resolute, was out before she gave it more consideration.
In fact, though, she didn’t think any of his employees would ever dream of betraying him. They were weary of her, but the dislike was born out of a protective strike for William.
And besides, she’d identified the culprit. The only reason why he wasn’t behind bars was that he had yet to be caught trying anything under surveillance.
“I’m only asking because of a fundraiser I need to attend. It is customary to bring a date. I never have, but the guys at work might question it now.”
Her stomach fell all the way down to her feet. A fundraiser. Her very own version of purgatory.
William’s brows furrowed when he gauged her reaction.
“You don’t want to go.”
That wasn’t a question and he was right; she really didn’t.
You’re a Carver. Act like one!
Look ahead. Not at your toes, idiot!
Your whore of a mother looked the part, at least.
I need this client. Get his attention. Now.
“Fuck, Beth, what the hell!”
It was strange.
She’d started shivering and her breathing was getting difficult. Those were usual signs of th
e start of one of her anxiety attacks and never had it ever occurred in public. Her body, trained as it had been in social science, didn’t display any of the symptoms until she was out of sight, safe.
“Shit, stay with me! Do I need to call an ambulance?”
He crossed the room in two strolls, seized her hands in his own and, just like that, it was gone. The thousands knots loosened, her breathing became less laboured, and some warmth ran through her limbs.
“I’m fine.”
She really was, to her own bewilderment.
“What triggered this, the fundraiser? We don’t have to go, Beth.”
We. When had Beth Carver and William Slate started to equate a 'we' ?
“Any social gathering generally does the trick,” she answered, astonished to find herself voluntarily sharing her weakness.
“Is that why you stay home a lot?”
His gaze was eager, engrossed, but she found no pity, so she nodded.
“But you’ve been working as…”
“I know. It might not make sense, but that was fine. Whatever happened to the woman I was pretending to be wasn’t my life.”
Natalia Maine wasn’t a Carver. She wasn’t the child who was only fed on days when she was perfect, nor the girl who had been too weak to kick an adversary and run.
But Beth was. She didn’t know why every horrible thing she’d lived through came back to her when she was confronted with crowds, but it did.
“I’ll go, though. Doctor ordered some chaos in my life. I’ll be fine, as long as I know what to expect.”
The entire guest list and a plan of the building highlighting the exits would be a good start.
That evening, after a particularly sweaty round of fights, whereby Charles had beaten Beth, and Victoria had smashed them both, she prompted an unusual stop at the cocktail bar next to the gym they frequented and proudly shared her news.
“A teacher” Victoria repeated, slowly, as if it was the very first time she heard the word and was attempting to make sense of it.
