by Colet Abedi
“I know everything about you.” His deep, sexy voice envelops my senses. “And everyone else who steps inside this club.”
My heart skips a beat as my body heats up. Wishing more than anything I could see his face, I peer into the dark corner where he’s seated, but he’s completely covered in shadows. The only thing I can make out is he’s tall and broad. The rest is up to my imagination, which happens to be running wild in all different directions.
First, I can’t believe I’m actually standing inside this room. After six years of trying, I’m suddenly here. Second, a mystery man in the corner is watching me the way I’ve looked at other people. And he’s not just any man. It sounds like he owns this place.
And he’s been watching me.
Now I know I wasn’t crazy earlier in the night. I knew there were eyes on me. He was the one I felt before. I’m sure of it.
He’s the big, bad cat I’ve fantasized about for years.
“You’ve been watching me,” I say.
Mystery Man is silent for a moment. “Does that frighten you?” His voice is low, almost husky.
Goose bumps run down my body. “Should it?”
“Maybe.” His voice sounds tortured.
My mouth goes dry. I have never—
Never.
Felt.
This.
“Tell me your name,” I beg.
He takes a long moment and I think he’s going to deny me my wish, but he surprises me. “Trouble.”
The way he says it. The way it rolls off his tongue is just…hot.
“Trouble?”
“Is that a problem?” He sounds amused.
“No,” I reply quickly. “I didn’t know if it was your real name.”
“It’s not,” he says. “It’s my nickname.”
“Trouble for the ladies, or Trouble because you’re a bad boy in real life?”
Or Trouble in bed, I want to ask.
His laugh is throaty. “I think I’ll let your imagination run wild with that question. And you’ll probably be right.”
My legs almost give out beneath me. “What’s your real name?”
“Trouble’s not enough?”
“Tell me,” I persist.
“Not this time, princess.”
I’m disappointed but not surprised. I look away from where he’s seated and hope to hell I can calm myself. I can’t believe how erratic my breath is—fuck, my breath, my emotions. I can’t get a grip. Even though the stranger and I are a good distance apart, I still need more space. I walk back to the window and try to calm myself by gazing at the crowd below, but I’m not really seeing anything. Everything is a blur, and all I see or feel is him.
Trouble.
Who he is.
What he looks like.
I imagine placing my palm against his rough cheek. I just know it’s rough. He must have gorgeous stubble that gives him an even bigger edge in life because he’s already beautiful. And wicked smart. And he’s good at everything he does.
I know he’s all of these things.
How do I know all of this?
I just do.
What is happening to me?
“So how do you like my view?” His voice is like soft velvet.
“What do you think?” I ask without turning.
“Kerri. I don’t think you like it.” His answer surprises me, and I have to look back at where he’s seated again. “I think you love it. And do you want to know why?”
My heart slams in my chest. “Tell me.”
He takes a moment. “I think this is what you live for, what you need to breathe. To survive. You watch people to make sure you’re still alive. To make sure there’s a heart in there, to know you still feel. Because right now, this is all you have that makes you happy. What nobody else knows is that deep down inside, you’re a scared little girl wanting to run away.”
My knees go weak, and I have to lean on the glass to be able to stand. His words ring too true and hit too close to home.
On one hand, I want to run toward him and ask how he knows me so well.
On the other, I want to leave. Now.
I weigh both options and choose to remain where I am.
“What will my little mouse do now?” His voice is back to mocking me.
“You seem to know a lot about me,” I say.
“I know people.”
For some reason, I don’t believe it’s just that. “Why did you let me in here? I’ve never seen anyone come in this room, never seen anyone leave. Why me?”
He takes his time. “Why do you think?”
“Tell me,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
“Trouble?” I think I hear him gasp. “Why me?”
“You’re gorgeous.”
“There are plenty of beautiful women in this club,” I reply, shaking my head. I don’t believe that for a second.
I think I see him rise from his chair, his shadow looming. I was right. He is tall and broad, and I’d bet my life his body is delicious.
Edible.
Definitely edible.
“I like your legs,” he says.
I can’t help but feel a surge of pleasure. But I know that’s not it either. I shake my head. “I’ve seen legs just as good as mine, if not better, here as well.”
“But I want your legs wrapped around my neck while I lick you until you come again.”
I throb.
“And again.”
I gasp. I know he’s trying to shock me, trying to get me to stop twenty-questioning him.
“And there’s something else,” he says.
“What’s that?” I swallow audibly. I don’t know if I can handle hearing any more.
“You’ve never fucked anyone here.”
My heart stops.
“And I want to be the first man you do…”
I stop breathing.
“Fuck,” he finishes.
Oh. My. God.
I look back out into the crowd below, and even though he’s successfully shocked the hell out of me, I know there’s something more. My gut tells me there is. There has to be. “It’s not just that.”
“No?” He sounds amused, as though he’s happy he’s thrown me off so much.
I can’t decide if I’m in love with him or hate him.
I think a bit of both.
One thing’s for sure—I sure as hell am turned on by him. There’s no freaking doubt about that.
My body…it’s alive. And just from his words, his presence.
What. The. Fuck.
My heart pounds. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough.” His voice is like a caress.
I’m burning now—with desire and a sudden need—for a man who, for all I know, could be a stalker. Or a serial killer. Or both. I don’t even know what he looks like. And for the first time, my body doesn’t give a damn about that and is just alive, buzzing with crazy energy.
The feeling is dangerous. And unknown. I suddenly feel completely unsure. His presence, his being, is too risky for me.
In one instant, I don’t want to have anything to do with Trouble.
“I’m leaving now,” I say.
“That’s unfortunate.”
It might be, but I don’t have a damn choice, and right now I can’t afford to care. I make my way back to the door, my heart racing as if I’ve run a marathon. Once I push it open and am stepping through, Trouble calls out to me.
“Princess?”
I turn around as he steps out of the darkness, allowing me to finally see what he looks like.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
He is everything I thought he’d be. More. Way more.
He has to be at least six foot four of raw, gorgeous masculinity, like some sort of wild storm you’d stare at in awe and wonder. His body is a work of art—chiseled, muscled, perfect. He doesn’t need to be naked for me to tell. I know the lines are perfect underneath the fitted black sweater and jeans that I want to
rip off so I can lick—yes, lick—that gorgeous body of his.
All of it.
And his face—
There. Are. No. Words.
He’s rough and chiseled, masculine with the perfect amount of baby face that I want to melt. His jaw is strong, and the black stubble that lines it is rough and inviting—dangerous—and I want to rub my face and breasts all over every inch of him. He has beautiful, sensuous lips and a perfect nose.
But his eyes…
His eyes are like bright blue precious stones. And holy shit, they are on fire.
For me.
His smile is slow, sure, and confident.
He knows.
Fuck. Me. He knows.
“I’ll be seeing you.”
“Don’t bet on it.” My voice is practically breathless and I hate myself for it, but I can’t help it. He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on. The sexiest. I’ve never felt so rocked to my core.
“Name your price.” He sounds arrogant. I’ll never admit it out loud, but he has every right to be.
“Whatever you like,” I say with a laugh, trying my best to sound cool. “Because I won’t break this bet.”
His smile actually broadens. “Challenge accepted,” he says. “That settles it.”
I try to sound bored. “Settles what?”
He shakes his head as if he’s admonishing me and gives me as smile that makes my heart drop right through the floor.
“I’ll tell you the next time I see you.”
****
I wake at six o’clock in the morning, back in my bedroom at my parents’ place. Instead of going to the house I’m renting in the Hills with Wylder and our friend Tony, I chose to come home to Mommy and Daddy like a little wuss because the big bad cat is on the hunt and the little mouse is freaking out more than just a bit.
Obviously, I’m feeling unsettled.
God.
The first thing that comes to my mind is Trouble.
Naked.
I’m struggling to really wrap my head around what transpired between us last night. The conversation. The innuendos. The gauntlet he threw down.
Was it my imagination?
No. It really happened.
And to make the situation even crazier is the reaction I had to him. After all this time, a stranger—a sexy stranger with the perfect voice and body and freaking face—said the perfect things, the kind that turned the switch from off to on in my body. The kind that turned me on.
Turned. Me. On.
The phone rings before I can continue my mental masturbation. I’m pretty sure it’s my mom or dad calling from the main house. No one else knows I’m here, and security is sure to have let them know I came in last night.
My parents clearly don’t care about waking me up.
“Hi, Mom.”
“You had a late night.”
I sense her disapproval and roll my eyes. My mom tries her hardest not to be strict and annoying, but sometimes she can’t help it. Overall she’s cool though, and I’m pretty damn lucky, especially compared to some of my friends. Hearing the stories about Wylder’s mom makes me want to pull out my hair, so I can’t imagine what she does to my best friend.
“Not that late,” I grumble.
“Hmmm.” There’s a smidge of judgment in her voice, and I can’t help but smile. I think my mom is forgetting how old I am. “Will you grace us with your presence for breakfast? Your father really misses you.”
That’s code for she really misses me but doesn’t want to say for fear of being rejected. And Leslie Harrington is much too proud for that.
“I’m definitely going to come and have breakfast with you, but is Dad going to be working or will he actually sit down and eat with us?”
Growing up, it never really bothered me that my dad worked so hard. But since I don’t get to see my family as often as I did before—because of work and social obligations I have to do for work—I cherish the moments we have together more. Unfortunately, my dad is a workaholic and is usually out of town, locked away in his office, or in some important meeting. As I grew up, he was pretty much a no-show for all the traditional events a father would take part in, like school plays, sporting events, some birthdays, and maybe even a Christmas or two.
Maybe more than a few.
But I always forgave him, my brother not so much, but their relationship always seemed strained to me. I think it’s because Dad demands perfection. In any case, I know Dad loves us, and if we ever need anything, he’ll help us in a heartbeat. He’s just not always emotionally or physically available. He lives and breathes his job and will probably end up dying from a heart attack because of it. As sad as it is to admit, Jon Harrington is defined by his work, and I don’t think he minds one bit.
“Your father is ecstatic you spent the night and will be very excited to see you,” my mom says.
“Can’t wait.”
“Wonderful. Breakfast will be ready in thirty minutes. Come as soon as you shower and are ready.” Mom sounds really happy. “Love you, dear.”
She hangs up before I can say anything. If I didn’t show up for breakfast my mom would ice me out for a week, and no one can ice quite like Leslie Harrington. Like Elsa in the movie Frozen, she can freeze people if she is displeased. Trust me, you don’t want to be on her bad side.
I jump out of bed fully nude and walk into my shower. Here at home, where I know no one would dare come in my room, or guesthouse really, I’m free to be me—good old, naked Kerri. With Wyld and Tony, the privacy boundaries can get blurry, and there have been many times one or the other has barged into my room looking for something or wanting to ask a question. To be fair, I’ve done the same back, so the whole roommate situation isn’t conducive to my exhibitionist tendencies.
I shower in record time and put on my favorite Spiritual Gangster sweatpants and sweatshirt. They’re cozy as hell, and I have a serious addiction. I run out of the guesthouse and hop in my golf cart. It’s a bit of a trek from my place to my parents’, considering their over-the-top estate sits on over ten acres, which is pretty rare in Bel Air. My mom loves wild, colorful flowers and they’re everywhere. It’s pretty stunning to behold. The garden was designed by some French landscape artist my dad flew in. I’m sure he cost a fortune, but my parents have the money and can do what they want with it. One thing my dad does enjoy doing is spending money.
I know I grew up lucky—gold spoon in my mouth and all—and I do give thanks, but up until last night with Trouble, I haven’t felt much for a long time. Everything was somehow gray. Even living here surrounded by all of this, life was just gray. But today, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I’m actually looking at the flowers, at the colors. Appreciating them. And let me just say, they’re pretty damn gorgeous.
But still…Trouble.
Even if he somehow brought me back to life, there’s no way I’m going to see him again or go back to the club for a long time. It won’t be until I know it’s safe and I think he’ll have forgotten about me.
Ugh. I don’t like the way that thought makes me feel, but he’s dangerous.
Too dangerous. I know it.
I pull up next to my parents’ veranda, hop out of my cart, and run up the stairs. It’s unusually cold, and I’m happy to see the table isn’t set out outside. Mom usually wants to sit on the veranda and stare at her view.
When I walk inside, I’m surprised to find her in the kitchen whipping up an omelet. It’s not something she usually—okay, ever—does, and to say I’m surprised is like the understatement of the year.
“Who are you and what have you done to my mom?”
“Very funny, dear.” She shakes her perfectly colored and highlighted blond hair.
My mom is a beautiful woman and prides herself in being immaculate at all times. She takes good care of herself and loves to dress up. People say she could have passed for my twin when she was younger. I think they’re delusional. My mom and I look a lot alike, but she’s more
exotic. Her eyes aren’t blue. They’re green and tilted like a cat’s, and her figure is slightly fuller.
She must have been irresistible back in the day. No wonder my dad fell in love with her in twenty-four hours—he loves to tell this story—swept her off her feet and married her a week later at City Hall. She was pregnant with Colt one month later. It was a whirlwind romance, and they’ve been together since.
“I do know how to cook,” she says as I watch her walk around our chef’s kitchen.
She pulls out fresh fruit from the fridge and picks up a long baguette and starts to slice pieces. She’s even made French-pressed coffee.
“Holy cow,” I say. “I’m impressed.”
“Close your mouth, dear,” she says dryly. “It’s unbecoming.”
“Well, what can I do to help?”
“Pull the strawberries and cantaloupe from the fridge. We got them from the farmer’s market the other day, and I want to eat them before they turn.”
I do as she says, pull out a cutting board, and begin my assigned duty. The menial task allows me the opportunity to relive my night at the club, which might not be safe for my sanity, but picturing Trouble’s face feels sinfully good.
“So how was last night?” my mom asks, interrupting my daydream.
Am I suddenly blushing? “Fine.”
“Fine?” She sounds curious, and I feel her gaze on my face, studying me. “You look different.”
“Different?” I scoff nervously and brush back my short curls with the back of my hand. Damn, I feel my cheeks burning! I’m probably the color of a tomato, and it’s all because I know where this conversation is about to go.
“Did you have sex, dear?”
I knew it.
I gasp, shaking my head at her. “Are you kidding me?”
She rolls her eyes at me as if I’m a child. “Sex is a normal activity between two consenting adults, especially at your age. What’s the problem?”
“Let me tell you what the problem is.” I know my voice sounds snarky. “I don’t think there is anything normal about this conversation.”
“It’s a healthy conversation.”
“I’d beg to differ,” I reply.
She sighs loudly. “So I’ve been meaning to ask you—”
“Should I be scared?” This should be good.
