by Jayne Rylon
I pluck it from the paper bag and undo the brass clasp on the back.
There are photographs inside. Large, glossy, pictures of Rogan. Nude. Posing for me at the beach house.
“Son of a motherfucking bitch!”
I bolt to my feet, knocking the chair over, then whirl toward the bedroom, the damning images in hand. The smoke alarm chooses right then to go off since my forgotten pancakes are starting to char. Two seconds later, Rogan comes flying in, naked as he is in the photographs, nearly crashing into me as I march in that direction.
“What the hell?” We both shout at the same time.
When he sees what’s clutched in my fist, and the dirty money scattered across our table, he stops dead. His face blanches. For a moment, I think he’s about to pass out.
I should go to him, but I can’t.
Instead, I drop the damning evidence on the floor and stomp over to the stove. I use a towel to grasp the griddle skillet and fling it into the enamel sink. I switch on the hood fan then stand there, hands on hips, trying to decide if I’m angrier at Rogan for hiding whatever the fuck this is or at myself for taking those photos in the first place.
“It’s Ronaldo, isn’t it? He stole the memory card from my camera before he smashed it.”
“Yes.” At least Rogan doesn’t bother denying it.
“How much is he blackmailing you for?” I should at least know the going rate for my work.
“Fifty-thousand, this time.” He sounds like a stranger to me, his voice shredded and hollow.
“This time?” I spin around, waving a spatula like my mom used to when we were kids and had fucked up royally. “Have you paid him before?”
Rogan nods.
“How long has this been going on?” Do I know Rogan at all? Sure, he’s submissive when it comes to sex. In other aspects of his life, not so much. I would have thought he’d crush Ronaldo like a fly. I don’t get this. At all.
“About six weeks.” He stares at our ruined breakfast, smoking in the sink.
My head throbs. I’m fairly sure I’m going to stroke out, right here and now. “Six motherfucking weeks? And you didn’t think it was important to share that tidbit with me?”
“I’m sorry.” He inches toward me. I step back. “I should have—”
I cut him off, uninterested in excuses. “You fucking hypocrite. You strong-armed me into opening up to you, being vulnerable and trusting you implicitly, but when you’re threatened…fucking blackmailed…you didn’t come to me! What kind of bullshit is that? I’m supposed to take care of you. You obviously think I’m incapable of it. Probably since this mess is my fault in the first place. I should never have left that camera behind with those images in there. All I could think of was getting you the hell away from him.”
My scalp burns as I yank on my hair. I can’t believe I’ve been so irresponsible. I could cost Rogan his career. If those pictures leak…
I swore they wouldn’t. I let him down.
He’s going to leave me for it. He should have already. For some reason…he hasn’t.
“Kaden, hang on. Please. You’re not the one threatening me. You took those pictures with my permission, which is something Ronaldo can’t say. He stole them. From us both.” He shuffles closer. This time I don’t retreat. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I was afraid you’d blame yourself and…react badly.”
Like I am right now. Shit. “Well, I can tell you that finding out you covered it up isn’t improving my response to the situation.”
He clasps his hands in front of him, bows his head, and takes my verbal lashing before simply saying, “I’m sorry.”
The fight leaches from my core. This isn’t about me.
He’s the one in danger. Threatened by his ex. Again.
I cross to him and smother him in my arms. “Rogan. Shit. I’m going to fix this.”
He hugs me back. Thank God. “I’d be lying if I said I’m not worried about Clearwater Industries and the impact this could have on business. But, I promise, I was way more worried about the impact it would have on you.”
I smooth my hands down his back. “Never do that again. We’re a team, right?”
“Right.” He relaxes in my hold. “At least I look hot in the pictures.”
“Damn straight you do.” I stare at the one facing up on the floor. “So quit paying Ronaldo. Who cares if the world sees how good I have it with you? Don’t reward him for being a deplorable fuckface. Let’s go after him. Have him arrested. Get rid of him for good. The right way.”
Before Rogan can assure me that we’ll take care of this together, permanently, a banging from upstairs startles me. It’s coming from my old loft.
“What the fuck?” Immediately, I assume the worst. It’s Ronaldo. Perfect. I have a few things I’d like to say to that dickhead. With my fists.
I look at Rogan, he looks at me. “Kaden, wait…”
Then I’m running, taking the spiral stairs two at a time. Rogan is a tiny bit slower, dashing toward our bedroom. Probably for some pants.
Another round of pounding rattles my backdoor. I flip open the locks and nearly rip the thing off its hinges. Except, instead of Ronaldo’s disgusting mug staring back at me…
It’s a ghost.
Cortez.
He blinks at me. I blink back at him, wondering if I created him as if I really am Pygmalion. Did he sprout from the ashes in the burning barrel overnight?
The entire world has gone insane. It’s too much to process.
All I wanted this morning were some goddamn pretty pancakes and an epic fuck.
Instead I got a blackmail scandal, a massive fight, and the return of the other half of my soul, who could ruin everything I barely salvaged once today.
Fuck this. I’m going back to bed.
I slam the door in Cortez’s face.
By now, Rogan has caught up to me. In fact, I assume he got a glimpse at the man ramming his fist into my poor door some more. Twice as loud this time. While shouting for me to open up.
“Is that…” Rogan asks.
“Uh huh,” I mumble as I stagger past like a zombie who’s overdosed on brains. I wander to my old bed then curl up under the familiar, rumpled covers as if I’m five and it’s a trusty hiding spot.
I can’t even. I’m over it.
“Kaden?”
I don’t answer.
“He’s not going to go away until one of us talks to him.”
I still don’t answer. Instead, I fling my arm over my eyes and pray this has all been some insane nightmare. But when I count to ten and peek from beneath my biceps, I see light spilling from the cracked-open door and hear Rogan sternly telling Cortez this isn’t a good time.
It will never be a good time.
The three of us are so fucked.
26
Cortez
Kaden is apparently still not much of a morning person.
Though it was only for an instant, and obviously not well received, it was so great to lay eyes on him, alive and well. For the most part.
Some of my anxiety about the Ronaldo incident I heard of months ago vanishes. A deeper worry sets in, though. I hardly recognized him. Shocked by how much he seemed to have aged while I was gone and how much…rougher…he looks, I wasn’t able to say anything meaningful before he slammed the door in my face.
Oh no. That’s not how this is going to go down. I fought too hard to be dismissed so summarily.
I have a lot to make up for and I plan to do precisely that.
I bruise my knuckles, knocking louder and louder. He will not ignore me.
To my surprise, the door actually reopens. This time, though, it’s not the guy I’ve been waiting months and thousands of miles to see. It’s a man with impeccable posture and superhero-quality abs. Thinly veiled hostility is etched into his sneer, and his hands are balled into fists.
One of them sports a tattoo that’s drawn in a style I instantly recognize. Kaden’s technique. This isn’t some sleepover guest
or a random pickup. Kaden is protective of his art. If he gave some to this guy to wear…
I’m jealous. He never drew me a tattoo. Why hadn’t I thought to ask?
At least I’d have that part of him with me still.
There’s an air of command surrounding the newcomer. His short-cropped chestnut hair and clean-shaven jaw contribute to his authoritative aura. In addition, he’s handsome as fuck. Exactly the kind of guy Kaden would fall for.
Oh.
The man I’m in love with belongs to someone else. This guy.
Shit.
Why didn’t I really consider that possibility? It’s what I’d hoped for him when I left.
Maybe because I thought…like me…
It doesn’t matter what I thought. It’s clear I’m not welcome.
“Cortez?” Great, he knows who I am. That probably means he also knows what a loser I am and that I didn’t treat Kaden with the respect he deserves. My biggest regret.
“Yeah. And you are?”
I don’t expect him to answer such a direct inquiry without pushing back. He does, immediately. “Rogan Clearwater.”
He doesn’t tell me what his relationship is to Kaden. I’m too afraid to ask. “I need to talk to him. Give me five minutes. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“He’s not interested in speaking to you.” The guy spreads his legs and folds his arms over his chest. Even with the damage to my body, I could easily shove past him. But I won’t. I appreciate his protective instincts.
“Is he happy?”
The guy gives a kneejerk nod, then hesitates the barest bit before saying, “Hell yes.”
It’s that glimmer of uncertainty that sparks my hope. I fish my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans, then slip one of my brand-new business cards from it. “Here. In case he changes his mind.”
At first I don’t think Rogan is going to accept it.
“I’m not trying to poach. I just need to know he’s okay. That’s it. I swear.”
And if he’s not, I’m going to make things better for him. Rogan Clearwater isn’t about to stand in my way. He grudgingly sticks out his hand. I drop the card into it, trying not to notice how sexy his long fingers are. Who has sexy fingers?
It’s this place and even the barest glimpse of Kaden that have me thinking crazy shit. Plus the fact that I haven’t had sex in far too long to be healthy.
Kaden fucks with my system. He’s always had this effect on me. I’m never going to be free of it. It sucks that I’m too late. He’s gone.
Lost to me.
Without another word of thanks, or parting, or anything, I limp down the metal stairs, hating that Kaden’s new man witnesses my weakness. Despite the burn in my hip, and the needles stinging my fresh skin, I push on until I’m out of sight, around the corner of the building.
Only then do I sag against the bricks.
Now where am I going to find the strength to keep going?
And what’s the point?
27
Kaden
It’s late afternoon when I wake up. Rose and gold rays from the impending sunset filter into my loft. I reach out beside me. The sheets are cold.
Rogan isn’t here with me. Neither is Cortez.
I’m alone again.
Will it always be this way? If I don’t do something, I’m sure it will.
I sit on the edge of the bed—knees spread, elbows on my thighs—and cradle my head in my hands. Time to put on my big-boy boxers and figure this shit out.
When I trudge through my studio and into the main living area, the familiar tap of Rogan’s fingers on his keyboard settles my queasy stomach. He’s still here.
He looks up from whatever he’s doing as soon as he senses my presence, and smiles. “Have I ever told you how handsome you are when you’re sleepy?”
“No, but thanks.” I kiss the top of his head then sprawl beside him on the comfy couch. “I’m sorry for bailing on you.”
“It’s no problem. I wish I could have joined you. There was too much to think about for me to doze off, though.”
“It knocked me out. Ronaldo, the blackmail, Cortez. Being afraid of losing you then being reminded of how bad that hurts. Everything.” I rub my chest. It doesn’t do much to calm the tripping of my heart. I’m having some kind of palpitations. I tug Rogan toward me and tuck him against my side so I can put my arm around him. “What did he say to you?”
“Not much. But he gave me this and I’ve spent some time researching it.” I’m coming to recognize that deceptively casual tone of his. It’s like the one he used when breaking the news to me about his plans for this building. What is he up to now?
Rogan stretches over to the side table and grabs something. He holds it out to me.
“What’s this?” I take the benign white rectangle and read it.
In simple navy text—not all that different from the font on the business card Rogan had once given me—Santiago Cortez, Cortez Security Services is printed, along with an email address and a phone number.
Rogan glances at me. “Looks like he only started it recently. The address on the company registry isn’t too far from here. I’m thinking about—” He hesitates.
“What?” I stroke his shoulder. It bites that my inability to deal with this morning’s chaos meant I couldn’t be here for him after reaming him for not sharing his problems with me. Not one of my finer moments.
“Maybe I should hire a bodyguard.” He swallows. “Until the Ronaldo situation is resolved.”
It’s hard to explain the rush of emotions that slams into me. Mostly relief. That someone far more capable than me will have Rogan’s back. “That’s a great idea. Get on it.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if Cortez did the job?”
“Wait. What?” I rear back. “I thought you meant seeing his card put the thought in your mind. Not that you were actually going to call him. I don’t know about that.”
My optimism was short-lived. Irrational fear dampens it. Will Rogan realize how much better Cortez is at taking the lead than I am if they spend too much quality time together?
A dash of jealousy is tossed in the mix too. What would it be like to catch up with Cortez? Have the perfect excuse to hang out all day, every day, for the foreseeable future. Rekindle our friendship, if nothing else.
I shake myself. None of that is important.
Rogan’s safety comes first.
“You’re right. It’s dumb. I’ll have my assistant set up some interviews. It’s just that he seemed like he’d be really overqualified, if anything.” Rogan sighs. “If I’m going to put my safety in someone else’s hands, I would prefer they be ones we know and trust. Maybe he could recommend someone else?”
Why is he making sense? Damn him. I’d like nothing more than to dismiss the thought and move on to a risk-free alternative.
Except…he’s right. I think back on the nights he walked me home after I’d had a few too many or whisked me out of a crowded party when the heat and crush became oppressive. Hell, once he even stopped a robbery at a convenience store we happened to be buying condoms at in the early morning hours then acted like it was nothing.
I never once doubted he’d protect me.
Rogan should have the best. That’s Cortez.
What if we hire another company and something terrible happens? I’ll always wonder if it was my insecurity that got Rogan hurt.
Fuck. There’s nothing else to do. “No. You’re right. It should be him. He won’t let anything happen to you.”
“So that means you still trust him.” Rogan touches my cheek, drawing my attention to him. He’s leaning in, peering into my eyes as if to be sure of my answer.
“To do his job? Keep people safe?” There’s no denying it. Cortez prioritizes that above everything. Even love. “Yeah, without a doubt.”
Would I trust him with my heart? Hell no.
“Then if it’s not too weird, could you call him for me? I’d still like to meet with him first. To ma
ke sure it feels okay. Not weird. You know?” Rogan looks at me with his big brown eyes. How can I say no?
Assuming I can convince that selfish asshole to take the job.
“Fine.” I reach out to Rogan, tugging him into my arms. “I must really love you to do this.”
“I know.” He kisses my neck, then sinks to his knees to show me his appreciation before I make up for leaving him hanging last night, and again for this morning.
28
Kaden
Why the hell did I tell Rogan I would do this? There has to be someone else. Anyone else.
Maybe I’ll call Cortez and ask for a less personal recommendation. He’s got to know some other qualified beefcake who’d make an excellent bodyguard for Rogan.
I would insist on that if I didn’t believe Cortez was the right choice. He’s familiar with Ronaldo. Didn’t think much of him. And no matter how things ended up between us, he still cares for me. He wouldn’t have stopped by if he didn’t.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’ve been trying not to think about it, honestly. Except for one thing: Rogan is important to me. This means Cortez will make his safety a top priority.
It’s fucked up, but it’s true.
Cursing under my breath, I dial his new number. I can’t decide if I love or hate that it’s not the same one I have memorized. He’s not the same person I used to text dick pics to—hey, they were of the arty variety—every moment of the day. Neither of us are.
“Cortez Security.”
“Um, hi.”
“Kaden?” It’s deathly quiet on the other end of the line. Is he even breathing?
I’m not. “Yup.”
“Jesus. How are you?” He doesn’t ask it casually, as in a typical phone greeting. It sounds more urgent than that. Like he expects me to be torn up. Over him?
“Perfectly fine. Amazing, actually.” I fudge a teensy bit. What does he expect, for me to admit how long it took to pull my head out of my ass after he ditched me? Or how seeing him again yesterday for even an instant had triggered a lot of those old emotions, which are still bubbling to the surface? Screw that. “You met Rogan, didn’t you?”
