by Angel Payne
I took a drag on the wine in lieu of decking myself in disgust. When the hell had I become a gold medalist for self-pity? The weight wasn’t right around my neck. It was time to get my shit together. Maybe I could convince Claire to assist in that department after all. The food and the movie could wait until after we’d loved each other into sexual oblivion…at least a few times.
But several nuzzles at her neck later, it was clear she wanted her money’s worth out of the thirty bucks she’d just given to Happy Panda. “Kil.” She had to make that point with a cock-hardening pout to her voice, as well. “Come on. You haven’t eaten all day. Coffee and a protein bar don’t count.”
I hadn’t had the chance to be a persistent bastard all week. The thrill of her challenge spiked my blood, spurring me to try one more time. I went for the bold approach, lowering my head to her thigh and biting gently. “I can think of better things to do with my mouth right now.”
She gasped. A hopeful sign. Then grunted. Damn. “Baby, the food’s getting cold.”
A grunt rose in me as response. By the time it erupted, it was a full growl. Not a nice one, either. After grabbing up my wine, I rose and stomped toward the patio.
The snow had melted but winter clung to the air, turning the night wind into a harsh bite as I walked outside. Ideal. Despite the picture-perfect view, I wasn’t in the fucking mood for balmy and picturesque.
I heard Claire rise as well. Her steps weren’t dainty or gentle. Great. Thanks to the arrival of my inner asshole to the party, she was in the mood for a dirty dustup too. I only hoped that after we fought the sex would be as filthy—though knowing my luck, a night in the guest bedroom felt like the more logical conclusion for things now.
A cell phone ring joined the whistle of the wind. It was thick with Irish whistles and folk guitars, the Fenians tune that served as Claire’s ID for her dad.
Thank fuck for you, Colin.
She managed to pull the device out of her pocket while maintaining her we’re-not-done-yet glare at me. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?” Within seconds, her gaze fell and her brows knitted. “And…what’s wrong?”
I left my wine behind on the terrace and went to her. Protective instincts instantly eclipsed my gloom. I lowered to the couch along with her, gathering her hand into mine as she persisted with her father. “Dad, listen to me. I love that your tomatoes are growing and the mayor loves his new yard, but neither tidbit is getting you off the hot seat, mister. What am I talking about? Seriously? Colin Montgomery, you fake cheerfulness worse than I do—and that’s pretty damn badly.” Her fingers tensed inside mine. “Spill it. Now.” She let a meaningful pause go by. “Is it…things with Andrea?”
Her exhalation told me that she’d gotten to the right nail with that one. She didn’t look one inch surprised, nor was I. While Andrea Asher was a corporate beast, making it surreal to imagine her possessing an intimate side, much less being adept with it. I’d already given tons of secret props to Colin for handling the woman as well as he had until now—though the cracks in the couple’s castle were clearly starting to form.
Claire confirmed the conclusion once she disconnected the call. Her grip was tight, her features the same. In the golden centers of her eyes, I saw the shimmer of love—and pain.
“What is it?” My tone was gentle. It was actually therapeutic. It felt good to be taking care of her again. “Trouble in paradise?”
“I don’t know.” It was a sparse murmur. “He won’t talk to me, not over the phone like this. Just generalities and his way of making excuses for Andrea.”
“Excuses? In what way?”
“Things have been strained with Margaux since last week’s fun little turn of events.”
“Aha. And she’s taking it all out on him.”
She set the phone down and wrapped her hands around mine. I didn’t want to admit that her heartache was helping my tension but it felt damn nice to be needed, if only for a few seconds. “But that’s only what he’s saying on the surface, Kil.” A grimace tore across her face. “He’ll only tell me certain things over the phone, knowing I can’t see his face and probe deeper—but there are fissures there. I can feel them, dammit, and—” She stopped herself, clearly yearning to say more. I pulled a hand free and lifted her chin, knowing exactly what those words were.
“And you want to be nearer to him.”
The sheen in her gaze turned a molten gold. “My place is by your side, Killian.”
“Which can now be in San Diego just as easily as here.” I filled in the blank in her question with a cocky grin. “My big brother has decided he wants the penthouse office, remember? So he can have it.”
Her head rocked back like I’d just breathed the newest flu virus at her. “Excuse me?”
“Okay, rephrase. ‘Rope to hang himself’ sound better?” I smirked a little wider as comprehension took over her face. “If my big brother wants all the bells and whistles of the big kids’ table for a while, who am I to deny him? But fairy, it’s just an office—and right now, it would be a PR nightmare for me to be there, anyhow.” When she conceded that with a little nod, I added, “But let’s be clear. My finger hasn’t left the pulse of SGC for a second.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Huh?”
“I’m still officially CEO, Claire. Though half of Chicago society has attempted to forget it, I haven’t. But for the first time in years, I really don’t have to be at that office every day.” I drifted my hand to her nape and rubbed her there in reassurance. “Maybe a change of scenery is what we both need.”
Just saying the words was like opening a new window of perspective. Her trembling smile made me feel even better. “Really?” she rasped. “You’ll come back with me?”
I raised my other hand to the back of her neck then pulled her in so every inch of our bodies touched. After a soft, deep kiss, I murmured, “Right now, my place is by your side, baby.”
Conviction lined every syllable of it. For very good reason.
*
I had to admit, living the beach bum life was a nice change.
For about three days.
By the fourth day, even the goddamn sunshine gave me a headache. I needed the fog rolling in off Lake Michigan in the morning. The clamor of the L over the streets. The taxis honking, trying to take over the millions of sidewalk conversations happening at once.
The nonstop email pings from my laptop.
After a long morning run along the beach, I sat down at Claire’s office desk and opened the computer.
I had three pings total.
The first was from Britta, who’d been sending me updates three times a day. On many occasions, answering the email might take up to a few hours, depending on the follow-up messages or calls that needed to be made. And though the recipients of my messages clearly felt weirder by the day about the process, I really loved those goddamn emails.
Until today.
Britta’s note consisted of less than ten words spread over two sentences. If she’d written the note out, I was sure the paper would be warped with tears.
I’m sorry, Killian. So sorry.
I was suddenly aware of every pound of my heart. And every drop of bile in my stomach. And every letter in the name of the next sender on the Inbox list.
Trey Stone. CEO. The Stone Global Companies.
“Son of a—”
I opened the email with a furious stab at the mouse.
The letter was shockingly well-written. I almost wondered if he’d made Britta write it, until recognizing Trey would never pass up the opportunity to deliver the final blow himself. And while everyone else on the playground had written off Trey as the kid only interested in the color of the girls’ panties, I knew differently. Trey was smart—scary smart—when he wanted to be. He could learn the yard’s whole layout in five minutes, including the highest swings, loosest teeter totter and fastest slide—and how to best bribe the bullies for extra rides on each.
He’d clearly been saving up those favors. And no
w the fucker ruled the school. He had the carnage to prove it—all branded specifically with my name.
I read the missive again, if only for the opportunity to attempt diluting the words’ impact with my scoffing laughter. “Mr. Klarke…emergency meeting of the board, due to your ‘extended and notable absence’…regret to inform you…effective immediately…Mr. Trey Stone will assume duties as Chief Executive Officer…”
The remaining details were redundant and pointless. I’d be bought out of my contract for the ungodly sum arranged by Mason years ago, when he’d snuck the clause back into my renewal contract. I’d scowled at him for it. Mason had merely smirked while I rocked back in my chair, growling that if the Stone Global board ever felt the need to boot my ass before the contract terminated, I certainly wouldn’t deserve the millions that walked out the door with me.
I didn’t do the cocky rock now. After I opened the third email, time-stamped right after Trey’s and sent from Drake’s phone, I grimaced as the acid in my stomach mixed with the fury in my heart. The venom erupted into the air as the underline to my slow snarl.
“Make sure you deposit every penny, assholes.”
Drake’s email contained a screen capture of the official, final vote from the emergency board meeting.
He and Fletcher were the only members who’d voted in my favor.
*
I’d always had this half-stupid motto in life about trying to see the lessons in everything, even my adversities. Though I was fairly certain this morning’s shit dump had made adversity its bitch from the moment I opened Britta’s email, it was cool to discover a silver lining of a lesson in the day, anyway.
A bottle of wine and a binge-fest of Deadliest Warrior were damn good medicine for gut-deep rage.
By the time I’d cheered everyone from the Comanche to the SEALs to Joan of Arc on to victory, I swung off the couch in a woozy haze, stumbling for my phone. By the time I found the damn thing, the Italian opera that belonged solely to Claire had flipped into voice mail. When I checked the screen, it was to see she’d opted for a text, instead. Would I be interested in attending a VIP opening for a hot new bar in town, over by the university tonight?
I tapped back a fast reply.
Hold on. Lemme ck packed sched. Think I can squeeze u in, baby.
Or maybe u can squeeze me in, too…
“Hmmph.” I chuckled while pushing Send. “You’re not the only one with the mad sexting skills, Mr. CEO Trey fucking Stone.”
Seemed like it took Claire forever to respond. On the other hand, she had a job to attend to. After she finally answered that she’d pick me up by seven, I tossed the phone aside and got ready for the Crazy Horse versus Pancho Villa showdown.
By seven-thirty that night, we walked into the party Claire had been invited to. The bar, located in former industrial space in a newly gentrified area of town, was called Fins Up—and officially proclaimed itself as “San Diego’s hottest and wettest.” It featured a modernistic mesh of décor and lighting that highlighted dolphin and shark imagery. Oddly, the blue and gray color theme worked well—though I still had my doubts about the sculpture atop the backlit bar. The “shark” and “dolphin” had been morphed into asexual humanoids though were positioned in a way that left little to the imagination about their plans for late night fun. After a few rounds from the complimentary bar, I wasn’t sure I cared.
My expression must have spoken differently, because Claire looked up from her wine with an openly curious expression. “A shot for your thoughts, Mr. Stone?”
I returned the look with hooded eyes and a derogatory smirk. The room tilted a little—maybe more than a little—but I didn’t mind. She was in focus; that was all that mattered. “Don’t you mean ‘Mr. Klarke?’”
She thrashed her head back and forth. “Nope. Uh-uh. Shit like that is banned for tonight. We’re here to have fun. Now tell me what you were really thinking about.”
I blinked a couple times. Grinned wider and swung my head toward the “couple” above. “That.”
Her brows rose. “That?”
I nodded. The room spun harder. It wasn’t a wholly unpleasant sensation. “Not sure whether that makes me want to reach for the eye bleach, order another of these, or take you out back for some illicit alley sex.”
She bit into her bottom lip, turning it an even juicier shade of red. “Mmmm. I think I pick door number three.”
“Oh yeah?”
Though I finished with a growl, she cut it short by dragging my face to hers in a long mush of a kiss. “Why don’t you finish that while I take a fast trip to the little girls’ room?” she purred. “Then we can find that alley.”
“Your wish is my command, fairy queen.” I brushed my lips across hers again. The feel of her fingers through my stubble was more intoxicating than the scotch. She’d encouraged me to let the scruff go unchecked back in Chicago, and I liked what my compliance did for her libido level tonight.
She licked her lips while commencing her backward trek to the restrooms. Her stare, silken with sensuality, held mine. “Behave, knave.”
My lips held the curve of my chuckle as I circled my finger, ordering her to turn around before she killed herself or anyone else with that loopy gait and those high fuck-me heels. Besides, the new view of her ass and thighs started giving me creative ideas about justifying the nickname for the blood red booties. Damn, I couldn’t wait to hit the alley.
My vision veered for just a second. Correction. It was hijacked—by a guy who leaned away from the wall and eyed Claire’s body with intent that left no room for imagination. Luckily, the scotch soothed my nerves enough to let logic speak some sense to me. I was here with the most stunning woman in the building. That was the case no matter where we went or ever would go. I’d better get used to the feeling of watching asshats slobber all over Claire—even if they were ripped college boys with Staying Power practically stamped on their foreheads.
I maintained my cool even when the kid turned his cocky puppy stare at me, his slow grin letting me know that he knew just who I was—and what he planned on doing with that knowledge.
Goddamit.
Sure enough, when Claire emerged from the hallway leading to the restrooms, he stepped into the portal, spreading his long arms across the opening and bracing his legs wide. Claire stopped, rolled her eyes at the X he’d made of his linebacker’s physique, then giggled as she tried to pass.
The puppy really wanted to play with her.
I polished off my scotch and slid off the barstool.
My ears buzzed, muting the throb of the Pitbull song from the dance floor and turning the night into a pleasant careen of numbness with every stomp I took toward Claire and the dog. I approached in time to watch her attempt another pass by him. When the kid hooked a hand around the bottom of her elbow, Claire resisted. He was about to attempt another grab when I stepped up.
“Baby, is there a problem?”
Alarm flared in her eyes. “No. None.” She whipped her glare, accusatory now, back at the boy. “Isn’t that right?”
Junior leered at me as if she hadn’t spoken. “Awwww. ‘Baby, is there a problem?’ Isn’t that cute?”
Claire’s nostrils dilated. Her eyes turned the color of a volcano’s core. “Look, Scooby Doo, this just isn’t going to happen. I’m sure there are other girls in here who’d prefer to be your snack tonight—”
“But I’m hungry for you…baby.”
The booze in my blood hit the frustration in my chest, combusting into the vicious yank I gave his wrist. “The lady has asked nicely, dammit. Now leave her alone.”
“Killian—”
“Claire.” My tone left no room for push-back. “Stay out of this.”
The puppy snorted. “She is this, dude. But maybe you don’t get that.” He threw a scoffing glance down the front of my black Henley and black jeans. “Maybe you still don’t comprehend you’re not the fancy billionaire in the pretty glass tower anymore. Welcome to the land on the other si
de of the disguise, Superman—only you twisted it backwards, didn’t you?”
I got in my own turn at the eye roll. It didn’t do a damn thing to dampen my rage. “Wow,” I snarled. “You are so fucking brilliant. That is so goddamn original. Don’t think I’ve heard that one in about the last ten minutes, Scooby. Good on you.”
The pup tossed his head, settling his surfer haircut back enough to stare at Claire clearly again. “So you want to go get another drink?”
Claire burst out in laughter that was pitched with disbelief. That was a good thing, distracting her enough not to notice my reaction was very different. Before she could stop me, I’d twisted one hand into the front of his MMA souvenir T-shirt hard enough to tear the seams at the arms. “Let me be clear about this, dammit. She’s. With. Me.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. One side of his mouth yanked up. “She was with Killian Stone, man. Now?” He blew a mocking sound out through his teeth and glanced at Claire. “If you’re happy with the ‘enema of Magnificent Mile,’ then have at it, beautiful.”
A couple of onlookers chortled at that. Scooby Doo wasn’t lucky enough to join them. Could’ve had something to do with my fist smashing into his jaw. To his credit, the kid recovered nicely, only falling back against the wall instead of toppling to the floor. He shook his head, laughed, and instantly came back at me—but the years of dodging Trey’s bullying had never left me. It all came back as easily as riding a bike, a gritty blend of dodging and ducking that served me well until the kid swept around to my flank and landed a breath-stealing blow to my ribs.
