by Pam Godwin
“Oh my God, Blake.” A woman giggles. “You’re terrible.”
Blood cooks in my veins, and tears stream down my face. I did a good thing, the right thing. So why am I letting them make me feel so fucking rejected, humiliated, and furious?
“As if her age isn’t problematic enough,” another woman says. “I just feel sad for her. I mean, her career’s over, you know?”
“Her career was over at thirty,” Blake says. “Her desperation to impress is, as ever, exhausting to watch. And this thing tonight is downright repulsive. As old as she is, she should know better.”
My ribs squeeze painfully, and a horrible ache consumes my chest. If I listen to much more, I’ll end up giving them a real reason to mock me, because right now, I want nothing more than to run in there, punching, screaming, and clawing out eyeballs.
I move to leave and stop at the sound of footfalls racing across the veranda. A masculine grunt rents the air, followed by metal chair legs screeching across concrete, then the shrieking cries of the women.
What the hell? I turn back, round the corner, and stumble onto the patio.
Chairs are tossed over. The women huddle off to the side, and Blake is sprawled on the ground with Decker’s forearm against his throat.
Adrenaline rushes through me, and my ankles teeter in the heels as I move toward them. Decker locks Blake’s back to his chest, and his arm hooks so tightly beneath Blake’s chin, the skin around Blake’s pinched features is turning blue.
“Decker.” I crouch beside him. “He can’t breathe.”
“That’s the fucking point.” His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen, full of so much rage and brutal intent.
He must’ve come out here through the side doors. I don’t know how much of the conversation he heard, but it was enough to redden his complexion, turn his jaw to stone, and put a terrifyingly deadly look on his face.
Blake flops and kicks in Decker’s stranglehold, wrinkling his expensive tux and dragging his shiny shoes over the concrete. His fingers work frantically to pry the arm off his throat, but he won’t be going anywhere unless Decker allows it.
Pulse racing, I clutch Decker’s flexed bicep and dig my nails in. “Give him air.”
Decker grunts a deep, angry noise and loosens his hold just enough for Blake to gasp.
A squeak draws my attention to the huddled women. Fuck, they’re going to have a field day with the press over this.
“Everyone out. Now!” I cast them an infuriated glare, and thankfully, they hurry away. I turn back to Decker. “Let him go.”
“That’s fucking bullshit, Laynee. You don’t know how badly I want to break his fucking face. I want to break every bone in his body. He’s a waste of goddamn space.”
Now that Blake can breathe, he takes the opportunity to laugh hoarsely. “You’re letting this guy stick his dick in you? You’re old enough to be his mother.”
In a blur of limbs, Decker flips Blake beneath him and straddles the other man’s hips, putting himself in the most dominant Jiu-Jitsu position. He’s effectively pinned Blake to the ground, face up, so he can pound the ever-loving shit out of every vulnerable body part.
“Decker, don’t.” I touch his shoulder and holy fuck, he’s tense. I harden my tone. “If he walks out of here bloody—”
“He won’t be able to walk.”
“—tomorrow’s headlines will read Laynee Somerset’s anti-violence charity dinner ends in a violent crime of passion. As it turns out, she’s not over Blake Harridan. Please, think through this. You’ll undo every right and good thing we’ve done here tonight.”
Decker’s chest heaves, and the tendons in his neck strain against his skin. After an endless moment, he closes his eyes. When he opens them, he shoves off Blake and grabs my hand. “Let’s go.”
I hurry to keep up with his long-legged strides, but we only make it a couple steps before Blake opens his idiot mouth.
“You always were a weak little bitch, Laynee.”
Decker slams to a halt.
“He’s baiting us.” I tug him forward until Blake speaks again.
“I stretched out her cunt for you.” He laughs. “But I wasn’t able to iron out the wrinkles.”
Fuck this. I whirl toward Blake, but Decker’s already moving with murder in his eyes. I catch his arm.
“Let me.” I don’t wait for his response and instead walk up to my grinning ex-husband.
Rearing back my fist, I swing toward his face. As expected, he dodges, laughing, and I slam my knee into his groin—the same way I did to Decker yesterday. Only this time, I hit harder, pouring all my strength into it, ruthlessly fueled by righteous anger.
I step back as he doubles over. Decker moves in and rains punch after punch on Blake’s torso. Blake moans and swings his arms, but Decker’s a skilled fighter. Blake doesn’t stand a chance of landing a single strike.
Glancing at the exits, I confirm no one’s watching. Then I turn back to appreciate the solid mass of muscle bunching and contracting beneath Decker’s tux. His strikes are so vicious they knock Blake off his feet. Decker doesn’t let up, and I don’t interfere. Whatever comes out of this, it’s worth the deep satisfaction of watching my ex-husband finally get what was coming to him.
Decker doesn’t once hit Blake’s face, and there isn’t a drop of visible blood. When Blake starts to cry beneath the hammering hits, Decker grabs his throat and leans in.
“If you mention to anyone that I so much as touched you, Laynee will release all the evidence she has against you.”
Blake’s pink eyes widen and dart to me.
I don’t have any evidence of Blake’s abuse, but I roll with it. “I hid cameras in our house, Blake. I have hours of footage.”
He drops his head back on the concrete and groans. “Fuck.”
“Let’s go home, baby.” Decker hooks an arm around my back and guides me to the door.
A few minutes later, I walk out of the event with my shoulders back, chin high, and the scarred lines of my back on full display. And just like he vowed, Decker’s right there beside me.
On the way home, he makes me promise not to turn on my phone or look at the news until tomorrow. Given how quickly the event cleared out and Reese’s unusual silence as he steals peeks at his phone, I assume the worst. But I’m on board with Decker’s demand. Doesn’t matter what we do tonight, the shit storm will still be waiting for us tomorrow.
The moment we step inside the house, his deep timbre infiltrates my senses. “I want those gorgeous lips wrapped around my cock.”
“Is that right?” I saunter backwards, twirling a finger in the loose curl dangling beside my face.
“You think I’m playing?” He prowls after me, his expression searing and dead serious. “I’m about two seconds from fucking your face.”
I gulp as each beat of my heart descends lower, lower, until the only beat I feel is the heavy, hard pulse between my legs.
He catches me at the bottom of the stairs and slides a hand around my throat. Adept fingers quickly loosen the tie at my neck and lower the front of the dress to my waist. He follows the fall of satin with scorching wet kisses. With my chest and back bare, he doesn’t waste time stripping my lower body.
My gown and panties pool around my feet, and a draft from a nearby vent blows a shiver across my skin.
In the span of a languid blink, the space between us melts away. His hands stab through my hair, plucking out pins until the curls fall around my shoulders. His lips capture mine, and his tongue dips in, licking the inside of my mouth with wicked deep thrusts.
I circle my arms around his waist and palm his ass through the slacks, molding my fingers against the hard muscles that tighten with the rock of his hips. His swollen length jabs against my stomach, and my tight nipples drag across the material of his tux, heightening the pleasure. A rapture of sensation swamps my insides, stirring a need that only this man can quench.
“Take me out.” His voice is broken glass, smooth and har
d with cutting edges.
With him fully dressed in his sexy tuxedo, I remove his cock and suck it until his thighs shake, his head falls back, and his come shoots down my throat. He returns the favor by spreading me out on the stairs and burying his face between my legs.
We fuck against the wall, on the couch, and on the landing upstairs. When we finally make it to the bedroom, we lie naked on the bed, chest to chest, absorbed in our bubble and kissing without urgency. Our mouths are exploratory and giving and vibrating with passion. When he fucks me again, it doesn’t feel like fucking. It feels like love.
We remain entwined for hours, our bodies joined in the most intimate way, savoring every second as if it’s our last in this world.
As it turns out, it’s our last reprieve for a long time.
CHAPTER 23
DECKER
It’s all unraveling. We are unraveling.
I pace through the kitchen, one hand squeezing my phone, the other pulling angrily at my uncombed hair.
“Rein it in, man.” Reese sits at the island and pulls a long draw from his beer. “This is just a bump in the road.”
“You call this a bump?” I whirl on him and stab a finger toward the ceiling. “She hasn’t left the bedroom in a week!”
The charity dinner brought in a fraction of the donations it yielded in prior years. Tweeters are calling her reveal a wardrobe malfunction, and public attention has propagated the hatred. The barrage of comments on-line has been so overwhelmingly cruel and unsupportive I can’t eat or sleep. The guilt is unbearable.
“I did this to her.” Pain sears through my chest. “I forced this decision upon her.” What have I done?
“What you did was show her how strong and beautiful she is. You empowered her.” Reese sighs. “She knew what the ramifications would be. Give her a little credit, Decker. When this eventually blows over, she won’t regret it.”
“Will it blow over?” Have I ruined her career?
He takes another gulp of beer and stares out the kitchen window. “I don’t know.”
My heart sinks beneath the gravity of the situation. She has enough money to retire from the limelight, but that’s not what I want for her. Because that’s not what she wants. She worked too goddamn hard to spend the rest of her life hiding from the glare of publicity.
I’ve been tethered to my phone for the past week, obsessing over every post and article. I lived in a naive world before this. A world where I thought the best of people. I was wrong. So fucking wrong.
Giving into the compulsion to read the latest updates on my notification alerts, I stare at the screen of my phone with the hope that the consensus has finally shifted.
Laynee Somerset must’ve slept on a hand grenade. Her back is hell on earth. Wish she would’ve kept that horror show to herself. #sharingisnotcaring #gross
Move over muffin tops and beer guts. Laynee Somerset coming in as the star of scars.
Who stabbed Laynee Somerset? I heard it’s just a publicity stunt. Conspiracy theorists want to know.
People are saying @layneesomerset is hideous?! Well if that's hideous I'd like some of that please. She looks amazing.
No wonder the gorgeous Blake Harridan cheated on her #beautyandthescarredbeast #epicromancefail
Am I the only one turned off by Laynee’s pity party? Lil too much too late IMO
Edgy and twitchy, I shut off the screen and toss the phone on the counter. I want to respond to every single one of those body-shaming motherfuckers. I want to fucking annihilate them. How can they think of her as anything less than perfect? Killer body, exquisite face, with a personality and strength of character that’s incomparable. She’s the whole package. What the hell is wrong with people?
The day after the event, she posted a message that was inspirational and uplifting, reminding the world what it means to be confident in your skin. But the rally of her supporters continues to be overshadowed by spineless criticism.
The only good news is Blake has kept his fat fucking mouth shut about our confrontation. If he changes his mind, I’m more than ready to pay him a visit.
“You need to stop reading that shit.” Reese stands to toss his beer in the trash and grab another one. “There will always be haters. The professional drama-feeders, attention whores, unhappy souls who hide behind their anonymity and bash everyone they envy. None of those dickheads would have the balls to say something to her face. She knows this, because unfortunately, this isn’t her first rodeo.”
“Then why is she taking it so hard?” I’ve never seen her so despondent. Defeated. It’s fucking wrecking me. “I’ve tried talking to her. I’ve tried patience. You and I both know she doesn’t respond to either.”
He shrugs and stares down at his beer, his eyes shuttering.
“What?” I get in his face. “What are you not saying?”
“I don’t know, Decker. When I brought her home six years ago, after she spent hours on that operating table fighting for her life, she shut everyone out. Honestly, she didn’t really have people in her life anyway. Her parents were dead. Her friends were phony and untrustworthy. All she had was a bi-sexual assistant, who was too young to know what to say or how to respond to her trauma. I did my best to be there for her, but she was alone. No one knew what had happened to her. In a way, that was a blessing, because she didn’t have to prove anything to anyone except herself. She took her time nursing her wounds. She wasn’t pressured to bounce back in record time. In the end, she did bounce back.”
“What are you saying?” I lower onto the stool beside him. “You think I’m pressuring her? She doesn’t have to prove shit to me.”
“I think she’s…uncertain. Your relationship is new and fragile, and you already know her history with men. She’s batting zero for three, if you count me.”
“But her relationship with me is—”
“Bound by an agreement. You might’ve forgotten that you’re being paid to be here, but I guarantee she’s thinking about that now. She made a huge fucking sacrifice for you.”
I inhale sharply. “I wanted her to do it for herself.”
“Doesn’t matter. She did it for you. She didn’t want you to be disappointed, and I imagine right now, with the negative reactions to her scars, she’s feeling like a disappointment. You wanted the world to embrace her, and she didn’t make that happen.”
“Fuck them. I don’t give a fuck what they think.”
“Then why did you want her to expose her vulnerability to them?”
“Because I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not just an idiot.” He grips my neck and gives it a hard squeeze. “You’re an idiot in love.”
I can’t argue that. “What do you suggest I do?”
“Let Violet do what she does. She’ll fix this, and by fix this I mean she’ll spin the story the way it should’ve been received. In the meantime, take care of our girl. Prove to her you’re not going anywhere.”
“I’ve told her over and over—”
“Trey and Blake told her the same thing. Prove it.”
I lower my head in my hands, clenching my fingers in my hair. “How?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“And here I thought all your words of wisdom were actually leading to tangible advice.”
“Guess that’s why I’m still single.” He flashes his megawatt smile.
Single is not a status I ever want to hold again, and for the next two weeks, I make damn sure Laynee knows it.
Her publicist smooths over the negative press by redirecting the focus to raising awareness for victims of abuse. I don’t know how Violet does it, but she wrangles the support from the most authoritative sources on celebrity news. When the media buzz finally fades, it ends on message of survival. Laynee’s not willing to share her story publicly, but she wears—and will continue to wear—her scars openly as a symbol of strength.
Like her, her public image will forever be scarred. There will always be those who can’t look past he
r skin. Nevertheless, she throws herself back into work, including our morning runs and nightly spar sessions. But there’s something straining between us, a crack in the foundation of our relationship. I can’t pinpoint it exactly. Physically, nothing’s changed. But emotionally, she seems withdrawn, cautious, unsure.
I continue to leave notes in random places for her to find, prepare all her favorite foods, and kiss her endlessly like the lovesick fool that I am. What I don’t do is say those three significant words.
The words are there, hovering on my lips every second of every day. But the timing is wrong. I don’t want her to mistake my declaration as an expression of pity or desperation. When I tell her I love her, it will be backed up by a gesture that can’t be misconstrued.
The gesture doesn’t come to me until one of my late-night laps in the pool. Laynee was on the phone all day with her agent and went to bed early. Distracted and restless, I work out my energy in the crystal blue water, thinking about the moment I initiated the conversation about our future.
Where do you see us at the end of this agreement?
We said a lot of things that day, but my biggest take away was the question she asked herself.
What will you give up for this man?
She’s more than proven her love for me. What grand gesture have I made? What have I sacrificed?
I swim to the stairs and sit on the top step, catching my breath beneath the ethereal glow of the moon. I live in her beautiful home, eat her food, and wear the clothes purchased with her money. And I’m in the progress of launching the most important business venture of my life with the financial support and affluence of her friend.
I haven’t made a single sacrifice. Contrarily, every aspect of my world has spectacularly improved. Because of her.
What will I give up for her? The answer is everything. All of it. Yet she’s asked for nothing.
Only that’s not true. There’s one thing. She asked for one impossible, stomach-curling thing, and I outright refused.
