The Holly Hearth Romantic Comedy Collection

by K B Cinder

  And I’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do if he was naked in my bed after I vehemently denied any feelings for him. Granted, she’d likely be elated, but that was beside the point. I didn’t want her to get her hopes up.

  “And you can’t be in here.”

  “Why?” I heard the bed creak as he sat up, but I stayed focused on my phone.

  “Because she doesn’t need to know about this.” It hurt to say, but it was the truth.

  “Why?” I swore I heard pain in his voice, coaxing my eyes to his face finally. He was standing a few steps away, looking surprisingly wounded.

  “Because I said so, okay?”

  Because it would be beyond fucking embarrassing when he moved onto his next girl. Sage’s sex life was a cemetery of women’s hopes and dreams. I already had a plot there. I would add our time earlier to it and move on. No sense inviting mourners.

  “Rini, what’s wrong?” He reached for me, but I dodged his hand.

  I shook my head, crossing to grab his gym bag before tossing it against his chest. “We can’t do this, Sage.”

  It hit the center of the naked flesh, his massive arms cradling it like a newborn. “Do what?”

  I slid my cell in the pocket of my shorts and headed to the end table to grab my keycard. “Keep pretending that this is something that it isn’t.”

  He slid the bag down in front of his crotch, thankfully covering the dick demon who was doing his damndest to draw me back in. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play games, Sage. Come on.”

  If he could just hit fast forward on the asshole button already it would be great. It was really hard to kick him out when he was looking at me with puppy dog eyes.

  “I’m not playing games. What the hell are you talking about? I thought we had a great time earlier.”

  I slipped my sneakers on. “We had a great time. Now it’s time to get back to reality.”

  His face contorted, the handsome planes twisting in confusion. “Are you… dumping me?”

  My heart fluttered at the thought of us ever actually being together to be dumped. Sadly, that had never been, and never would be, the case. I’d always been a toy. A plaything to keep him entertained.

  “I’m saving us both from hating each other for another ten years. Juni really liked that we got along, and I want to keep it that way.”

  His eyes met mine, and I swore I saw genuine pain in them. “Wow, Karine. That’s… that’s fucking rough.”

  I nodded slowly as I turned away and reached for the handle. “I’m going to go for a walk. I left you some dinner if you want it, but when I get back, please be gone.”

  17

  I was the only woman in the lobby bar not wearing a mini dress. I was also the only one sporting a black eye, so I guess you could say I was a trendsetter.

  I slipped into a booth in the back corner with a sangria, the bartender hooking me up with extra pineapple when he saw my face. I guess either the black eye, the stitches, or the tears signaled that I could use a little extra sweetness in my life.

  A few people recognized me when I walked in, though only a handful took out their phones to snap pictures before going on with their night. It didn’t take long for them to figure out that I wasn’t carrying around Spike for round two with someone’s face.

  I just wanted to be alone with my drink and my thoughts, though deciphering them was becoming increasingly difficult with a cover band singing off-key up front.

  No offense, but that crazy little thing called love could go fuck itself for all I cared. All it did was sow seeds of doubt. I couldn’t afford doubt.

  Self-preservation mode had kicked on the moment the inkling of feeling did, shutting off any and all chance that I’d ever slip into the sticky territory again. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be able to get out again.

  But why did it hurt so fucking bad?

  I wiped at my tears as they came back with a vengeance, eventually balling a bar napkin to dab them away. The crunchy paper wasn’t the best tissue to rub against my skin, but it was all I had, so I made do with each scratchy tap. It didn’t matter anyway. I already looked like shit. I might as well scrape off some skin while I was at it. It’d be my own form of bar-napkin micro-abrasion.

  “Don’t hit me.”

  I stiffened at the sound of Trey’s voice. I instinctively reached for my purse — the purse I didn’t have. I’d only brought my room key, phone, and a twenty-dollar bill. I eyed the table, finding a salt shaker that might work if I needed it.

  Aim for the eye socket.

  “I’m not here for drama. I just want to apologize.”

  “Not forgiven,” I murmured, taking a sip of sangria to block out the overwhelming scent of his lemon cologne. I wanted to leave, but one, I was safest in a crowded room; and two, I didn’t want to waste a fifteen-dollar drink.

  “I understand. You still deserve an apology, though: I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I never should have put my hands on you.”

  “I said the magic word you can’t stand,” I sneered, leaning back in my seat and refusing to look anywhere near the bronzed abuser.

  “I’m not sure I know what that is…” he trailed, sliding into the booth across from me in a blur of hair gel and spray tan.

  “I told you no. God forbid someone not want to touch that rubber spatula you call a dick, huh? Now get the fuck out of my space, and leave me alone.”

  He adjusted a gold bangle around his wrist before flicking his eyes to me, his face contorting as he discovered the battered left side of my face.

  “You don’t have to cry over me, honey. You’re beautiful, even with that disgusting Frankenstitch. If you find a good plastic surgeon, he’ll fix any scarring. I’ll give you my guy’s number. He’s an artist.”

  I smacked the table, hopefully snapping him out of whatever clueless cloud he was floating around in. “I’m not crying over you, you moron.”

  Honestly, I couldn’t have cared less about a potential scar. All badasses had at least one. I could change the story of how I got it each time to scare away assholes, too. Shark attack. Gang initiation. MMA contract. The possibilities were endless.

  He gripped my right hand in his suddenly, his touch almost tender. “Is it Slugger? Did he dump you? The day after Valentine’s Day? My God, I’m so sorry, I…”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish. A fist met his jaw in a brutal blow, sending him hurtling to the side, his hand dropping mine in an instant.

  I heard the crack of bone over the horrendous ska rendition of Stayin’ Alive as blood sprayed from Trey’s mouth across my t-shirt, the punch taking his front veneers with it. I knew because they landed in my sangria.

  I screamed as the fist came back again and again, pummeling Trey like a punching bag — only it was bare knuckle on bone.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” I shrieked, terrified as more blood misted from the fist. The sledgehammer of a hand met Trey’s face in a sickening rhythm.

  But Sage didn’t listen. He didn’t even acknowledge my presence, putting every bit of strength and focus he had into the blows.

  I grabbed his forearm, leaning into the mayhem as I frantically cried out for help. But everyone was either too stunned or too scared to get involved.

  Trey was wailing like a wounded animal in a hunter’s snare with every blow, his blood coating the table in a fine mist.

  “Sage, stop!” I screamed as he hammered the helpless man. Hitting him once was one thing, but he was beating the man to a bloodied pulp. Trey didn’t stand a chance. No one would against him. “You’re killing him! Stop!”

  Sage shrugged out of my grasp, stepping back as Trey slumped against the booth, his face unrecognizable as his eyes ballooned to match mine. Sage held his bloodied hand in the air in surrender along with the other, his white t-shirt covered in drops of Trey’s blood. “Don’t worry about that bail money. I’ll call Dash. I’m gone.”

  Security rushed the front of the bar, their shoes pou
nding on the tiles as they stormed over.

  I was trembling from head to toe, the warm blood tacky on my flesh from the dry air. My t-shirt was just as splattered as Sage’s, the red staining the delicate peach shade with violence.

  “You wanted me out of your life,” Sage said matter-of-factly as the armed guards gripped him. “Your wish is my command. Bye, Karine.”

  Security hauled him off, leaving me alone with a moaning Trey while I dialed 911.

  I didn’t tell Dash.

  After giving a statement to security and making sure an ambulance was coming for Trey, I went upstairs for a quick shower and headed right to the police station.

  I’d never been in one, and for whatever ridiculous reason, I didn’t expect them to smell like piss and poor life choices. Now that I was sitting in a gum-crusted plastic chair next to One-toothed Terry and her companion, Ass-scratcher Arnie, the stench rang woefully appropriate.

  I arrived before Sage was even processed, and the officer manning the front desk apparently recognized me from the video. He called in cop after cop to point me out from behind their bulletproof glass cover, all while I sat like a zoo animal exposed in the waiting area.

  It was a Saturday night, so the place was hopping, a constant flow of people hustling in and out, most of who were drunk off their ass and reeking of body odor.

  Not even the room’s air conditioning could help disperse the sour smell, blasts of cold arriving in spurts as I sat curled in a pair of worn jeans and a thin hooded sweatshirt. It was no doubt on, despite the chill outside, to do just that, but it was no match against the funk in the air.

  Everything slowly mixed together in a steady wheel of chaos as I waited. The constant ringing of a desk phone in the distance. The shuffling of papers. The drunk hollering. Arnie’s ass scratching. It was madness.

  The trip had been anything but the dream I’d imagined despite starting off on a high. My bones were weary rather than rested; my spirit was broken, not soaring. I would trade all the publicity and sales for life to return to normal.

  The only solace was Juni and Dash’s epic moment, which was precisely why I traveled alone in a strange city to bail Sage out of jail. It was my fault he was there. Like so many times before, I fucked up.

  The glass window shielding the front desk slid back after what felt like a decade of self loathing. “Sage Mullen’s escort?”

  I stood, crossing the narrow space in quick steps as others looked on in longing. Everyone seemed bothered by the atmosphere except the duo I was seated between. They were so comfy, you’d swear they were regulars.

  “Yes?” I said softly as I stopped in front of the desk. I met the officer’s bespectacled eyes, hoping I could cover the bail with what I had in my bank account. Sure, my sales had spiked, but that money wouldn’t clear until at least Monday. After trip expenses and bills, it wasn’t looking promising, honestly.

  The officer hit a button, a thick door to my left buzzing open as a light above it flashed red. “Sage is free to leave.”

  “What do I owe you?” I stammered, reaching into my purse. I’d feel really stupid if they had to turn around and cuff him again because I was short on money.

  “Nothing. Charges were dropped.”

  I froze. That made no sense whatsoever. I’d watched Sage go balls-to-the-wall cage fighter on Trey’s face. The man was taken to the hospital by ambulance.

  “Dropped?” I echoed. There had to be a mixup.

  I looked to the door, expecting the wrong person to appear, maybe a drunken idiot from the club, but I found Sage, his shirt still splattered in blood. Trey’s blood. He had a dripping sandwich baggie of ice held to his hand, but other than that, he didn’t seem fazed.

  The officer — Taft, according to his name tag — looked irritated at my parroting. “Yes, dropped. As in nothing. Zip. Nada. Zilch. Well-Hung was ordered to have no contact with you upon release, and he violated that. Mullen is clear. But keep a leash on that animal, will you? He got blood all over Brewer’s cruiser, and now I have to hear about it all night.”

  “Oh, absolutely, sir. Thank you so much. Have a great night.” It barely came out as a squeak as I rushed to catch up with Sage, who stormed out of the station without a word.

  I barged into the night, following the bullish figure charging toward the sidewalk. It was only a few blocks to our hotel, the station just east of the Strip, but I’d planned on grabbing an Uber back. Sage, on the other hand, appeared to be more than willing to hoof it back on foot.

  “Sage, wait!” I growled, struggling to keep up with his Gulliver-like strides. His body was rigid as he lumbered forth, anger still burning despite the hell he’d unleashed on Trey’s face.

  He ignored me, continuing along as if I weren’t scampering like a spaniel at his heels.

  “Sage!” I repeated, louder, as I sidestepped a fire hydrant.

  He kept going without a care in the world. If anything, he walked faster.

  “What is your problem?” I snapped, grabbing him as soon as I could reach a bicep and not trip over my own feet.

  As if I said the magic words, he stopped, and I crumpled against him in a full-body collision. He turned and steadied me before pulling away, his hands lingering on my arms for just a moment as the makeshift ice pack left a trail of cold water on my sleeve.

  “Nothing. I take care of mine.” His eyes met mine, the humor that once sparkled in them dulled.

  I flinched, swallowing the fire that immediately kicked up in my throat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Take care of what? Problems?

  He rolled his eyes with a snort. “You tell me. I’m the one you want gone.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that, okay?” I defended, the harshness of the words biting to my own ears. “I just want everything to go back to how it was.”

  He folded his arms, dripping water across his chest. “To what? Hating each other?”

  People had stopped walking to watch us, a 21st-century showdown of David and Goliath unraveling before them. Sage was stretched to every inch of his bearlike frame while I held my ground against him.

  “Yes — well, no,” I muttered, so frustrated I could scream as I gripped the front of his bloodied shirt. “I just want to be friends.”

  The words rang hollow, but I didn’t care. Friends was better than nothing.

  “Then why kiss me?” he demanded as he stepped forward, putting me nose to chest with him and forcing me to snap my head back to meet his eyes. “Why fuck me?”

  With his arms crossed eye-level to me, I had an unobstructed view to his striking hand, the limb mangled and swollen.

  “You’re hurt!” I gasped, eyeing the bulging knuckles. I wasn’t a doctor, obviously, but I was fairly certain that something was broken.

  “No shit, Karine,” he conceded, stepping away with a shake of his head. “And your eyes are as closed as ever.”

  18

  Sage was gone. In every sense of the word.

  I followed him to the hotel as he cut through flocks of tourists, their laughs fluttering while I struggled to keep up. He didn’t turn his head once, continuing on as if I weren’t calling his name until my throat was hoarse.

  A few people stopped and aimed their phones, clearly recognizing me. It made the situation that much worse, my private life once-again the source of others’ entertainment.

  He disappeared into the crowded lobby before I had a chance to snag him. To say what? I don’t know. But something.

  I couldn’t take the silence. Sage was always loud and larger than life. Anything else was against nature.

  I checked the elevators before heading to the bar, a closed sign waiting at its entrance. Its smoky sandalwood incense was replaced with the stench of bleach, the once-bright lights shuttered.

  Heaviness settled in my chest as I went to my room and started packing, the mindless fold, stuff, repeat cycle failing to soothe the ache. Pushing him away had seemed to be the right move in saving me from pain, yet it o
nly blossomed with a dark cloud above.

  A part of me had always fantasized about getting sweet revenge — fucking him senseless and dropping him — just as he’d done to me, but like so many things, it was better in theory than in practice. I wasn’t some sex-crazed twenty-something after a quick fuck like he had been.

  Okay, maybe I was to an extent, but I was a lot more mature about sex than Sage at twenty-two. Hell, I was more mature about it back when we first hooked up as a clueless virgin.

  Sage was at his peak in the fuck if it has a pulse period. If it had a hole, it was his goal, pretty much.

  I’d been awkward, still learning the ropes of what sexy was. I’d thought the first guy you had sex with ended up being your husband out of some weird vaginal hocus pocus.

  I blushed as I tucked in panties, remembering the purple hipsters I’d worn when he deflowered my rose garden. He’d clipped that flower, stuffed it in his pocket, and left me reeling, igniting a fallout that blasted our once-friendly relationship to smithereens.

  Nothing was the same after that day. I might’ve left in tears, but those tears turned to hot rage, and the rest was history. We’d put each other through hell ever since.

  But the effort of sparring with him meant I cared.

  Sage cared, too.

  The more I smoothed clothing and stuffed it in my suitcases, the more I worried.

  About him.

  His hand.

  Everything else aside, his hand was broken. Badly. As a gym owner and trainer, he couldn’t afford to ignore it. His hands were his bread and butter.

  The clock read 9:21 PM, but I didn’t care. I grabbed the room phone and dialed the concierge desk.

  “Excuse me, can you confirm a room number for me, please? I want to set up a delivery for a friend.” The lie came too easily, scaring me a little. When had I become such a damn liar?

  “Do you have the person’s name?” the woman asked as another phone rang in the background.

  “Sage Mullen.” I twirled the cord as I heard her type, hoping she would give up the goods without much fuss. “I know he’s in a penthouse suite.”