Gravity (Wilde Boys Book 1)

by Sara Cate

  On the left, there’s a bathroom. It’s huge, a lot bigger than one man needs. It’s sleek, minimal with marble floors and a shower the size of my apartment with like six shower heads all aimed at different levels. Jesus...how the other half lives.

  Passing the bathroom, I find a bedroom. I don’t know why I enter, but I’m desperate to see where he sleeps, like I need a reminder this larger than life figure is actually human. Walking to his bed, I let my fingers roam the expensive duvet. It smells like cologne in here, and I can’t help myself. I pick up a pillow and inhale his scent. It sends a spark of heat to my belly, and I bite my bottom lip. Then, I toss it back on the bed, a little out of place so he knows someone was here.

  Leaving his room, I walk a little farther down the hallway. At the end, there is a huge room, which I know is his office. There’s a large window that overlooks the yard where his precious helicopters are parked. His massive desk is situated right in front of it.

  There’s a dim light coming from the room. I peer around the corner and stare at a wall of books. It’s a massive library, and I’m struck by the sight. There is one small reading lamp on the table lit, so I tip-toe in and take a heavy inhale. God, I love the way books smell. I remember as a kid the exact smell of Emma’s Babysitter Club books and how I would sneak into her side table drawer to pull one out to press my nose between the pages.

  This space has that smell. I let my fingers dance across the spines as I move my way through the room. It’s a lot of aviation books, some looking way older than others. When one with a deep red spine and the title Lost Horizon catches my eye, I pull it out and open it to the most natural spot. In the dim light, I read a passage.

  If we have not found the heaven within, we have not found the heaven without.

  I press my nose to the page and inhale.

  “Have you read it?”

  I let out a clipped scream as the deep voice coming from the dark corner of the room behind me nearly stops my heart. Spinning on my heels, I stare at Alistair Wilde, sitting in the large leather chair next to an unlit fireplace.

  “You scared the shit out of me!”

  “Well, you are in my office,” he answers, and I immediately move toward the door. I notice the glass tumbler in his hand seems to be empty except for a single large round ice cube.

  “Well, have you?” he asks, gesturing to the book in my hand. I stop before I reach the doorway, realizing I’m still holding it.

  “Oh.” I look down at the book and shake my head. “No. I can’t remember the last book I read.”

  “That’s a shame.” His voice is husky, with a bit of a texture, like rain falling against the leaves of a tree, almost so busy sounding it’s soothing. Before I can respond, he stands and walks toward me with his eyes on the shelves. Then he stops, his fingers pulling out a thick book. He’s holding it out to me as if he’s demanding I take it.

  “Read this one.” I didn’t realize this job came with homework, but Alistair’s behavior is so strange right now I obediently put my hand out to grab it from him.

  Taking my eyes off his face, I look down at the cover.

  “The Shadow of the Wind? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Even if you don’t like to read, you should at least know what book you read last. And you won’t forget this one.”

  “What’s it about?” I ask, flipping to the back to skim the blurb.

  “Scandal. Mystery. Romance.”

  “What makes you think I’ll like it?”

  I catch a hint of scotch on his breath. Unlike drunk Nash who is aggressive and temperamental, so far, drunk Alistair seems almost pleasant. Less menacing.

  Leaning against the shelf, he stares at me. “I don’t. Just read it and tell me what you think about the love story. I want to know how fucked up you think it is.”

  A fucked up love story? He has my attention. I can’t help but smile down at the pages in my hand. “Okay, fine.”

  Tucking the book under my arm, I continue to browse the shelves as Alistair pours himself another drink. I stop when I reach a shelf with three framed pictures sitting next to each other. Just as I scan through the little faces in the dim light, a glass of potent amber liquid is placed in front of me.

  I love scotch. After two years of being bought drinks in every variation from vodka to Everclear so strong it could peel the paint off the walls, I grew an appreciation for the drinks usually associated with more class and money. The men who ordered the scotch took their time. They tipped better and watched me differently. When they bought me a drink, I enjoyed it, even though it took me a whole two years to even be able to stomach the stuff.

  Now the aroma makes me feel powerful again. Like I’m worth something.

  “Thank you,” I mumble as I take the glass and lift it to my lips. When it touches my tongue, I slowly sip it in, letting the heat coat the inside of my mouth before I swallow it down.

  My chest warms, and my shoulders instantly relax.

  “I did not expect you to enjoy that.”

  “I’m full of surprises,” I answer. It feels good to just relax and speak to someone who doesn’t have me on edge all the time. Relaxing around Alistair Wilde is not something I ever thought I’d be doing.

  Looking back at the photos, I immediately notice the wide smile and bright eyes of a young Nash sitting in the cockpit of a helicopter, a much bigger one than I see them fly back and forth every day. The headphones dwarf his tiny body, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  Next to that one is a teenage Preston, leaning against the side of a much smaller helicopter. He’s not wearing the same cheesy smile as his brother but a bored-looking, stoic expression. The third picture is an action shot of all three of them on the beach, taken when the boys were still little. The two young boys are holding hands, staring at each other with wide, happy smiles as a wave hits them. Alistair is watching them, and I’m hit with a wave of sadness seeing how much young Alistair looked like the Preston I knew.

  Even in the background of that photo, you can make out the aircraft barely cropped out of the picture.

  “You like helicopters a lot,” I say just before taking a second sip of the liquor. That was a dumb thing to say, I think.

  He doesn’t respond, just picks up the picture of Nash, smiling in the cockpit. I watch him as he stares at it, as if he’s remembering that exact moment, pulling it out of his memory.

  “Did you teach them to fly?” I ask.

  We’re both leaning so close to this one shelf we are almost standing toe to toe, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. “Yes, I did. Nash learned the fastest. Landed it by himself when he was ten.”

  “Oh my god,” I gasp, looking at the picture again. That can’t be legal.

  As he sets that photo down, he picks the second one up. “Preston took longer. He didn’t have the same passion for it. Didn’t land his until he was sixteen.”

  “That’s still impressive.” And probably illegal, I think to myself without adding that part out loud.

  It grows quiet for a moment, and I watch the muscles of his jaw clench as he places Preston’s photo back down. I’m desperate for a change of topic so the sadness I feel creeping in doesn’t take over.

  “You’ll learn too,” he says as he leans back, letting the dim light from the lamp illuminate his warm olive skin.

  “Um, no,” I answer, shaking my head.

  “It’s not up for debate,” he adds, his brow pinched in curiosity.

  “I told you, I don’t fly.”

  “It’s the best way to get over your fear.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like I hadn’t yet considered that getting over my fear of flying could be solved by learning to fly an aircraft myself.

  “That’s insane,” I laugh. My smile comes easy, and I don’t know if it’s the scotch or the company. I never felt this relaxed around Alistair before—in fact, I never felt relaxed at all around him before. It’s the liquor, I tell myself.

  “We’ll start tomorrow.”

&
nbsp; I scoff. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Then his eyes cascade down my body, and I tense. In a cheap coverall and my bikini underneath, I feel foolish standing next to him. His whole outfit probably cost more than my car. But it’s not my clothes making me uncomfortable. It’s the way he’s looking at me as his lips part and the lids of his eyes hang heavy. I know that look. I’ve seen it every day for the last two years in the men I dance for, who drink in my body like they’re just playing all the things they want to do to me in their heads.

  “No,” he says before clearing his throat and looking up at my face. “Tomorrow we go to the mainland and buy you some suitable clothes.”

  “What’s wrong with my—” When I glance up from my outfit to see the tight-lipped expression on his face, I quiet. He’s right. Most of my stuff is from the clearance rack at Target. Plus if he wants to shell out the cash for my new wardrobe, why would I argue?

  “We’ll even take the boat,” he says with an eye roll as he moves away and takes a seat back in his chair. I’m not quite ready to go back to the living room or my guest house where I know I can still hear the music from the party. So, I plop down in the oversized leather chair opposite him. We both sip on our drinks in silence for a moment.

  “Why aren’t you out there with Nash?” he finally asks, the question I was expecting.

  I’m not quite sure how to answer it. Honestly? How can I tell him his son gets off on being borderline abusive—and oh yeah, so do I. But we are under no circumstance friends. I don’t want to hang out with his stupid rich crowd.

  “I’m more persuasive when we’re alone,” I answer.

  It’s still too early to tell if anything will come of me being here, and I’m pretty sure the dynamic between us will only make things worse, but I get paid either way so what do I care?

  “What made you decide to snoop around my bedroom?” he asks, his voice carrying across the room like honey. Something in my stomach flutters as it reaches my ears. Oh fuck.

  He stares at me with a blank, cold expression. My lips part, ready to answer with words I haven’t prepared when a louder, less honey-like voice breaks in. “What the fuck are you doing up here?”

  We both turn to the figure in the doorway, Nash swaying as he holds tightly onto the door frame to keep from falling over.

  “Nash,” I gasp, getting up to move to him. Why? I have no fucking clue. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, but I still feel as if I’m being caught.

  “I take it the party’s over,” Alistair adds, moving toward us. As he reaches for his son, Nash jerks away from him without even looking in his direction. His drunk eyes are still boring straight into me.

  “Let’s go to bed,” Nash says to me. My cheeks practically ignite growing hot as I stare at him in shock. In a flash, he grabs at me, latching his arm around my waist and pulling me tight against him. He’s too drunk to hold us both up, so we stumble. My shoulder slams against the door frame, sending pain through my entire body.

  “Nash.” Alistair’s voice booms through the room, and I feel them struggle, but Nash still has me gripped against his body. Alistair is pulling Nash away, but Nash fights back. The tension grows, and I’m just desperate to get them separated.

  “It’s fine, Alistair. I’m fine,” I cry, hoping it will settle them both.

  Every time his father grabs him, Nash throws his elbows toward him without looking or talking to him. Even drunk, he keeps up his silent treatment.

  “Let her go, Nash. You’re drunk.” This time Nash throws a fist instead of an elbow, but because of his drunk stagger, he misses, and it sends him to the ground. I let out a scream as he lands at my feet. This is only going to make it worse, I know it. I’ve seen enough drunk guys fighting to know they don’t give up just because they’re at risk of losing.

  “I’ll take him to bed,” I say to Alistair. Finally, I look up at him and I’m surprised to see what looks like regret on his face. In the next blink, it’s gone.

  “Get him out of here,” he mutters before turning away.

  I help Nash to his feet. “Come on, let’s go to bed,” I whisper as I pull him out of the library. I can’t bear to look back at his dad standing alone in the dark.

  As we get to his bedroom, my skin grows hot, and I pray I can at least get Nash to just fall asleep without a fight. I’m still holding onto my part of the deal—no sex.

  I barely get through the doorway of his room before he tosses me onto the bed. My heart hammers in my chest. There is no arousal or excitement, only fear.

  “Nash, you need to get some sleep.”

  All I keep thinking is what if he’s too drunk to have restraint? What if he’s too rough? Too harsh? What if I can’t stop him and he really hurts me? Or worse.

  The room is dark, and I crawl to the edge of the bed, my legs hanging over the edge as he pulls his shirt off and nearly falls on his ass when he tries to drag his swim trunks down his legs. This vision of him makes me sad, so I jump up to help him. Yeah, I’m that kind of idiot. Help your attacker out of his clothes.

  I hold him upright while he pulls his trunks down his legs. My hand strokes the muscle of his back, and somewhere deep down, my heart breaks for him. How alone he must feel all the time. He must feel so stuck here when he can literally go anywhere in the world, but he stays. Why?

  He shoves me again, and I land on the bed with a bounce.

  “Take off your clothes,” he growls.

  My blood turns to ice. “We’re not having sex, Nash.”

  “Just do it.”

  I’m frozen, the only sound filling the room is our breaths. He’s standing before me, naked as can be, and I’m considering running out the door. I can’t do this.

  I want to sleep with Nash again but not like this. The next time we sleep together, I want him to be able to look me in the eye, but is what I want worth fighting him for? If I lay down and let him have his way what does that make me? Brave or a coward?

  “Nash, I’m serious.” I hear the shake in my voice.

  As he moves toward me, I brace myself, ready for the impact, but he doesn’t land on top of me. Instead, his hand rests gently against my cheek, and I know he feels me flinch.

  “You’re afraid of me,” he says. “I thought you liked it.”

  “Not like this.” My voice sounds so small next to his.

  “You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Standing up, I feel the skin of his body against my fingers. The hard muscles of his chest press against me as my hands drift up to cup his cheeks. Hooking my hand around the back of his neck, I pull his lips toward mine. Our mouths meet in a feather-light kiss. His hands weave around my waist as he deepens the kiss.

  While our mouths are fused, I find my mind drifting back to the moment in the library when Alistair asked me how Nash was. That concern for his son was so real I felt the heavy weight of it. This responsibility is about more than sex and money. He’s asking me to save Nash’s life, whether that means keeping him from hurting himself or keeping him from wasting away like some soulless shell of a man.

  Then I think about how Alistair asked me how I was. The center of my belly warms as if it’s thawing, and it feels like the first time I’ve felt anything there in a long time. He asked about me with the same sincerity he asked about his own son.

  “Take your clothes off please,” Nash whispers against my mouth as he pulls away.

  “Nash,” I respond in a warning.

  He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I just want you to sleep next to me, Zara. I want to hold you.” Then, in a quieter, deeper tone, he adds, “I don’t want to be alone.”

  Without argument, I shimmy my sundress over my head, keeping my bikini on as I crawl into his bed. As if he realizes he’s naked for the first time, he turns away and pulls a pair of boxer briefs out of his drawer and pulls them on.

  Then, he crawls in next to me. One big arm hooks around me as he pulls me flush against him.
Flipping my body like I weigh nothing, he holds my back to his chest so our bodies curl around each other’s in a natural curve.

  I can feel his warm breath against my head, and his thumb strokes back and forth over the skin of my stomach.

  Just when his breathing starts to sound slower like he’s fallen asleep, he speaks. “Don’t let me catch you talking to him again, Zara. You’re not here for him.”

  “We were just talking.”

  “It’s never that simple with him. If he was nice to you it’s because he wants something from you.”

  “What could he possibly want? I’m here to help you, just like he asked.”

  He puts his lips even closer to my ear as the hand he held at my stomach moves down to cup my sex. “Gosh, I wonder, Zara. What else could he possibly want?” He gives it a harsh squeeze and a shake, and I have to swat his hand away. We were having such a nice moment, I’d hate to ruin it.

  “You’re wrong,” I whisper but even I have a hard time making it sound true.

  “Be careful with him. He’s not as blameless as you think.”

  Before I can ask another question, he rests his head back on the pillow and closes his eyes. There are too many questions swirling around in my mind to pick just one. So I quiet my mind and try to fall asleep instead. The scotch Alistair gave me helps to drift off, but as I do, I think about him watching me with that hooded glare, as if he knows something I don’t.

  9

  Alistair has had a grimace on his face all morning. It was pretty obvious the boat ride put him in a bad mood, but for the most part he stares down at his phone the entire time.

  We’re shopping in a district of town I would have never even stepped foot on before now. These are designer shops and not even outlets. I didn’t even know stores like this existed, but as we walked in together, he only looked from his phone long enough to tell the pretty, young woman who greeted us that I needed a new wardrobe.