Dirty Charmer

by Emma Chase

  Me: Are you texting while you’re driving??

  Apparently, Tommy and his bodyguard brethren are trained to text without actually having to look at their phones, so they can communicate covertly with the device in their pocket.

  But I’ve explained to him—at length—that that doesn’t matter worth a damn.

  I’ve informed him of the overwhelming statistics on the dangers of texting while operating a vehicle and I’ve disclosed my firsthand experiences of seeing the deadly carnage of such behavior during my emergency room rotations.

  And still, after a weighted pause, he replies:

  Godly Orgasm Giver: Maybe.

  Me: Well, STOP IT!!

  For a moment, the screen remains quiet . . . and then those sneaky little dots appear again.

  Godly Orgasm Giver: I like it when you get all shouty caps at me—have I ever told you that? Very hot.

  I’m going to revisit the idea of Tommy teaching me how to throw a punch. It would come in handy at moments just like this.

  “Is everything all right, Abby?” my mother asks. “You’re all flushed.”

  She examines me above her glasses like I’m an exhibit at a science fair or a bug under a microscope.

  “I . . .”

  Grogg, the butler, bends down and dips his large, square head towards my grandmother.

  “A gentleman is out front, Lady Agatha . . .”

  Oh no.

  “On a motorbike.”

  OH NOOOO.

  “Well, send him away.” The Dowager Countess shoos her hand in the air, as countesses do. “We don’t accept solicitations.”

  I scramble to my feet. “Actually, he’s here for me.”

  I throw my tablet and phone and books into my satchel, to hasten my not-so-great escape.

  “Pardon?” my father inquires.

  “He?” my grandmother prods.

  I swallow hard, rushing out the words. “Yes. He’s a friend. I have to be going, so I messaged him for a lift.”

  My brother Sterling’s eggs-Benedict-laden fork pauses midair on its way to his mouth.

  “I didn’t know you had the sort of friends who rode motorbikes.”

  “I didn’t know you had friends,” my sister Athena comments, not in a cruel way, but with sincere surprise.

  I shrug, looping the strap of my satchel over my shoulder.

  “Yes, well . . . you know . . .”

  With that brilliant retort, I turn and walk out of the room.

  I head towards the foyer, the heels of my knee-high boots clicking rapidly on the marble floor like a ticking time bomb. I yank open the giant front door and . . . come to an immediate stop on the veranda outside of it.

  Because Tommy’s there, down the long gray steps on the front drive, sitting easily astride a shiny contraption of chrome and steel like it was made for him, wearing work boots, snug blue jeans and a black leather jacket—looking so sinfully good it might actually be illegal.

  A hazard to others. A moving violation. A beautiful disaster just waiting to happen.

  I have to remind myself that I’m cross with him, and when I do, I march straight down the steps. His eyes alight on my boots, skirt and light gray sweater—the ensemble gives off an unintended “naughty schoolteacher” feel—and the corner of Tommy’s wicked mouth hooks up accordingly.

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “Are you mad?!”

  He takes a moment to think it over.

  “Not the last time I checked.”

  “What are you doing here?” I hold out my hands. “And what is this?”

  “It’s a motorbike.”

  “It’s death on wheels.”

  He chuckles. “My mate James loaned it to me for the day. The hills are beautiful this time of year—I thought we’d take a ride together. You wanted stress relief, didn’t you?” Tommy taps the shiny handlebar. “A ride on this is as stress-relieving as it gets—better than normal-bloke sex.”

  I peer at him. Do I want to know?

  Apparently I do, because I hear myself asking, “Normal-bloke sex?”

  “Yeah.” He winks. “I mean it’s not better than how I do it—obviously. But the way an average bloke has sex—this is definitely better.”

  I shake my head, folding my arms. “Do you have any idea how dangerous these things are? The statistics on motorbike fatalities are—”

  Tommy covers my mouth with his hand.

  His palm is warm, and so is his voice—a thick, sweet, honeyed tone.

  “Do you trust me, Abby?”

  After a moment, he takes his hand away and I gaze into those deep, dark eyes, falling into them so easily it should be frightening.

  My answer is simple. True ones always are.

  “I do.”

  Tommy smiles fully, and my stomach flutters with that lovely swirling sensation.

  “Then climb on.”

  He places a helmet on my head, buckling the strap under my chin.

  “And you might want to do it fast—your granny’s coming.”

  I glance over my shoulder to see the whole family gathered outside the front of the door, a spectrum of curious and gob-smacked expressions plastered on their typically reserved faces. And my grandmother is indeed headed this way, her jeweled necklace jingling as she quickly descends the long slope of stone steps.

  “Abigail!”

  Her voice is high-pitched and harried—a tone I’ve never heard her use before, and one I’m not keen on exploring now.

  “Right, then—have to be going!” I lift my hand and give them a thumbs-up. “Talk soon!”

  Like a teenager running off with the town bad boy, I hike up my skirt and climb onto the motorbike behind Tommy. He clasps my hands together securely over his stomach.

  “Hold on tight, lass.”

  I do just that—squeezing my arms around his solid frame and resting my cheek against the warm leather on his back as he revs the engine to life and we pull away with a roar that vibrates in my bones.

  And as strange as it is—or maybe it’s not strange at all—I’ve never felt safer.

  * * *

  Tommy was right—the hills were beautiful, and the motorbike ride was exhilarating—though it’s not something I’d want to do regularly. After riding for a few hours, we stopped to rest at a pretty glen in the middle of nowhere. Tommy brought a flannel blanket, wine, fruit and cheese, and we had a little picnic under a tree.

  And then we were kissing and touching and the next thing I knew . . . all our clothes were gone. It was chilly, but Tommy kept me perfectly warm.

  And that was beautiful too.

  Three days later, I’m in my flat on my sofa, reviewing literature on the latest laparoscopic technology. Tommy’s coming over in a few hours—with takeout dinner and his computer, because he’s insisting I watch some American show from a few years back about a science teacher who goes into the methamphetamine business. Tommy swears that once I start watching, I won’t be able to stop.

  There’s a knock on the door and I assume he’s arrived early. But when I open it, it’s not him standing on the other side.

  “Grandmother.” This is the first time she’s been to my flat. It may be the first time she’s been to this side of town, ever. “This is a surprise.”

  She strides in purposefully—that’s how she is—every move predetermined and planned and for a specific reason. Her chin is up, her nose high as she stands in the middle of the room, glancing at the décor with dispassionate eyes.

  I close the door and face her.

  “What are you doing with that boy, Abby?”

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve craved her approval. She’s been my idol, my example—her control, her poise, her self-possession—everything I’ve always wanted to be.

  “His name is Tommy Sullivan. He’s the owner of S&S Securities, the bodyguard firm we hired a few—”

  “I know who he is. That’s not what I asked.”

  I straddle the truth, trying to call fort
h my mind-set from back when it all began.

  “He’s . . . we have an arrangement. It’s not personal.”

  “When you were riding off with him on the back of that motorbike, it looked very personal to me.” The disappointment in her tone vibrates through me, as powerfully as the motorbike’s engine.

  Then she straightens up, her expression hardening to a cold, commanding mask, like a sniper taking aim.

  “You are to stop seeing him straightaway,” she orders. “You have an unblemished family name to uphold—I’m not going to watch you sully it by running around with the help.”

  My eyes dart to hers. And a grade-A steel, the same kind used to make scalpels, fills my spine.

  “I’m not a child—don’t speak to me like one.” I’m a doctor, a bloody surgeon, a fully grown woman. I have my own accomplishments, my own plans . . . my own life. “This conversation is inappropriate. I’m not discussing this with you.”

  She stays right where she is, like a mountain that can’t be moved and knows it.

  “I’ll cut you off. You won’t receive a penny from the family trust from this day forward.”

  Mettle, pluck and moxie are funny things. Sometimes they hide themselves so thoroughly you don’t even know they’re there.

  Until they rise up—just when you need them most.

  “Keep it. I don’t need the family trust. I can support myself with my salary at the hospital just fine.”

  She’s not surprised, her expression doesn’t change; it’s as if I’ve said what she already knew I would.

  “And what about Tommy Sullivan? Can he support himself just fine as well?”

  A dawning awfulness slithers through me, because a threat conveyed in an elegant, refined tone is still a threat.

  “What do you mean?”

  “From what I understand, this personal protection business of his is still just starting out. Among his caliber of clients, rampant and poisonous gossip is the best kind. A few well-placed words from me to the right people will kill his firm in its infancy. It won’t be difficult.”

  “Words like what?”

  “About his guards being untrustworthy, incompetent, drunk on the job.”

  My hands go numb and the color drains from my face.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because it is what’s best for you, best for the family—and there is nothing I won’t do for this family. You may not see that now, but when the day comes that you are a distinguished surgeon you will.”

  “You have it all wrong. He makes me better.”

  “Better at what?”

  “Everything!”

  “The fact that you actually believe that shows he’s already done more damage than I suspected. You’re becoming dependent on him.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “That’s not true.”

  Her green eyes glitter as she looks down on me, and her smile is pulled tight with an aged bitterness.

  “You remind me so much of myself, Abby—you always have. When I was a bit younger than you are now, I was studying advanced archeology—did you know that?”

  I shake my head, because our family doesn’t talk about such things. We don’t talk at all.

  “I was brilliant at it; I had so many plans. Places I would go, papers I would publish, discoveries I would make. And then . . . I met your grandfather and everything changed. We were very different people, opposites really, but that just made falling in love with him all the more thrilling. When we first married, I tried to carry on with my studies and career, but it’s impossible to walk down diverging paths at the same time. Choices must be made. Sacrifices. And for women and wives and mothers—the sacrifices will always fall on us. I won’t let you make the same mistakes I did.”

  “But it’s not your decision to make!” I shout. I clasp my hands together beseechingly. “Please, Grandmother, don’t—”

  “Stop.” Her voice strikes out like a whip. “I have neither the time nor the stomach for dramatics. Your singular talent has always been your practicality. Your ability to see your shortcomings clearly. Don’t let that fail you now.”

  Lash, lash, lash.

  For a moment breath escapes me, taking my words with it. And I don’t know what I would say even if I could, but the Dowager Countess doesn’t give me the opportunity.

  “If you care for this boy—even just a little—you will end your relationship with him immediately. I’ll know if you don’t. And when I ruin his business prospects, I’ll be sure he is informed that your stubbornness was the cause. Which I suspect will resolve the situation to my satisfaction anyway.”

  It hurts to hate someone that you love—but right now, in this moment, it’s not hard.

  She moves towards the door, sparing me a stiffly benevolent look before she goes.

  “Chin up, Abby. You’ll thank me for this one day, I promise.”

  * * *

  I compartmentalize at first—the way good surgeons are able to do. It still doesn’t come naturally to me, but I’m getting better at it. I push it away, lock it down, bury it deep until I barely sense that it’s there.

  Then, clinically, coldly—like I’m running through the pros and cons of treatment options—I consider my choices.

  A) I could tell the Dowager Countess to stuff it and let the chips fall where they may. The only problem with that is I care about Tommy—he’s so easy to care about. And he’s been good to me—caring and passionate and so sweet my heart aches. And she’ll do what she said, I’m certain of that. And he’ll be harmed, he’ll pay the price—because of me. And I think about my own career, all the hours and years of work I’ve put in and I know how devastating it would feel if that was all taken away on a whim.

  B) I could tell Tommy what my grandmother is threatening. I probably should tell him—I already trust him more than I’ve ever trusted anyone, and he deserves to know. And what will a man like Tommy Sullivan do in face of her threats? He’ll tell her to fuck off—and to keep fucking off, and after she’s done fucking off she should fuck off a bit more. I can practically hear him already. And then again—he’ll be harmed, he’ll pay the price—because of me.

  C) I could do as she told me. It will hurt, badly . . . but this was never supposed to be anything. It’s not his fault I’ve come to depend on him, want him, need him. It was an arrangement; that’s what we said. It was always going to end at some point—wasn’t it? And this way, if I just do it, choke it down and get it over with, Tommy is not harmed, he doesn’t pay any price—he walks away unscathed and free of me.

  When he strolls through the door a few hours later with his laptop and a brown paper bag of food in his hands, I take extra time to look at him. His smooth grace as he slips out of his coat, the stunning lines and proportions of his body, the strong angles of his cheekbones and jaw.

  I stand up from the sofa and go to him, resting my hands on his corded shoulders and reaching up on my toes to kiss him. It’s not desperate or frantic like the night we lost Maisy.

  It’s slow and deep and savoring—a kiss I’ll remember.

  Tommy sucks on my upper lip, stroking it wonderfully with his tongue. Then he pulls back, gazing down at me with a slight tilt of his head.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I lie.

  He tucks a strand of my hair gently behind my ear.

  “Did something happen at the hospital?”

  “No.” I stare at his sternum, running my palm back and forth across his chest, committing the warm, solid feel of him to memory. “I just want you.”

  His eyes go heated and hungry at my words. Tommy pulls me to him and we’re kissing and tugging at the annoying barrier of our clothes. And I let myself drown in him—slowly dragging my lips and tongue across his collarbone, his chest, down his bunching abdominals . . . and lower. I delight in the taste of his skin, in the way his hot, silken thickness fills my mouth, in the feel of his fingers clenching desperately in my hair.

  And though I want to re
lish each moment, I’m swept up in him, in the blissful blur of sensations and want and piercing pleasure so deep it’s almost painful.

  We end up in my bed, a writhing mass of moans and lips and clasping limbs. Tommy’s breath is a sharp rasp against my ear—whispering beautiful, filthy words that make my skin tingle and my head light. And I kiss him and kiss him, pouring all my feelings—all the words I can’t say—into the wet dance of our mouths. I don’t want it to end, but it does—in a perfect swirling rush of pleasure and groans, thundering heartbeats and pulsing, contracting muscles.

  After, we lie next to each other, and I look at him some more—soaking up the image of him in the bed beside me.

  Perhaps in a bid to stave off the inevitable, I ask, “How’s work?”

  He glances over at me and smiles.

  “Things are good. The crop of new hires has potential and we’ve got a nice stable of recurring clients.”

  “You’re building a reputation,” I say flatly.

  “Yeah.”

  “And that’s important in your field, isn’t it?”

  “Sure.” Tommy nods. “Clients need to know they can trust us, count on us—that’s everything.”

  Gangrene is a potentially fatal condition that results from a lack of blood and oxygen to an extremity, causing the tissue to die. It can be treated with antibiotics, but if the affliction is too far gone the only way to effectively cure it is amputation.

  You lose the limb to save the life.

  Right now, I’m gangrenous to Tommy. And the surest way to save him . . . is to cut myself off.

  I sit up straight, and it’s a miracle that I’m able to, with the heavy weight of remorse that presses on my chest like a boulder.

  “I can’t do this anymore. We can’t do this anymore.”

  I don’t look at him, but I hear his voice behind me as I rise and wrap myself in my robe, tying the belt tightly.

  “What?”

  “Our arrangement. It’s over. I’d . . . I’d like you to leave now.”

  I head out of the room—moving swiftly, like I’m in triage. It’s all movement and training and instincts. No thoughts or feelings allowed.

  Slice.

  Suction.